Full Rigor Pt. 07

I managed to repair my makeup and appearance, and somehow functioned (marginally) for the next several hours despite the fact that Master Bill had been an actual "pain in the/my ass." Eventually, Laura called a halt, drove through a burger place for our supper, and took me home to shower and rest. I was shattered--not so much mentally, because I had prepared for this eventuality, but physically I had been ridden hard and put up wet.

*****

The attorney fratboy network must have possessed its own communications system, because, starting the very next day, attorneys I had never even seen before began intercepting me, taking me off to their offices or the break room, and plowing me vigorously. I learned the true meaning of the word "waylaid," since no matter which way I went in the halls, another attorney (or often several attorneys) got laid in my orifices. I began to wonder how any work got done in that firm. Most of them seemed unaware or uninterested in my sexual equipment, just casually ordering me to kneel or bend over so they could invade my body. I was ridden so often that I could easily imagine how my wife had felt when she was a slave call girl being used by dozens of men every week.

On one occasion, three young attorneys decided to maximize my humiliation and (incidentally) emphasize my hermaphrodite body. They ordered me into an empty office, locked the door, and told me to strip naked. Then they cuffed my hands in front but instructed me to move my hands behind my head, which of course pulled my boobs upwards as if I were offering my chest on a platter to them. I ended up kneeling in front of a couch on which all three of them sat--only their erect dicks were exposed, whereas I was naked in front of them, blushing furiously, with thighs apart and my breasts and (unfortunately aroused) dick sticking straight towards them as if I ENJOYED this. Yeah, I was a sexual submissive, but this was overkill! In this helpless, exposed position, I not only had to lick their shafts and swallow their cum but also suffer their constant jeering about being a "queer, homo, sissy slut, fag, cock-sucker, pussy-boi"--well, you get the idea. Gone was any pretense that I was female, although they didn't mind squeezing my breasts while they face-fucked me. I still found the act of fellating a male--in the presence of two other males--to be revolting but couldn't help reacting to my subjugation by these insensitive anal orifices (although, to be honest, MY anal orifice was the only one involved in any sex play.) Adding to my nightmare was the thought of what the junior associates in MY law firm would think and say if my identity were ever betrayed. Fortunately, I thought, Sissy Rikki's body, hair, and makeup made him look far different from the former senior partner Rich Harkins.

Two ambitious young female associates decided that they had to assert THEIR equality at my expense by using strap-ons in both of my openings at once, not to mention vigorously spanking me at the same time. At least they allowed me to keep most of my clothes on, and being dominated by such assertive women was much closer to my ideal of sexual submission. Besides, they were slightly kinder and gentler because (I suspect) they could imagine being on the receiving end of such treatment. At the end of their usage, they even allowed me to finish the job with my tongue on both of them, bringing them to orgasm.

I got used so often that the other sissies began to thank me, since the more frequently I got screwed, the less often it happened to them. Productivity in the entire firm, EXCEPT for Laura, apparently increased as a result of my whoredom. I had always wanted to be a submissive sex slut but servicing three dozen horny (and obnoxious) men while they belittled me was almost too much to handle.

After two weeks of being everyone's favorite cock-sucking piece of ass, I asked (blushing furiously) my owner if we could buy another box of tampons, since I had been using three or more every business day after the partners and associates began double-teaming me. I'd already used up two lipsticks replacing color that had been worn off my lips onto strange dicks and strap-ons. Mistress Laura has grown visibly more irritated each time I returned, bedraggled, from my latest sexual encounter, but this time she blew her stack and went charging into Bill Kingsley's office. She apparently didn't get much satisfaction out of complaining to him, since she told me she intended to break the cycle by having me work from home for a while. After a week of that, she started having me come to work around 5:30 in the evening, when most of the people with more testosterone that motivation had departed for the day. On that schedule I still got boinked a few times a week, but I was better able to help Laura. The immediate problem was that Jenny and I had to communicate by messages and telephones because we no longer had a physical hand-over of projects each afternoon.

