Full Rigor Pt. 05

(Our story thus far: Two middle-aged but fit submissives, Michelle Harkins and George Holmes, decided to live out their lifelong fantasies by self-indenturing themselves to their mates, the attorney (and sexual switch) Rich Harkins and the domineering surgeon Shirley Holmes. After several weeks of boring cleaning interrupted by thrilling sexual exploitation and humiliation by their former friends, the two slaves found themselves demonstrating slave yoga for an evening class of 18-year-old high school students, many of whom had known Michelle as the MILF mother of two young people who had now gone away to college. After this humiliation, the owners re-loaded their property into covered poodle cages, the normal method for transporting slaves. Only, instead of going to their respective homes, the two kneeling, caged slaves spent hours locked inside Shirley's garage, not knowing what had happened to their owners and ex-spouses. In reality, Shirley was dominating Rich to his heart's content before releasing him, in the early hours of the morning, to take his slut ex-wife home.)

(SPOILER ALERT: Beginning towards the end of this episode, a strange tale takes an even stranger twist, as Rich Harkins begins to explore his own unusual fantasy of being a feminized slave. If you dislike that idea, I suggest you stop reading at this point. I apologize in advance because this fantasy is NOT intended to portray an actual transgender person, someone who in reality demonstrates considerable courage to portray a gender that differs from that person's genetics and society's expectations. Rich does NOT actually self-identify as a female, but instead (for some reason) associates the stereotypical female role as submissive, receiving domination and intrusion from a male or female. Similarly, terms such as "sissy" and "boi" are NOT intended as pejorative labels for male-to-female transgender people; in this society such terms are intended to belittle SLAVES regardless of their gender orientation, in this instance transvestite submissives like Rich.)

(Michelle Harkins' experience)

After uncounted hours of darkness and silence, I finally heard the sound of a door being gently opened, then someone climbing quietly into the back of the pickup truck. Rustling canvas, the click of a padlock being opened, and quiet speech suggested that someone had freed George from HIS prison--I heard him groaning slightly as, after hours of immobility, his middle-aged body slowly climbed down from the truck. Then, instead of regaining MY freedom, the next sound I heard was of the garage door cranking open. The truck roared to life, backed up about ten feet, and then paused, engine running, for a moment. My ears told me that whoever was driving the truck had apparently dismounted to manually close that now-distant garage door. A moment later, the unseen driver must have re-entered the pickup, because I heard the car door slam and the engine roar, after which the truck again lurched backwards, swerved into the street, and reversed direction.

Ten minutes later, the process was reversed--I heard a garage door open without the truck coming to a halt, which prompted my tired mind to hope that I was finally home--I knew that in all likelihood the pickup was Richard's, and the fact that the door opened and then closed without the truck stopping suggested that the driver had used the garage door remote control in that truck.

A few seconds later, I was happy to learn that my surmises had been accurate--the canvas cover on my cage was torn back and I saw my handsome owner/husband looking down with concern at my helpless body. Talking to me as if I were his neglected bitch puppy (which in effect I was), Master Rich quickly unlocked the cage, half-pulled my cramped body out of it, and assisted me to stand upright, after which he removed that damn canvas gag that had almost choked me for the past several hours. "Good girl," he said, soothingly, as I pressed my chilled, stiff body against him and kissed him with relief. He helped me down from the tailgate but I had to stop him leading me into the house--after hours of waiting in the dark, I was afraid my bladder wouldn't make it to the toilet. He understood my distress quickly, opening the pedestrian door at the side of the garage and leading me out into the evening. Floodlights half-illuminated the street, the driveway and the steps up to our front door, but I was in too much of a hurry despite the chilly night temperatures. With my hands still cuffed behind me, I stepped onto the lawn, spread my legs, and sprayed urine wildly. I was simultaneously relieved and humiliated, aware of what a spectacle I must make standing naked and bound, pissing like an oversized, auburn-haired hound on what had been (until my self-indenture) my front lawn, floodlit by my own house lights in full view of any sleepless neighbors!

