Full Rigor Pt. 05

I had previously been tattooed and chipped, but Gary took full advantage of the situation, groping me thoroughly as he posed me for my slave registry photographs (usually referred to as "the pinks" because of how much genital skin was exposed). It was almost a relief to have the slave wrangler insist that I blow him which he uploaded the photographs, although I couldn't help being flattered that this young guy, who saw and played with high-class slave pussy every day, was fully erect even before I began sucking on him. OK, yes, the thrill of being "made" to suck the dick of an adult whom I had known as a teenager made that dick (and his jism) particularly tasty.

It seemed unnecessary to run George and me through block positions (aka slave yoga), since we were already visibly aroused and dripping. That said, having to twerk and expose myself in front of a dozen muscular young men and women, all of them grinning and taunting us, was even more of a thrill than I had ever dreamed (and believe me, being slave graded and auctioned had been a frequent masturbatory fantasy for me for decades).

Then I was strung up for public viewing, hands bound overhead and ankles tied wide apart, along with half a dozen much younger and (to me at least) more attractive women. I knew that anyone who could prove being 18 years old and was willing to part with two dollars could look at and feel up prospective slaves before the full-time merchants came through to grade us and size us up before auction. What I didn't anticipate was that my loving owner had gone the extra mile to maximize my exposure. A year later, after I had regained my freedom and my clothes, I found out what had happened: once the date for our processing was fixed, Rich had telephoned my two college student kids, Penny and Len, and asked them for help to ensure that my second slave grading would be everything I had ever dreamed of. Dratted kids came through for him--they apparently used social media as well as telephone calls to notify a BUNCH of their high school classmates that I would be slave graded at the Longhorn on x day! If I thought it was humiliating to be slave meat being pawed by Gary and Mike, imagine what it was like to have more than 20 young men and women I knew personally--all adults NOW, but at one time cub scouts or brownies and soccer players that I had shuttled around--playing with my helpless body and saying things such as "Gee, Missus Harkins, I always thought you were beautiful but you make a helluva sexy slave slut!" and "I hope you end up in a slave brothel so I can rent this pussy!" My heart was pounding a mile a minute, but my nipples, clit, and dripping cunt proclaimed how thrilled I was.

My excitement at this treatment probably explains why, even though my body was middle-aged and had birthed twins, that day I actually graded out one step HIGHER than when I was 18--Choice Plus instead of Choice. Pardon my bragging, but I think that's pretty damn good for a 44-year old mother of two. The moment when I heard of that grading paid me back for decades of painful, repetitive exercises and dieting. Still, to be honest, I was secretly relieved by that grade. One of the reasons my loving husband had resisted my self-indenture was that he couldn't bear the thought of my pain while getting branded. In a fit of bravado, I had told him, "Of course, if I grade out as Prime, I expect you to fry my ass to document my bragging rights." Just a few more points from any one of the slave merchants would have given me a true pain in the ass! As it was, we'd decided that anything below Prime I wouldn't get branded unless the person leasing me absolutely insisted.)

We didn't go to the main auction pit at the Long Horn because we were not available for permanent sale. Instead, George and I separately went to a different pit for short-term contracts; in this case, we were auctioned for six months each with the possibility of a second six months thereafter at a price to be negotiated. That made the short term more attractive to bidders, because if I met their needs they could get another six months without training or other distractors. Still, even though I wasn't in the "big time" main pit, it was still a fantastic rush to dance naked in front of the floodlights while people bid thousands of dollars to use my body and I begged my unseen future master to "please cram your enormous dick into all of my holes!" I had heard stories about people who became so aroused by the idea of being sold as slave meat that they actually climaxed on stage. I thought those were just urban legends until it happened to me! When someone claims that I made the story up, I show them the cell phone video that "Master Rich" took of me: I'm bent over, legs and arms wide apart, looking between my legs and past my naked pussy at the audience and in the background you can hear the auctioneer pounding a gavel and saying "Sold! Six months' service for forty-seven thousand dollars!" And just then I SQUIRT pussy juice between my labia and collapse, almost fainting. A real "Gavel-gasm."

