Full Rigor Pt. 01

Full Rigor, Pt. 01

(This is a fantasy occurring in an alternative world where legalized slavery is commonplace for serious crime, unredeemed debts, or voluntary self-indenture. Although there is considerable sex, most of it fun, and some of it just plain weird/perverted, the focus is on how people interact with each other within the constraints of this slavery institution. Many of the participants are sexual submissives who VOLUNTEER for the collar. All characters in this story are over 18, which in this fantasy world is the minimum legal age for any enslavement or involvement with slave processing. In the real world, slavery and forcible sex acts are NEVER acceptable.)

(Michelle Harkins' experience)

Most mothers are unhappy when their children go off to college, because the kids' departure marks the end of an intimate, all-consuming relationship stretching back 18 or more years. If the parents drop the child off at the college, the typical mom fusses about setting up the dorm room perfectly (as if their child will keep it that way!) until the child impatiently rolls his/her eyes and the husband finally insists that they must leave before dark.

Not me. Of course, I would miss my twins, Penny and Len, now closing in on age 19, and I recognized that all of our lives were changing fundamentally that day in early September. In my case, however, I wanted to drop them off at their new college and leave as quickly as possible. My husband, Rich, understood my motivation but repeatedly gave me silent stares that admonished me to slow down so that the kids would not feel abandoned. We left them about 4:00 p.m., and it was difficult to tell who--me or the kids--was in more of a hurry to separate.

I owe you a brief self-description. I'm about 5 foot 7 inches tall, with high cheekbones and what is usually described as an infectious smile. While working, I kept my auburn hair in a tight bun, but on that day my slightly-curly tresses hung down my back almost to my waist. My breasts had filled B cups when I was married, but pregnancy with twins caused them to swell to almost a full C and never really deflated. After much exercise and dieting, I had finally regained the rest of my figure, especially my waistline, three years after delivering the twins. At 138 pounds, I weighed only a little more than I had 20 years earlier--a slight chubbiness in my belly, but nothing to be ashamed of in a 44-year-old woman. Three months earlier, when Rich and I catered a graduation party for our two children and their 18-year-old classmates, I had overheard one of the guys (who had moved to this school district recently) tell Len, "Dude, your mom's a MILF." (Predictably, Len had replied with an expression of disgust about such a comment, but I was secretly flattered.)

Hours later, as dusk was falling, Rich and I pulled into a highway rest stop that was, mercifully, almost empty. Steering the panel van we had rented for the weekend, I drove past the rest rooms and vending machines, parking in the last space before the on-ramps to re-enter traffic. Once I shut the van off, Rich told me "you'd better go to the bathroom now, slut--you may not get the chance again for a while." His casual use of such an insulting term, one traditionally used to dominate a slave, excited rather than offended me. I took his advice, then hurried back to the van and walked around to the driver's side so that the van was between us and the rest of the rest stop. Rich followed me around the van and abruptly issued the order for which I had waited all day (and indeed all month): "Strip, slave."

I was acutely aware that any passing car could see me, and my pulse raced as I hastened to comply. I shucked off my shoes while pulling a T-shirt over my head, then unhooked my front-clasp bra and allowed my plump "girls" to tumble out, bouncing slightly before they came to rest. Without pause, I thrust my hands into my waist band and shucked off my slacks and panties in one motion. The panties, I might add, were rather damp in the crotch. My face was flaming red to match my hair, but I was thrilled by the situation. I spread my legs slightly apart and stood up straight, interlocking my fingers behind my neck with my elbows sticking sideways, a motion that thrust my breasts, nipples erect, towards him. My entire body was on display beside the road, waiting for further instructions. Rich, who appeared more nervous than I was about my public nudity, hastily ordered "collar." I dropped to my knees on my discarded clothes, which cushioned the feel of the warm pavement underneath them. One hand went to my hip while the other seized the black scrunchy around my ponytail, holding my hair away from my neck so that Rich could install a collar to which he had already attached a leash. Once finished, he removed the scrunchy so that I met the definition of "slave naked"--I got goose bumps from the long-awaited thrill of public, nude submission. He ordered me to stand and then "back hands", crossing my wrists so that he could clamp padded handcuffs on them. Pausing only to scoop up my clothes, he opened the left-side sliding door and ordered me into the van. This was difficult to do with my hands cuffed, but I managed to knee-walk behind the driver's seat, an act that set my boobs bobbing again. I felt Rich's hand rubbing my butt cheeks possessively as I moved past him, giving me a thrill of sexual vulnerability. My husband followed me into the vehicle, sitting on the left rear seat that Penny had occupied that morning. As he closed the door, I knew he was looking around anxiously (I swear he was more nervous than I, even though HE was fully clothed!) to see if we had attracted undue attention.