When the pattern of "Everybody bangs Rikki" (me) on a daily basis started up again, Laura finally went to a partners' meeting and told those perverted chauvinists off. With steam coming out of her ears, she explained, yet again, that Sissy Rikki was her personal property, NOT a law firm ASSset--from now on, anyone who used my openings would get an invoice at retail rates--$50 per blowjob, $150 per butt-fuck, and $30 for every two minutes of conversation and/or fondling. (She added a recording circuit to my collar and mailed out a few such invoices, with attached sound files and copies to Bill Kingsley, which finally brought the "way-laying" to a close. AND she told me that I wasn't going to any firm social functions!)

At the time, I was lost in a mental haze, half the time cowering and the other half revelling (while still blushing furiously) in my role as the office whore. Once things settled down, I resumed an ALMOST normal relationship with Mistress Laura and her assistant, Jenny.

The end of my six-month contract arrived very quickly, and by mutual agreement my two mistresses, Laura and Michelle, allowed me to spend a week at home before beginning the second six months. Mistress Laura made a point of praising me on the phone with Michelle, but by now Laura had cooled down enough to give her a brief overview of my career as Harriman, Kingsley, and Gaylen's designated sodomy slut. Which meant that, in between catching up on sleep and intimacy with my wife/owner, I had to recount my adventures servicing almost every attorney in that firm. I deliberately played it for laughs, because I could hardly complain about being used in a manner that I had knowingly risked when I self-indentured as a sissy.

*****

I could recount similar stories of my use and abuse for a year in Mistress Laura's service. I have to admit that some of it--especially being dominated by Laura or her FEMALE colleagues--fulfilled many of my fantasies of being a submissive slave. There was also some joy in the humiliation of being forcibly sodomized by males who (even though they were imposing on me) constantly sneered at me. That said, I had to learn to put my mind in sub-space, pretending I enjoyed a form of intimacy that I found disgusting. Even though she rarely took advantage of me sexually, I found serving Mistress Laura as a combination housemaid and paralegal, while wearing female clothing and makeup, to be a satisfying form of submission, as if I were a housecat ("pussy" again) pleasing my human owner. I got a lifetime's supply of submissive fantasies out of it--in fact, MORE than a lifetime's supply, since I found the sodomy so repulsive that I determined to never self-indenture again. I would still enjoy PLAYING slave at a BDSM club (or in my own bedroom with my wife), but the reality was too uncontrollable to risk. I know, I know--I should have known that before I ever put myself into such a vulnerable position. So sue me.

On the day my indenture expired, my temporary owner, Laura, fulfilled one last tradition of slavery, walking me into the Agriculture Department wearing only a chastity belt but otherwise slave naked, cuffed, collared, with my generous breasts leading the way. She even insisted that I perform the traditional (female) slave role of sucking off the official who had to certify my manumission! But I really didn't mind, because I knew that that final mouthful of dick and cum were the toll I has to pay to regain my identity. My loving wife Michelle gave me a huge hug and a bag full of (still female) clothing that I scrambled into. Once again, the nearby state court clerk and judge were mystified by the sight of Michelle and me (or rather, a busty female version of me) getting married for the THIRD time, after which Laura and Dan joined us for lunch.

Ten days later, I had almost recovered from the surgical procedures that had removed the implants and extra skin from my chest and butt. That plus a haircut and a few testosterone injections restored the appearance of being a male, although I sometimes still needed Viagra even though I was more in love with my wife than ever.

When we started this wild experiment, our twin children had just started their freshman year in college. Now, two and a half years later, they were finishing their junior years. They had been unsurprised when we told them that their mother had self-indentured as a slave, and they had often seen only one or the other parent when they came home for vacations. We had never told them the lurid details, but they could easily imagine the kind of shenanigans that had gone on.

Their 21st birthday fell that year during spring break, and for a change the four of us could celebrate together. None of us consciously avoided the elephant in the room, but again, we didn't recount any details, nor did they ask.

At least, not directly. Yet, after we came home from a nice dinner at a favorite restaurant, my daughter Penny dropped a bombshell.

"Mom," she began in a tone that was typically polite but firm. "I know you guys don't want to talk about your experiences in a collar, but I need to tell you that the University Pony Girl team has been recruiting me to spend the summer training and the fall performing with them."