*****

(George Holmes' perspective)

I guess I was almost as excited as Michelle at the thought of going through a slave market as inventory, but I had told myself over and over not to expect too much. I may sound like a real male chauvinist, but for obvious reasons there's a market out there for ANY half-way decent looking woman (and Michelle was really cute) who's being sold as a slave--guys are more likely to buy or rent women who can not only perform a particular task but also "put out" on the side. By contrast, unless you look like a George Clooney clone and have an eight-inch dick (and I don't), the market for MALE sex slaves is pretty limited. Yeah, I was sure there are some wealthy women out there who would love to use and tease a male slave, but the odds of my being rented by such a woman for six months seemed pretty low, not much higher than the probability that such a woman would allow ME to climax after she played with me. If I were lucky, I figured, whoever bought me would have a female in a manager's position who might enjoy having me lick her once in a while. My expectations seemed confirmed when the slave merchants graded me as Select Plus, just below Choice, which was really more than I could expect as a middle-aged guy, even one in good shape.

So I was surprised as I went through my block moves to hear a female voice constantly raising the bid for six months of my service until the auctioneer gavelled me off at $28,000. And then, after waiting in a cage for half an hour, I actually KNEW my new temporary owner when she appeared--Pamela Bates. I had met her casually in Rotary, where she had a reputation as being a wealthy widow who ran several antique shops as sort of a hobby to keep herself busy.

Talk about embarrassment! There I was, slave naked and collared, kneeling with my legs apart and my treacherous dick half-erect, fingers interlaced behind my neck, in front of a well-preserved blonde dressed in a skirted business suit. And she was smirking because she clearly recognized me. Whiskey Tango Foxtrot? As they used to say in the Army.

When she asked how I ended up in a collar, I told her most of the truth, which was that my wife and I enjoyed BDSM games and it had reached the point where I indentured myself to her--"That's who is leasing me out today, Mistress."

"Well, what a coincidence. My late husband enjoyed the same kind of games, and I'd about given up finding a boytoy to replace him. Now, you said your wife, but slaves don't have marriages, do they?"

She knew the answer to that one, so I dropped my gaze and replied,"No, Mistress."

She resumed speaking in a confident tone I found irresistible. "I actually came here today to see if I could find someone who might straighten out the inventory in my stores--and if I remember right, you managed auto parts, so you must know all about inventory control, correct?"

"Yes, Ma'am."

"How nice--I can have my cake--er, cock, and have it eat me, too!" [Giggle] At which point, she sat down on a bench, dropped her panties, and pulled my head into her crotch. Tasted pretty good, too. I love my wife, but this woman seemed like a Mistress made in heaven for me, at least for the next six to 12 months.

*****

(Michelle Harkins' viewpoint)

There was, of course, a downside to being a Choice Plus female slave--whoever bought me presumably wanted to use me sexually. That's the fantasy that thrilled me and lots of other women in mundane lives, but the reality behind that fantasy might suck--literally suck.

A buff but slightly sleezy guy came to my cage and identified himself as Don Lemon, branch manager of the local SlutsRUs, the franchise for temporary sex workers. I should have figured that's where I would end up, but at least that seemed to promise me a lot of sex.

From my kneeling position, I dutifully responded, "Yes, Master."

"Consider this an audition," Master Don said, sitting on the bench before casually unzipping and presenting me with a half-erect cock. I dutifully opened up, licked the head, and tried to cram as much of it into my mouth as possible. In about three minutes, he spasmed and flooded me with his protein goo; it didn't taste too bad. I remembered to retain enough of it on my tongue to display to him; he nodded permission, commented that I was "not bad," and towed me out of the market on a leash, still slave naked, cuffed, and leashed. This kind of exposure had always been part of my fantasies, but at the moment I was still so unsure about my future that I could barely enjoy being bare at the end of a leash in public.

We didn't even go to his office, but instead he drove me straight to a parking lot behind a nondescript building. I wasn't terribly surprised when it turned out to be a glory hole, where I spent most of the next ten hours sucking and swallowing, with only a few pauses for water and restroom (at least I got to sit down in private instead of straddling a grate, as we had to do at the Longhorn!) I was exhausted and hungry when Master Don picked me up; I gobbled the sandwiches he offered even faster than I had gobbled cock, then collapsed onto a cot for a few hours of sleep.