Only then did he relax and resume his role as my master. Rich pushed the leather handle of the dog leash into my mouth and took a moment to fondle my breasts, remarking "nice tits, cunt." The insulting term made me shiver with excitement. One of his hands wandered south to gently finger my clit and my labia--I was liquid, almost dripping, down there! From a paper bag, he produced a black sleep mask, sliding it over my head and blotting out all light and adding to my overwhelming sense of vulnerability. Next, he pulled the leash back out of my mouth, grabbed a handful of my long hair and used that leverage to apply gentle but firm force so that my blindfolded head moved downward between his legs. Understanding his intent, I opened my mouth and tried to inhale as much of his rigid cock as possible. I choked slightly when the invading 7-inch shaft bumped the back of my throat, but I adjusted as quickly as possible, trying to breathe through my nose. I could smell our mutual arousal. I began licking, humming, and slurping around his prick as he slowly and rather gently skull-fucked me, using my hair to pump my mouth up and down slowly on him. I could feel a swamp between my legs and butterflies in my tummy. Although this position didn't allow me enough friction to climax, I got a pleasing rush of helplessness and excitement. It seemed like only seconds before he ordered me to "Swallow it all, bitch" and erupted so far back in my mouth that I had no gag reflex to overcome as his jism slid down my throat. I obediently swallowed anyway, smiled, and smacked my lips.

"Horny little cunt," he said in an approving tone as he patted my head. Despite my blindfold, I could well imagine the affectionate smile on his face. Next, he used his death grip on my hair to pull me half-upright, pivoting my body so that I fell across his thighs. One hand began to tease my clit while the other gave my tushie a series of none-too-gentle spanks until I, too, came to a climax.

"Thank you, Master," I murmured. He petted my hair for a moment, but then put me back on my knees and ordered me to open my mouth. He kindly offered me a bottle of water before tying a gag into my mouth so that the sperm-flavored remnants of my recent blow-job were sealed in. Then he pushed me sideways and ordered me to "floor," helping me down so that I lay face down and prone between the two seats with my head towards the rear and my face in the carpet. Knowing my love of restraint, he used a strap to secure my ankles together and then a rope to connect that strap to the chain between my handcuffs, producing a very loose hog-tie. The rope was long enough that my legs remained fully extended, allowing me to relax while bound (tight bondage is great for a few minutes, but can cause cramps over a prolonged time, especially for a middle-aged submissive). Last but not least, my husband pushed a small, lubricated plug up my butt, saying something about needing to stretch me for later use. He sure knew how to push my buttons, giving me an image of him literally reaming the crap out of me. His hand slapped my ass in a final sign of ownership, after which I felt a light blanket cover my naked form, leaving me gagged, blindfolded, collared, plugged, and bound. I idly wondered how much trouble we would have cleaning my gushing liquids from the carpet before we returned the rental. A moment later the van shifted as Rich moved into the driver's seat and drove off, transporting his helpless love slave while she imagined being spirited away to undergo marvelous sexual tortures at a slave kennels somewhere. What a turn-on--I loved my master/husband to begin with, and now he was fulfilling my deepest sexual fantasy.

*****

OK, I'm a submissive, but as you'll see in my case this preference goes beyond simple sex play. I can't really explain why, but I get a thrill out of being exposed, humiliated, and "forced" to provide sexual service. It's as if I "need" to be punished, abasing myself in front of strangers or others who will judge me. I suspect that being forced to perform while being punished so intimately absolves me from any guilt about having sex in "dirty" ways or with "unacceptable" partners.

