Full Rigor Pt. 04

Speaking of Cheryl, Shirley sent me to her apartment once a week to clean and talk, which was a relief for me. Of course, my mistress made a point of asking Cheryl to give me "practice" in oral sex. My friend was very embarrassed on the first occasion, but after I dutifully tongued her until she came explosively, she decided this was a great idea. She didn't try to humiliate me, and in fact eventually we tried a 69 that both of us enjoyed, but I certainly went back to Shirley with my face painted with another woman's fluids. Still, I began to look forward every week to the time I spent with Shirley, where nobody went out of their way to humiliate me and she would listen sympathetically to my complaints. She kept asking me, earnestly, whether I really wanted to surrender myself like this, but each time I had to admit that all things considered it was a fantastic adventure to be a full-time sex object, especially in my 40s.

*****

After three weeks of these domination games, one day without explanation my husband/owner showed up with a naked, cuffed George Holmes, whom he exchanged for my well-used body. Shirley asked him to wait a minute, then reappeared with a large plastic bag, stuffed with random coins and $1 bills, which she explained were all the rental fees she'd collected for pimping out my body! She chuckled and reminded Richard of the old joke about the dumb broad (me) who came home announcing that she'd earned 40 dollars and 5 cents selling her body; when her family asked her who gave her the 5 cents, the woman supposedly replied "all of them, of course." Then she remarked that prices had gone up; the cheapest she'd sold my cunt for was a quarter!

Still blushing, I rode home slave naked and cuffed but feeling overjoyed to again be in the possession of my beloved (ex-) husband. He lost no time taking me to the bedroom and thoroughly plowing my mouth, cunt, and ass, but he did so in a loving, gentle manner and kept me in his arms and our bed for that night and every subsequent night together. I will say that I walked bowlegged a few mornings because of his attentions, but after all I HAD deliberately given him control over my middle-aged body; if he wanted to fuck me silly, who was I to complain? Throw me in that briar patch! (George later confided that his Mistress had rammed HIS body thoroughly with a strap-on, but also let him make love to her "normally" and even sleep together at least some nights. There's no place like home, Dorothy, even when your former spouse owns your bimbo ass!)

The following Thursday evening, though, the two controlling spouses re-enacted our first day of enslavement, installing George and me--each of us naked, cuffed, and gagged--inside poodle cages in the back of a truck. The only difference from the first day was that, this time, they covered each cage in a canvas wrap, which was warmer (it was still February) and less exposed but also disorienting, because I had no idea where we were going.

The truck came to a halt after only a few minutes' drive, and then someone stuck a hand truck under the edge of my cage, tilted me back at an angle, and rolled me of the truck and inside some building where I heard a lot of fairly youthful voices. I was left alone in a room, obviously filled with young people, for several minutes, then heard a small crash which I correctly interpreted as George's poodle cage being deposited next to mine.

I should have guessed where I was but was still shocked and terminally embarrassed when the canvas covers suddenly came off to show that we were sitting, caged, gagged and butt naked, in the local high school gym. Three dozen young adults were standing around gawking at us. I suddenly remembered that Thursday evenings were the times usually allocated for 18- and older high school students to take the optional class in slave science! Sure enough, I heard a familiar voice exclaim "That's Missus Harkins!" In that moment, I reached humiliation overload, being suddenly exposed as a naked slave in front of a class of young adults many of whom I knew. The voice belonged to little Jimmy Donnelly, who was a year behind my twins. How many times had I driven Jimmy to soccer practice or scout meetings, only to catch him staring almost reverently at me--his classmate/teammate's MILF mother? A moment later, half a dozen voices, male and female, agreed with him. That moment was a new high (or low) in my enslavement, being suddenly exposed as a naked slave in front of a class of young adults many of whom I knew. I felt my nipples and clit come erect as if they had been hit by a blast of frigid air. Behind the small crowd stood Shirley and Rich--she was smirking as usual about our submission, which he was looking proud because he owned a slave that everyone now described as their "favorite MILF" growing up. I couldn't let him down, so I determined to act as if the situation were completely normal and I was still the kind, sexy mother of their friends Penny and Len--a mother who just happened to be on display while collared and naked! Thank heavens I had really tried to be an ideal mother for all the kids who played sports or had clubs with my kids.