Only after my stream came to a halt did Master Rich lead me back through the garage and into what had been our house--which now, in law, belonged only to him because slaves have neither property nor marriages. He was free to rent or sell that house just as he could rent or sell my body. It struck me what I had done to myself, turning myself into property, a fuck toy for my (former) husband and anyone else he chose to lend me to. I had to resist crying as my owner helped me into what had once been "our" bathroom. He started the water in the shower, and while waiting for it to warm up he undressed himself and removed my collar and cuffs. I noticed that his pubic hairs were matted, as if both semen and a woman's vaginal secretions had been there. All that long time crouching in a cage, I had assumed that he was probably making love with "Mistress" Shirley, but I couldn't ask for confirmation because I no longer had any right to judge or even monitor his sexual habits. Truth to tell, I realized that enslaving myself to him had not only freed him from our marriage vows but almost forced him to look elsewhere for sex--even though he could use my body in any hole and any time he wanted, if he wanted any intimacy other than submission--and I knew he would--he had to go elsewhere. I was no longer his mate, sharing a bed and affection with him every night, but just his tame piece of middle-aged ass.

Small wonder, then, that I did everything I could to wash and serve him while pressing my tired, stiff body against his. I was thrilled as he gently soaped and fondled my skin and hair. I ended up on my knees, eagerly tonguing and mouthing his slightly-soapy balls and hardened prick. I was relieved that I could still elicit an erection from his member after his dallying with Shirley, and I happily slurped down his sticky protein shake a few minutes later.

*****

Oddly enough, the humiliating knowledge that my once-and-future-husband had left me caged in a garage while he had sex with another woman led to a period of remarkable happiness and rekindled intimacy. The kids were at college, he still had to work, and I was at home every day, but I rarely felt alone. He continued to monitor the system of video cameras that he had installed the previous fall when we had "played" at what was now reality--my enslavement. This time, he didn't lock up my clothing, but made it very clear that unauthorized dressing would lead to punishment. It was acceptable, even required, that I wear a clear plastic apron and flip flops while working around the house, especially near the hot stove. He also told me to wear full clothing and boots if I worked in the front yard, although he would spank me if I spent too much time there. In the BACK yard, which was fenced in, he still wanted me to wear boots when mowing the lawn but enjoyed showing me videos of my working back there, slave naked except for collar and boots! The exhibitionist in me actually enjoyed this exposure, including the idea that, at least in theory, our neighbors might look out their upstairs windows and see me strutting nearly naked back and forth across the back yard behind a mower. (I was fairly certain that they were away working during the day, but the thought of being a lawn mowing Lady Godiva kept me dripping.)

Richard still had to work, but periodically during the day he would telephone or e-mail me. Sometimes he demanded I talk to him on the speaker phone while he ordered me through various slave yoga positions in full view of one of his cameras as well as the large living room windows. After the first time I experienced this exposure, I was so inspired that I searched online and found a video of Tina Turner's classic song "Private Dancer," first released when I was only about 4 years old. Thereafter, I played that damn song over and over for weeks while I was his naked house maid!

When the weather got warmer, my master escalated my exposure. In the middle of the front lawn, he erected [I think his prick erected at the same time!] a pre-fabricated metal storage shed with the doors pegged open so they faced towards the house rather than the street. Then one day he came home for lunch and strung my naked body into a lewd "X" shape at the entrance to this shed, shielded from the street but completely exposed if anyone came to the front door. He also arranged a water container, with a fake-penis tap hanging out of the bottom, so that I could get a drink of water by sucking plastic cock! Did I mention that he blind-folded me, so I had no idea whether anyone was seeing me? I will admit that he had arranged my wrist cuffs with some kind of radio-controlled release, so that, after two hours of my hanging there while another video camera recorded every bare inch of my skin, he used that remote control to release my wrists, after which I could slowly, painfully, untie my ankles and then, after looking around the street carefully, sprint into the house!

Master Richard continued to play such games, exposing me in "Private Dancer" telephone calls and on warmer days stringing me up on the radio-controlled bonds. At least, the days he chose to do this were ones in which, he told me, he didn't have any long meetings or out-of-office commitments. On other days, he was fond of arranging deliveries (sometimes, I will admit, of flowers or other gifts to me) for which I had to sign, wearing AT MOST a collar and a clear plastic apron. Once, when a young, overweight deliveryman was openly ogling the redhaired slave signing for the package, Rich used the speaker phone to instruct me to tip the guy--dropping to my knees to give him a quick blowjob while my owner watched and snickered at my abasement. I think the poor guy was almost as embarrassed as was I, but that didn't prevent him from coating my tonsils with salty seed. By this time, my mind was so keyed up by constant sexual teasing that I actually liked the taste of something that provided proof positive that he had enjoyed the "tip" I gave him.