For that matter, Rich is really a switch--he enjoys dominating me and exploiting my body, but truth to tell he would be just as happy being the submissive one himself. If anything, he spends more time thinking about submission because he experiences it so rarely. On rare occasions, especially on his birthday or in the summer when the twins were away at camp, I would tie him up, tease him, call him belittling terms like "bitch" and "whore," and ride him to our mutual satisfaction. Based on our pillow talk and his browsing history on erotic story sites, I knew that he dreamed of going even farther, of being "forced" to assume the female submissive role, dressing in women's lingerie while I used a strap-on to penetrate his mouth and butt.

Some of you reading this are undoubtedly accusing Rich of being a fag or (more charitably) wondering if he's transgender, but that's not really the case. Our basic sexual kinks are very similar--we both want to experience the image of the overpowered feminine figure being ruthlessly dominated and ravaged until (s)he climaxes. I have the boobs, butt, and pussy to portray that figure easily, while he feels a need to dress up in fragile, "feminine" clothing for the role. Twice, I had indulged his dream by "ordering" him to dress up and then gently pegging his shaved and feminized body, but he knew that my heart wasn't really into it. Rich was too considerate to insist on sex-play that thrilled him but did nothing for me. So, on those rare occasions when we could play without risk of interruption by the kids, he happily played the dominant who restrained, humiliated, lightly spanked, and then shafted his auburn-haired love slave in every opening.

Like many other submissives, my preference in the bedroom did not carry over into the rest of my life. Immediately after earning my B.S.N., I had become a trauma nurse in a major city emergency room, thriving on the pressure of making rapid decisions. Part of my desire to surrender control of my body may be a reaction to the demands of being responsible and in charge, but I know that my submissiveness goes far beyond that--it's what gives me a sexual thrill.

A major career opportunity for Rich, a lawyer, caused us to relocate to the Houston area at the same time that pregnancy temporarily took me out of my ER job. Within a year after giving birth, I returned to nursing on a part-time basis, and for most of the next decade I was a school nurse where my children attended school. This plus being a scout leader and soccer coach meant that I knew most of the children who were contemporaries of Penny and Len throughout their childhood. While they were in high school, I had become the head nurse of a large primary care facility, but the 60-ish physician who owned that facility chose to sell out his practice about the time my kids turned 18 during their senior year. I stayed on long enough to permit the new owners to transition, then resigned on good terms because I knew they wanted to choose their own lead nurse. This, plus the fact that Penny and Len both got athletic scholarships at the same university, meant that I had no job nor any major reason to work when they went off to school. When Rich asked me what I planned to do with myself, you can guess my reply, but let me give you a further background.

As long as I can remember, I have been fascinated with the idea of being a slave. As a high school senior, I had taken the special evening course, limited to students aged 18 and over, to study legalized slavery. One of the social studies teachers, Mr. Debonis, had been a handler or wrangler in a large slave market, so for extra pay he taught the course at night, when there were no under-aged students around. Dressed in our gym clothes, the other seniors and I practiced the various lewd poses (aka Slave Yoga) required of slaves on the auction block. Gyrating on the floor and exposing ourselves in response to orders, all while students of the opposite sex gawked at us, was titillating (really titillating, in the sense that my breasts tingled). The course also included academic studies, such as the evolution of slave law and slave sociology since the 34th Amendment had re-legalized slavery. The new laws meant that no one under the age of 18 could ever work with slaves or wear a slave collar, even temporarily (more about that "temporarily" in a moment.) Slavery was not hereditary and could only happen in one of three ways: forfeiture of rights by conviction after committing a serious crime, forfeiture of rights by failing to pay a debt for which you had pledged your body as collateral, and voluntary self-indenture. This last category included not only genuine volunteers but also those who got a judge to approve a plea bargain in which the person signed up for a period of servitude that would be less than what the crime or debt would otherwise have demanded. Whether enslaved or indentured, however, the collared person had no rights, and his/her new owner could use the slave personally or pimp him/her out for any form of sex.