Eventually Mr. Debonis, a former slave wrangler who had run the slave science class for decades, released us from the cages, then had us kneel on two folding tables, facing the class with our thighs wide apart. He cuffed us again but removed our gags and invited questions from the class. I had trouble meeting all these young eyes as they asked me why I was a slave, whether I enjoyed it, what was the worst thing done to me, what did it FEEL like to be naked and helpless in public, and so on. I tried to be honest, even admitting that I had self-indentured for the thrill of it--they were all 18, after all, and at least a few of the girls got distracted looks as if they imagined themselves in my exposed position. I did try to warn them of the down sides, such as being rented out and used by people they might not like and might abuse them.

After the talking was finished, it was time to continue the class with a practical exercise. Mr. Debonis freed us from our cuffs and helped us down from the tabletops, then announced it was time for Slave Yoga practice. The 18-year-old high school students immediately stood up and walked past us onto the gym floor, which was apparently where they practiced. As they passed me, however, Jimmy and Kevin, two of the guys who had made no secret of their crush on me, took the opportunity to feel me up--Jimmy got a good squeeze of my exposed left breast while Kevin suddenly goosed me, provoking an involuntary "eep!" I don't know who was more embarrassed, the boys or me. We all froze in position.

Mr. Debonis admonished them very mildly, "Come on, guys--no handling the slaves without permission of their owners, you know."

I should have guessed what Rich's reaction was. As I said, he was bursting with pride at the way all these young people had been almost visibly drooling at his over-the-hill, middle-aged slave (ex-)wife, so when the two guys dared to display their desire so openly he actually encouraged them. "Oh, I don't mind a little touching in the interests of education, and I'm sure Mrs. Holmes feels the same way about HER slave." She nodded agreement, a small smile on her face as she waited to see what Rich had in mind. "Anyone who wants to, go ahead and have a good touch. In fact, grab a handful of tits, genitals, or ass; you need to get over any hesitation about handling slave sluts."

That was the signal for a wave of students to surround me and thoroughly fondle and feel me up. Both of my boobs were mauled, fingers rammed up my cunt and butt, healthy handfuls of my thighs and buttocks--I was suddenly the center of a mass of young people (I almost added "lusting," but that describes almost all 18 year olds!) Not all of them were male, either, although I caught a glimpse of several young women taking the opportunity to grab George's ass as well as toying with the cage around his genitals. In seconds, both of us were beet red from embarrassment as well as arousal. And being naked, that meant that ALL of our skin was flushed, although I noticed a few handprints where the students had grabbed me. Being gently mobbed like that by people less than half my age, many of whom I had known casually for years, was both flattering and alarming. With a little laugh, I nodded my acceptance of their attentions, acknowledging the compliments they were in effect giving.

Mr Debonis called his class to order and told them all to spread out (a collective snicker from the guys) in their "usual formation" while facing George and me. I noticed that the young women were in the back rows, apparently because their instructor had arranged matters that way so the guys wouldn't stare at the women engaging in gyrations that were intentionally erotic. Tonight, however, that meant that 18 or 20 young, healthy, 18- or 19-year old men were between the women and me, and almost all of these guys were staring intently at me. Everyone except George and I was in sweats and similar exercise attire, but I couldn't help noticing that most of those guys quickly developed visible boners. Again, that was remarkably flattering attention for a middle-aged woman, even if she was exposing and shaking every inch of her slave-naked body.

Which is what happened for the next 25 or 30 minutes. Mr. Debonis would call out a slave yoga (aka Block Position) order, and everyone would follow suit as best they could. I couldn't help noticing that almost all of the young women were thoroughly familiar with the moves, shifting gracefully between "Present," "Display," "Twerk", "Slave Fours," "Flip over," "Collar," "Back hands," and so on, all while chanting mantras such as "I live to serve you," "Master, please buy me and use me," "Choose any hole," followed by either "Mistress" for "Master." I will say that the males were clumsier than the females--I'm not sure whether this was normal embarrassment or because they were distracted by the naked floor show in front of them. Probably a little of both. I did notice several guys totally botch some of the positions or just stop and stare, slack-jawed, at my completely exposed, undulating body. They seemed particularly taken with me dutifully begging the audience to "Ram your huge cock up my ass!" and "Fuck my slave brains out, Master." As for me, I was soon on a low boil of arousal as I contorted and exhibited my body to so many young, fit, fully-clothed adults. When we got to the "Cheerleader toe-touch," the slave yoga equivalent of the split-legged position in which Bill Stephenson bound me before he conducted a cavity search with his large cock, I almost came from the combination of public exposure and that memory of sexual submission.