After days like that, during which my arousal was always on low boil, I often got a telephone call from my master as he drove home, ordering me to wait for him on my knees, hands behind my head or else facing away from the door on knees and elbows, in the front hall. A few times he didn't even bother to close the front door before he was balls deep in my mouth or my cunt! Other times, he would tell me to be vacuuming or dusting in the living room when he arrived. I ended up with my wrists cuffed behind me, flipped over the living room sofa and staring out the front window as he thoroughly rogered my cunt and then ass. Both of us saw stars, but I had the extra subjugation of having this happen in full view of anyone who passed the house.

Other days, of course, he at least walked me into the bedroom before pounding the brains (and sometimes the crap) out of my lower orifices. That was not only thrilling but also usually followed by the two of us cuddling and snoozing together as if we were still newlyweds in our 20s rather than master and slut in our 40s. Mmmm. The other difference from our previous wedded bliss was that, instead of calling each other by familiar terms such as "honey" and "sweetheart," he was now always "Master" and I was alternately "Slut," "Whore," "Cunt," or "Little Bitch." I hate to admit it, but I arched my back and positively purred when he called me such names.

Wherever and however he used my body, he would eventually release me to make supper and clean up. Most evenings, I ended up kneeling beside him while he watched TV or read through files--and sometimes, at least, he closed the living room curtains! I enjoyed leaning my cheek against his trousers and feeling him absent-mindedly stroke my hair. Sometimes he had me crawl up on the sofa so he could tease my breasts, nipples, and clit as well.

I said he stroked my hair but forgot to preface that with the standing instruction he gave me to keep my long, red hair gathered into a top knot. This gave him a convenient handle with which to manipulate my head and therefore my body for his entertainment. Sometimes, when I was leaning dreamily against his thigh, I would feel myself being dragged by my hair; even before he told me "mouth" or "suck cock, slut," I would find myself facing and enjoying the prospect of servicing his dick and balls. My tongue became VERY familiar with the contours and slight saltiness of his hairy scrotum and smooth, rigid prick. It was a dream come true to be a slave whore kneeling to service him, sometimes in full view of the neighborhood--more than once I was so lost in sub-space that I was startled when he unloaded into my mouth.

Twice, my master took me over to Mistress Shirley's home, where George and I were left unfettered but locked into a single large cage while Master and Mistress disappeared for several hours each time. When he finally returned, my master was too tired (he said) to use me, and I noticed the residue of lipstick and pancake makeup on his face. Knowing his predilections, that was sufficient to tell me that he had been playing feminized submissive with Shirley. It made me feel a little forlorn that my loving husband had to go elsewhere to get what HE needed in the way of sexual fantasy, but that was the price--hopefully temporary--for me living out my own erotic dreams. Meanwhile, George exploited his temporary freedom from a cock cage to vigorously pummel both of my lower openings, finally getting the chance to play alpha dog to my willing bitch. We also 69-ed, and each of us commented on how skilled the other was becoming at oral servicing. Become a slave and learn a skill--as an experienced cocksucker I would (literally) never go hungry. Humiliated, subjugated, dehumanized, yeah, but never hungry.

Other than the thought of Rich having to go to Shirley for his pleasure, those few weeks were a great combination of honeymoon and sluttiness, making us both feel young and infinitely horny. But then came mid-February, and the extra 35 days of my original self-enslavement had almost expired. Which meant that George and I each had to tell our owners that, indeed, we still wanted to be processed through the Longhorn Slave Market and leased out as sex slaves for up to a year.

Before that could happen, Master Richard insisted that I HAD to tell our 19-year-old children, Len and Penny, the truth. I had expected this to be shocking and humiliating for both mother and children. The real shock came, however, when I, kneeling naked and cuffed beside my owner, stammered out a confession on a conference call (no video!) to "the kids."

With barely a pause, my son said, in a very matter-of-fact tone, "Well, it's about time, Mom."