By unspoken consent, society did not insist that slaves were bound even by expectations of monogamy in marriage. If one partner became enslaved, the net effect was like a divorce for the duration of indenture or enslavement--since the slave was now available for anyone to use sexually, his/her partner was also freed to look (and fuck) elsewhere. (If, for example, a man owned his former wife, he could "have his cunt and eat it too.") Because the slave had no rights, prostituting a slave was perfectly legal and sexual invasion of a slave was considered, at most, to be abusing livestock and stealing the slave's services from its owner by violating private property--as in the slave's privates. Which was kind of ironic, because the slave was almost the ONLY person who could not use his/her "privates" sexually without instructions from the owner.

In order to establish the value of an individual who pledged his or her body to borrow money, many banks required that, once past the 18th birthday, a college or home loan applicant must undergo slave grading at an official market. This meant that, for up to 24 hours, the individual experienced all the restrictions of being a slave--he or she had to report to the market already naked and restrained while a relative or friend acted as the temporary "owner" who held the claim check issued by the market. The temporary slave--for that is what the person was--became part of the market's inventory, having to obey all instructions while naked, restrained, and (for much of the period) devoxed, that is, chemically deprived of his or her voice. Any failure to follow instructions led to electric shocks, slaps, or other corporal punishment, while any free person was at liberty to fondle the "slave meat." Slave handlers at the market put the temporary slave through various exercises, including slave block poses, designed to excite the individual sexually and make him/her feel and act like a pleasure slave. This subjugation was supposedly justified because the individual had to be photographed kneeling in full frontal and rear nudity (images that were up-loaded into the National Slave Registry for identification) and then bound and exposed so that any visitor, whether slave merchant or gawker, could intimately examine and fondle to slave. After a group of slaves were exposed to casual fondling and view in this manner for several hours, the slave merchants awarded the same categorizations used for USDA beef (Prime, Choice, etc) describing how attractive the individual appeared to be. The more aroused or "slave hot" the individual appeared, the higher the grade she/he received.

More and more young people chose to undergo this demeaning process to qualify for college or home loans. In addition to borrowing, some young women sought to get themselves classified as high-grade pleasure sluts because they wanted to brag about their desirability. Some even paid extra for the dubious distinction of having their butts branded--indicating their high slave grade--during the process. Urban legends arose to the effect that slave markets permitted these temporary slaves, especially pretty young women, to be sexually assaulted or even illegally sold as slaves. Whether real or imaginary, the threat of such treatment added an extra factor of fear and arousal to the process of being slave graded. Slave merchants privately argued that this fear of exploitation was necessary to excite the temporary slave sufficiently to determine her or his potential for slave heat and lascivious service.

Of course, I was eager to be slave graded as soon as I turned 18. My mother knew me well enough that she didn't try to forbid this, which would only have made me rebel and do it on my own. Instead, she suggested that I wait until after high school graduation. "The college loan folks don't require a grading until the first semester in which the loan starts once you are of age. Besides, you know that some of your 18-year-old classmates--of both sexes--have started to visit the slave market on weekends just to tease the inventory being graded. Imagine that Victoria [a bitch who had stolen my boyfriend] or Luke [a lout who kept trying to grope me and look up my skirt] got to tease and fondle you while you're devoxed and chained naked and spread-eagled. If that happened next Saturday, you'd be too embarrassed to go back to school for weeks, right?" I hated it when Mom was right, which was most of the time. God rest her soul.

So, I waited until two weeks AFTER graduation, and found that slave grading was fully as embarrassing and thrilling as I had anticipated. The terror of being naked and under the total control of strangers got me so excited that I was practically dripping for my official photos. Even the humiliation of being seen and fondled by my contemporaries, contemporaries that DID include Victoria and Luke, was a turn-on. The slave merchants noticed my arousal, awarding me a grade of Choice. At the end, I practically begged my slave handler to fuck me, but he was too much of a gentleman, damn It. He did remark that I had a "calling for the collar." (Well, Duh!!) For weeks thereafter, the memory of a male high school classmate finger-fucking my helpless form while Victoria loudly condemned me as a slutty skank, worthy only to be a naked farm worker or glory hole cocksucker, was a sure winner in my masturbatory fantasies.