My heart sank. Both Michelle and I had a pretty good idea what that meant--larger schools had recently begun a new form of cheerleading--or, more properly, of team mascots--that involved good-looking female students who formed a 12-pony girl team to pull a chariot carrying a football coach or a quarterback in pep rallies and then around the football stadium. I suddenly had a vision of my tall, athletic, auburn-haired gorgeous daughter, prancing with her wrists bound behind her back, her breasts half-exposed, and a fat plug anchoring a red-haired tail into her behind. Like mother, like daughter? Hell, if you think about it and recall my recent feminized, restrained appearance, like FATHER, like daughter!

Trying to remain calm, Michelle asked (as if we didn't know) what kind of training she would undergo all summer.

"Oh, you know, Mom. We have to sign FINO [Free In Name Only] Contracts and spend the summer on a pony ranch, acting as slaves just like you and Dad. But in return, we have a lot of fun and the University alumni fund pays each of us $10,000 for our time. In the fall, we live in a special dorm that allows us to continue our studies while supporting the football team."

Sigh. That just made their self-enslavement legalized prostitution; at least she'd get a higher price than her mother or I did to surrender her freedom and her body. And given what Michelle and I had done, we were hardly in a position to object or criticize.

"Well," her mother replied, trying to be as calm as possible. "If that's what you want to do, you're my daughter and we'll always love you. Remind me that we need to arrange a time-release implant of birth control for you . . ."

*****

(Penny's perspective)

By now, having read about my parents' crazy stunts of making themselves sex slaves, you've undoubtedly felt that you were beyond shock. You probably weren't terribly surprised to hear that their college-aged daughter was sufficiently kinky to contemplate a similar term wearing a collar--not to mention bit and bridle! I'm not going to make any excuses. All I can tell you is that my parents are both people pleasers, who obviously enjoy making other people happy and doing favors for them. I guess my brother Leonard and I turned out the same way, in effect taking pleasure by giving pleasure. Mom had impressed the same values upon us--and my long-term boyfriends have commented about how "giving" I am (usually after I've given them one of my three openings, if you catch my drift.)

Like my Mom, I've been quietly intrigued by the prospect of slavery--not giving away my life to some obnoxious clown, but willingly submitting to a guy who would love me enough to dominate me sexually and yet allow me to be who I am otherwise. And yes, I know that sounds Freudian, as if I wanted a younger version of Daddy. So sue me--Dad is a remarkable guy and I love him dearly; if HE can find purpose and pleasure in sexual service to others, why not me?

Speaking of Dad, I have to tell you one thing that didn't come up in his otherwise VERY frank account of his time as a bimbo sissy slut (now there's a redundancy, but you know what I mean.) More than a year ago, my Mom had called me quietly and told me that it was Daddy's turn to go to auction at a slave market. The very thought of that got my juices flowing. (I had been THRILLED when Mom took me through the Big D for slave grading three months after my 18th birthday and right after I finished high school. I couldn't decide whether to orgasm or faint or both as Mom used a leash to lead my cuffed nude body across the parking lot at the slave market. I was thrown further off balance when my twin brother Len showed up just as we entered the lobby of the market. Mom glared at him, but he remarked, quite casually, that people under slave discipline were released from the normal considerations of infidelity, incest, and so on--and then he reached out and mauled my boobs, hard, saying he'd always wondered what they felt like--the horny little bastard--and now he was "just trying to get you ready for the yellow pole." To be fair, that unexpected, intimate grope from someone I'd known all my life DID seem to add to my arousal--assuming anything could make me even more horny--and I was positively dripping by the time I backed my pussy up against the bollard and began jilling off against it, with both my face and my pussy projected on large TV screens overhead. When Mom wasn't looking, Len even used his phone to snap a photo of me in that exposed position--which photo he e-mailed to me after I got home. I still look at that picture of a frenzied young slut whenever I want to jill off.)