I made some startled, incoherent response, to which Penny broke in gently. "Come ON, Mom. We love you, but it's been obvious for years that you enjoyed the thought of playing sex slave. Even if you didn't read all those Hillary Rodham Clinton slave romances, you've got way too many handcuffs, collars, and nipple clamps lying around. What's the big deal? I know I got a little turned on when I got slave-graded last year for my 18th birthday--it was a thrill to have all those hunky guys fondling my naked body, so I can sort of see why you like that kind of thing. Like mother, like daughter! [she giggled.] I WILL say you surprised me by actually making yourself a slave--we both thought you'd just PRETEND to be a slut for Daddy--but whatever floats your boat, OK? When you're done with the whole thing, I'd like to talk to you about it because I've been thinking of doing the same thing after college, sort of take a gap year in a collar, you know?"

I was almost speechless, but finally stuttered out, "How long have you known?"

Len stepped back into the conversation. "About three years ago, when you and Dad went away for the weekend, you left us a telephone number for emergency use only. You remember, you got very upset when you returned because I broke my little finger playing basketball and didn't call you. Truth was, we DID telephone that number, but a lady answered, "Fort Worth Supremacy Club." We decided that was a wrong number, so got the neighbors to take us to the hospital instead. Later on, when we looked up that club on the internet, we found out ALL about it. And you kept leaving the same phone number every time you two went away overnight."

Busted! Oh, well, at least I didn't need to hide it any longer. I haltingly told the kids that I might not be home when they got spring break, but both of them had plans for that period anyway and didn't intend to come home until May. For that matter, Len had almost lined up a summer job on campus and might not come home at all. I felt simultaneously very old and very free. Their only concern was that I avoid being slave rustled, saying they wanted their Mom back after she finished living out her sex fantasies. Nice to know they still wanted me around.

Oh, well, my kids no longer needed me and I was free for Master Richard to pimp me out at a genuine slave market. On to the Longhorn!

*****

I had been keyed up and aroused on the January day when I had gone to the Agriculture Department office to self-indenture, but that feeling was nothing compared to the excitement six weeks later when he took me to the Longhorn Slave Market for grading and auction. By now, George and I had become accustomed to riding naked and bound in poodle cages--I say accustomed to it, not because it was comfortable but because that's how slaves usually travel, which was always a thrilling reaffirmation of my submission. This time, though, my loving owner decided that we would re-create the full experience, beginning with my stripping in the parking lot. This was the first time I'd worn clothes since my self-indenture, but Master Rich insisted that I dress like a stereotypical street-walker. I don't know where he got the idea--maybe old movies like "Pretty Woman?"--since slavery had almost eliminated prostitution of free women in the South. But there I was--micro-mini skirt, fishnets, no panties, boobs bursting out of my top, with heavy makeup and teased hair. I think that if any of my children's friends had seen me like that I would have been even MORE humiliated than when I was delivered slave naked to an evening classroom! When we got to the Longhorn, I saw that Shirley had demanded an equally-revealing outfit for George--she had always insisted that he work out regularly to keep his muscles tight, but that day he showed up in a muscle shirt that emphasized his collar, coupled with short-shorts that BULGED around his equipment. To be honest, dressing like a whore and then stripping down in the parking lot was almost more of a subjugation than just arriving in full slave mode. All I know is that George and I were both blushing as we were led on leashes (his attached to his dick and mine to my collar) naked across the parking lot.

After that experience, I was almost looking forward to being another piece of anonymous slave meat inside, but I had under-estimated my loving ex-husband. Master Rich had called ahead and ensured that the slave wrangler who "handled" me--and I do mean HANDLED!--was another alumnus of my children's high school class. Back when Gary had been in high school, I had always felt a little flattered that he stared worshipfully at me whenever he thought I wasn't looking; now, having him grin broadly, shock-collar me, and then guide me around the market with his fingers goosing my back entrance was yet another thrill of humiliation. And then I got to the slave veterinary station, only to find that the veterinarian was Mike, who as an intern had done a rotation in the medical office I used to run! For a few minutes, as he gave me a gyno exam, took blood samples, and casually pawed my naked body, I thought he didn't recognize me when I wasn't wearing scrubs, but no such luck--while palpitating my breasts for lumps, he grinned and made some comment to the effect that now he finally saw the equipment that qualified "Nurse Michelle" to really NURSE someone! I had always thought that "died of embarrassment" was an impossibility, but that day I found out it was true--as I blushed all over, he fondled my nipples and clit, all of which were already taut from sexual excitement.