Finally, the teacher called a halt to this combination of aerobic workout and erotic foreplay. In what seemed to me a surprising gesture of kindness, Mistress Shirley walked me to the nearest girl's restroom and insisted that I wash my face and under my arms, mop myself off with paper towels, and use the toilet. (Only later did I realize the method in her acting.) Of course, the whole time I was butt naked and surrounded by gawking high school girls who were chattering away, turned on by a combination of slave yoga and the close proximity of a naked slave whom they had previously known as a parent. Then Shirley cuffed and walked me back to my cage, reinstalled my canvas gag, and had me crouch down and knee-walk backwards into my poodle cage. I was actually relieved when she re-installed the canvas cover, cutting off the students' view of me. You know you're really a slave when you'd rather be kneeling on a hard tray, gagged and cuffed with no view outside your cage, than be free to walk around. And my nipples were still erect, my thighs still sticky with arousal from the utter humiliation of flaunting myself as a slut in front of dozens of young adults for whom I had once been a parental authority figure. In the enclosed space of my canvas-covered pet cage, the aroma of my arousal was pungent, to say the least.

I felt my cage tilt backwards and roll, bouncing up and down steps until it finally came to a halt, presumably back inside the truck. A few minutes later I heard another controlled crash, indicating that George's cage had been placed next to mine. The truck moved, swayed, and eventually stopped. I had expected a wait of only 20-30 minutes before we reached what had been my home and my master/husband released me from my uncomfortable crouch. But time passed and nothing happened.

When I got thirsty, my cage (and I presume George's) was equipped with a water bottle, an inverted, clear container with a bent tube coming out of the bottom so that even with a thin gag I could sip water by sucking on the tube. But that sipping brought two problems with it. First, it reduced me--already slave naked, collared, bound and caged--to the mental status of a lab rat, maintained in captivity at the pleasure of some superior being. Second and more practically, I had no idea how long I would remain in that cage, which meant that every sip of water I took now only brought closer the moment when I would lose control of my bladder and end up kneeling in my own urine, contained by the hard tray at the bottom of the cage! In this regard, Mistress Sylvia's seeming kindness in taking me to the bathroom at the high school began to look like malice aforethought, intending to leave George and me as lab animals until we fouled our own cages.

I waited for hours in the dark with no idea what had happened outside my cage. It reminded me--as if I needed any reminder--of the truth of the cliché "Slaves have questions, but only masters have answers." Where the hell was MY master? After that evening of erotic humiliation, I needed him to let me out of this @#$%& cage, take me to his warm bed, and fuck my slave brains out!

*****

(Rich Harkins' perspective)

As I drove the pickup truck carefully out of the high school parking lot, I heard the self-assured voice of Dr. Shirley Holmes, sitting beside me, remark with great amusement,

"Don't tell me, Rich, you're thinking that Michelle and George are a couple of lucky sluts to have this experience."

I was so startled that I blurted out, "How did you know what I'm thinking??"

She gave an uncharacteristic giggle. "Come on, guy, I've watched you at the club for three years--you LOVE to play the humiliated submissive, don't you?" OK, she had me there--guilty as charged. But she continued: "Besides, your wife talked to me about your problem. She really loves you, you know; the only worry she had with this crazy make-myself-a-slave-whore plan of hers was not protecting her own ass but feeling that it wouldn't serve YOUR needs, just hers. Michelle was afraid that while she was off having the adventure of her life as a slave, you'd be missing the opportunity to be on your knees right next to her, sucking as much cock as she did!"