That was my life for the next several weeks, to the point I thought I would never rid myself the taste of cum or the smell of unwashed male sweat. Periodically over the next three months I found myself back at the glory hole, which seemed to have a constant demand for warm, wet mouths, but gradually Master Don introduced me to other sex work, sometimes one-time only and sometimes very regular. I found that, as long as I had some variety, I could get off on almost any kind of sex; boredom and repetition were the biggest enemies. (Before self-indenture, I had always imagined that being a naked slut satisfying the whims of other people would be endlessly arousing, the reality was sometimes boring more than sexy. No matter how kinky or demeaning, it's difficult to be aroused by the same sex act four days in a row, 12 hours a day.)

I'm sure that my owner/ex-husband would be glad to learn that I really did get to be a street-walker; only slave prostitutes wear a lot less clothing than free women, except in the dead of winter. I spent many evenings parading around in nothing but high heels and a tight bikini. My favorite Johns (and Master Don's as well, because they brought in more money) were groups of three or more young men who would pay $400 or $500 to rent me for the night, then plow all my openings until I was leaking sticky stuff from every orifice (or was that every orifice got stuffed? You get the idea). It was uncomfortable and sometimes dangerous, but the guys usually left big tips (monetary as well as dick) and I got off on being the insatiable slut who took everything they could ram into me. There was nothing so flattering or thrilling as having a large young cock reaming my ass while another one tried to choke my throat. Sometimes I staggered out of the no-tell motel early the next morning wearing nothing but my collar--and a lot of cum on my skin and in my hair! The next day, of course, I would be sore and bruised, requiring a long shower and lots of pain killers to get ready to do it again. Some mornings I was embarrassed to look myself in the mirror, remembering the raunchy and debauched things I had done the day before. But at the time I was performing, what a rush!

Apparently, I got a reputation not only among the horny young males but also in the local management of SlutsRUs. I don't know if they had customer satisfaction surveys ("Complete this survey on-line and get 10 percent off the price for your next piece of slave cunt"), but they certainly heard about how much guys enjoyed pounding, stuffing, and reaming my soft portals. I began to get assigned to be the stripper slut for bachelor parties or the entertainment for GROUPS of visiting business partners. More than once I found myself sucking off a young man, now fully grown, whom I had previously known in youth activities, but he was usually too drunk to recognize me, let alone remember the next day. (The experience still gave me a little spasm of enjoyable humiliation.) Eventually, Master Don's bosses decided they could make more money pimping me out as a high-class call girl than just renting me on a street corner. That meant I actually got to wear clothes, if only to slip by the front desks of high class hotels. It may not seem like it but using a 44-year-old woman as a call girl instead of a glory hole cock sucker was both a compliment and a promotion. And my body actually benefitted from doing LESS than I had done as a common whore. Thank heavens they tested frequently for STDs.

At the end of six months, SlutsRUs agreed to give me five days off in the "custody" of my owner/ex-husband before they rented me for the remaining five-plus months of my indenture, paying him almost twice what they had bid on me to begin with. I spent the first two days just sleeping like I was dead, after which I gave Master Rich a 24-hour exhibition of everything I had learned. Or at least, I TRIED to give him an exhibition--he could only get it up twice, and I noticed that both his chest and his butt seemed fleshier than I recalled--but perhaps my memory was jaded from all the young, muscular studs who'd been ramming into me.

But we had a lot of fun; I kept riding him while whispering stories of how debauched I had been, all the evil gang-bangs I had been the center of--by the end of the day he couldn't get it up anymore, and we BOTH fell asleep in an exhausted but happy cuddle.

Rich reminded me of only two things while I was home. First, he had me sign and post-date a marriage license application, promising to re-marry him as soon as I regained my freedom. And second, he reminded me that I had agreed, in return for his support in my self-indenture, that I would support HIM when he wanted to live out HIS submissive fantasy after I came home to take care of things. Sounding very much like the boring attorney I knew and loved, he remarked that "we can't both be enslaved at the same time, Babe."