That's just by way of background, to explain why I was so intrigued when Mom had told me that my staid, practical Dad was going to be auctioned off as a big-busted sissy at LuLu's on X date. Mom playing slave I understood, but Daddy giving up his freedom, his gender, and even his body? Len and I cut classes to drive down there and stake out the place, parking across the street near the entrance. If Mom hadn't been leading him on a leash, I wouldn't have recognized my Dad, the masculine standard in my life. (S)he had humongous boobs, bigger than my own, and an equally well-padded butt; both pairs of padded flesh bobbed erotically as he strutted down the street. He didn't even appear to be embarrassed, but he WAS turned on like crazy. His hair was long and curly and he was wearing perfect makeup as well as what I later learned was a chastity gaff, something that held his equipment back between his thighs to complete the image of a female slave available for use. Even though Len knew it was his dad, the image was so sexually charged that I noticed my brother growing a hard-on while looking at his own father!

Len and I waited 15 minutes after our Mom led that stunning she-male past us and then slipped inside, avoiding Mom's field of vision but proving we were of age and paying $2.00 each to visit the grading ceremony--only THIS grading was far more intimate and sexualized than the one Mom had taken me to at the Big D. There was my bimbo father, blindfolded and bent over onto some kind of table, getting his face and butt stuffed by numerous men and even a few women. And he was eagerly tonguing the women, gobbling cocks, and (when his mouth was free), begging whichever person was behind him to "Ram that shaft up my sissy ass, Master! Harder, please!"

You might think I would be disgusted and horrified by that vision of my father debasing himself, but he seemed to be having so much fun that I began to imagine MYSELF as the center of all those dicks and strap-ons. Even before my slave grading, I'd felt a guilty fascination for sexual slavery; the sight of my father having the time of his life, after knowing that our mother had been a slave call girl for months, REALLY turned me on. That's why I was instantly intrigued when the Pony Girl Team at school pitched the idea of joining them. (If you're wondering, the University alumni wanted them to target juniors and seniors because such women had already established an academic track record, had lost their virginity along the way, and were slightly older so their parents didn't go thermo-nuclear at the thought of their "precious little girl" prancing mostly-naked in public. The FINO contract and pony slavery would end with post-season football play in the holidays, leaving me free to study and apply for future jobs or schooling during my final undergraduate semester. By that time, the team members a year ahead of me confided, I would become recognized as one of the most desirable women on campus; simply listing "Pony Girl Team" as an extra-curricular activity got them job interviews and graduate offers that equally-qualified other women never received. Hey, if I can make male chauvinism/sexism work for me, why not?)

*****

Anyway, Mom and Dad could hardly object to my plan, and Mom privately took me aside and told me some fascinatingly raunchy tales of her own slave whoring. During the final weeks of my sixth semester, I had to suffer through injections to grow my boobs as well as the piercing/ringing of my nipples, both in anticipation of the wildest "summer camp" experience any girl, no matter how lurid her mind, could ever imagine.

A week after final exams were over, Mom drove me back to campus where, to signify her approval, she led her naked and cuffed "little girl" into the dormitory/horse barn to begin my training. The very next day, my initiation into the pony girl team involved me and eight other women (all aged 20-22) riding in a horse trailer to the Longhorn Slave Market for another experience of slave grading. For the occasion, we were all slave naked with horse bits in our mouths, reins threaded through our nipple rings, and forearms bound parallel to each other behind our backs. I know it sounds arrogant to say it, but I thought that the new pony with long red hair and a matching tail sprouting from her buttplug was at least as pretty as any of the other sluts that day. The presumptive starting backfield of next fall's football team got to lead helpless naked pony girls by the reins from the trailer into the slave market--all the time fingering and goosing us to give another meaning of the term "backfield!" That experience certainly began to arouse me in preparation for grading.

I'm sure you've read enough accounts of young women and even some men going through the deliberately embarrassing and subjugating experience of slave grading. I should have been dying inside, but I was actually so intrigued by the whole process that I don't think my nipples and clit ever relaxed; I do know I guzzled more water than ever before in my life, just to replace all the fluids that dripped down my legs that day. I mean, what was the worst thing that could happen--I get felt up and fucked? I was fondled constantly, in between giving at least two blowjobs and cavorting lewdly on a practice platform. I'm proud to say that four of the other girls and I were graded Prime (in my case, an upgrade from Choice Plus three years earlier) while the other four came out as Choice or Choice Plus.