I started to protest that I really wasn't interested in sucking someone's cock, but she gently yet firmly cut me off. "I know, I know--you don't WANT to blow anyone. But you DO want to be quote forced unquote to provide sexual service to someone who controls you totally, right? God knows you enjoyed it when we played like that at the club! Well, good news, Rich! Your loving wife asked me to take care of you, to dominate you once in a while when you need it. So, how about it? Ready to be my bitch?"

I almost slammed on the brakes; fortunately, a stop light came up at just the right time, so I could safely look at her face for a moment. "I'd love to, Shirley, but how do we make it work?"

"That's Mistress Shirley to you, or better still, Goddess Shirley. Got it?"

"Yes, Goddess."

"OK, then," she nodded and resumed her monologue. "I know what you REALLY want, you little slut, but that takes some prior planning and presentation. Like you shaving your body and getting the right sized lingerie to wear. Maybe we'll do that some other time. But, for tonight, how 'bout you come to my house, get down on your knees to kiss my pussy, and then ask me politely to shaft you at both ends?"

"Would you do that for me, Goddess?" I was still so surprised that I wasn't thinking clearly, speaking without filtering my thoughts, and I'm sure my desire showed in my voice. "I'd love that."

"Sure," She replied. "It's a funny thing, but now that George is a slave I don't get to play with him as much as I used too when he was free--don't want to spoil him, for one thing, and for another, you know that George and Michelle expect us to rent them out as genuine slaves, which leaves me with a vacancy for a substitute submissive bitch."

I finally recovered my mental balance and ventured a slight joke. "I'd love to apply for the vacancy, Goddess Shirley." We laughed quietly, breaking the tension, before I finished my thought: "But tonight, I've got two people in poodle cages in the back of my truck, which complicates things."

Shirley replied, "Hey, they VOLUNTEERED to be slaves, right? So leave 'em in those cages for another few hours--hell, leave them overnight if you have to. It's not like they can complain--they're already gagged and they'll probably enjoy being kept in strict confinement like that. I know YOU'D enjoy being kept in a cage overnight, just on general principle or should I say lack of backbone? You just pull your truck into my garage so they don't get too cold, then strip down and submit to me. I fuck your slutty little brains out with one of my biggest strap-ons, and eventually let you unload George and take Michelle home. I don't see a problem."

Put like that, she was right. Much as I loved Michelle, it was her idea to be a slave, so as long as she didn't get frostbite, she belonged on her knees in that cage. As Shirley said, she'd volunteered to be restrained and kept waiting like that, for the amusement of free people. So I nodded my acceptance. We were already on our way to Shirley's house; the only change was that, when we got there, she jumped out, opened the garage door, and waved me into an empty space, then closed the door behind us.

Once I dismounted from my truck, things changed abruptly. "Strip naked, cowboy--I don't let submissives into my house wearing clothes. Someday I may make an exception if you're wearing a slutty bustier, nylons, and heels, plus maybe a nice butt plug, but for tonight I want you naked on your knees, got it?"

"Yes, Goddess." I replied, promptly, frantically tearing off my clothes.

"That's the spirit!" she replied, approving my ready agreement.

I paused just long enough to stack my discarded clothing into a messy little pile, then knelt down on the cold, dirty concrete floor of the garage, spread my thighs wide, and interlocked my fingers behind my head. My dick betrayed my mental arousal. Ten minutes ago I had been a lofty master, sneering at my horny ex-wife and slave. Now I was in the same condition as her--in fact, worse, because I didn't even have a collar.

"Follow me, butt-boy," came the commanding voice I had obeyed numerous times in scenes at Paul's BDSM club.

I dutifully crawled after her, marvelling at the image of combined femininity and power she presented. In two-inch heeled boots and close-fitting pants, her swaying, tight little ass was mouth-watering. My odds of getting my hands OR dick on that ass tonight were almost nil, however. But the scenery was one of the few perks of being a slave, even a pretend, temporary one.

Crawling up three steps into the house, then down a corridor to a bedroom that doubled as a dungeon. When we halted inside a room, redolent with leather and crowded with bondage devices, I resumed my kneeling submission. I saw a brief look of satisfaction on her face, then nothing as she slid a blindfold over my head and adjusted it to exclude any light.