The last day of my vacation we made slow, gentle love like the lovers we were, after which he took me out, still wearing my collar (but for a change some decent clothes), for a high class meal and dropped me back off at the SlutsRUs office. I couldn't help wondering if he and Sylvia had been fucking a little TOO often, but if so, that was my own damn fault--I was the horny bimbo who had asked Sylvia to keep him happy while I had de facto divorced him by self-indenture. I had no right to complain if he got a little nookie on the side while I was being roto-rootered in every opening by young studs (and a few disgusting old men) practically every day. At least, I thought, our love would survive my crazy mid-life self-indenture.

Then it was back to my filthy fantasies, joyfully servicing masters of every age and size, doing slutty things that the staid professional nurse and middle-aged mother of two would not even admit knowing about, let alone doing. Twelve months as a slave bimbo for rent was giving me a lifetime of arousing experiences; if I had been able to film them the result would have been quintuple-X-rated. In fact, during my final month in a collar I DID star in a truly raunchy video, which I sometimes pull out and watch to remind myself of my year-plus in a collar. And I loved it all, only occasionally feeling guilty as I worried about Rich's happiness.

*****

(Richard Harkins' perspective)

My inability to perform in bed for the love of my life was distressing but expected. Eight-plus months of non-stop slave sex, including the last six as a full-time collared hooker, not only did not wear her down but in fact made her nearly insatiable! I didn't want to worry her, or detract from the erotic fun she was having, with my own preparations to indulge MY submissive fantasies once she returned.

Those preparations dated back to a point about two months after we had rented her out to SlutsRUs and George out to some domineering widow. (About once a month each, these contractors insisted that Michelle and George "phone home" and assure their owners/ex-spouses that they were well and happy.)

I wished I could say the same, although I didn't want to spoil my slutty ex-wife's fun. I threw myself into work at the law firm but still found myself with a lot of alone time on my hands. The kids both had summer jobs and didn't spend much time at home. Although she didn't admit it, I think Shirley missed George just as much, so we spent a lot of time together--even cuddling together to sleep--when we were NOT having sex.

Which we certainly were, quite frequently and with considerable gusto--not on the wholesale plan like my call-girl ex-wife, but still a lot for a couple of middle-aged, temporarily-single professionals. Mistress Shirley was a beautiful, sexy woman and a demanding dominant who knew how to push my buttons as both a man and a would-be submissive.

We had just finished another scene, in which she had "forced" me to dress up in lingerie, makeup, glued-on fake breasts, nylons, low heels, and makeup while she used a rather large strap-on to stuff first my mouth and then my colon; in between those two acts of plastic sodomy she had happily straddled my own cock and bounced up and down to our mutual pleasure.

But we had become sufficiently close that I couldn't conceal my wistful desire for more. She called me on it, demanding that I articulate what I wanted, what more she could do to (and for) me to indulge my submissiveness. "What do you want, Rikki? Is it time for 'whip me, beat me, make me write bad checks?'" She made no pretence that we were in love, but prided herself on being a considerate lover, ensuring her partners and especially her submissives enjoyed themselves and got after-care when dominated.

So I confessed--or more correctly I repeated--my desire to follow Michelle in living out my submissive fantasies. I thanked Shirley profusely for her willingness to use me in that way, but just as role-playing wasn't entirely enough for my wife, so I hankered after the real thing.

"OK, Rich. Let me give you the good news AND the bad news, OK?" She said, sounding slightly impatient.

"Good news first: you're sharing a bed with a woman who can go a long way towards making your dreams come true. I'm a plastic surgeon, for Chrissake! So, if you're willing to pay the minimum costs--such as the salary for my operating team if we go that far--I can hook you up with an endocrinologist and, if you want, even give you implants so your body truly looks female without, hopefully, giving you erectile dysfunction (I have to caveat that with the warning that any time we tinker with hormonal balances, things can go wrong, but we've done similar things before). Once you really look like a woman, or should I say a futa, I can introduce you to a guy who's undergone almost exactly what you dream of--he self-indentured himself to his lover who feminized and dominated him--so I think you two will have a lot to discuss. You also need to have some serious talks with a slave psychiatrist before you pull the trigger on your fantasy. Finally, if you want to go through with this idea once Michelle is freed, I can arrange to have your contract auctioned off at LuLu's, the specialty slave market for so-called sissies. I even know a female attorney that might want to employ a sissy slave as a paralegal--and yes, the sissies, both transgender and otherwise, DO get used sexually at her law firm."