Going Around to Cum Around Pt. 01

She tried to cheer me up. "One piece of good news is that I already have a judge's approval for you to self-indenture as a pleasure slave. I'm sure Beth told you that, when she went through this, she had to strip, perform, and orally service Judge Roy Bean V before he would approve the process—and then he demanded a revisit, in all three of her openings, after she was trained. You probably heard that THAT judge finally got what he deserved—he was sentenced and enslaved yesterday, and this morning he gets to provide victim atonement to some of the free women he had abused in the past."

She grinned, "Because of this uproar, the judge filling in for Bean didn't want to risk even seeing you when he approved the petition. I just submitted your National Slave Registry photos plus the picture I took of you two weeks ago, and he approved it without you having to service him. Of course, OTHER officials may demand a piece of you as we go through this, but Bean was the worst—lord knows I had to put out for him often enough, and his dick was freakishly large." I reminded myself that slaves had to be thankful for small favors.

With a feeling of impending doom, I sat beside Lily as she drove us over to the nearest office of the state Department of Agriculture. In Texas, that department maintained the records for slaves and indenture servants because both were technically "livestock" rather than human beings. When we reached the building, she suggested I use the ladies' room first and handed me a tube of lube, gently implying that I should coat both of my openings. The necessity of doing so made me shiver, but I thanked her for her forethought. When I finished, she handed me a candy bar as a final snack in freedom.

We took the elevator to the fifth floor, and Lily led me through a Dilbert farm of cubicles to a corner office which, I noticed, had closed venetian blinds covering its glass walls. I hoped that meant that I wouldn't be stripping in front of the employees in the cubicles, although they'd all get to see the fresh-caught slave meat when I emerged.

Lily had made an appointment with the appropriate official, a Mr. Shively, so we didn't have to wait with his secretary for more than a few minutes. However, that woman knew Lilly from numerous slave registry transactions. The secretary instantly realized that I was about to give up my freedom, so she pointedly ignored me while talking to my impending owner. My first experience of being an un-person.

Mr. Shively, I was glad to see, was presentable and clean. For some reason, the idea of being enslaved by a fat pig of a pervert would have made the sordid process even more repulsive. As it was, he didn't ignore or insult me, at least until the procedure was completed. Instead, after greeting Lily as a familiar acquaintance, he examined the paperwork and focused on my face:

"Cynthia Jackson? Are you prepared to execute this indenture?" I nodded, shaking quietly. "Please sit here; we're required to videotape the proceedings." He called in his secretary and another guy as witnesses, turned on a video camera pointed at my face, then continued talking slowly and succinctly. I don't know whether this was standard procedure or he just thought I was mentally deficient. Perhaps I WAS deficient to find myself caught in this trap.

"You understand that, for the duration of this agreement, you will surrender all civil rights and be treated exactly as if you were a slave?" "Yes, Sir."

"You also understand that your new owner has the sole discretion to decide whether you have provided enough value to discharge your debt, and may keep you in servitude for up to seven years?" Again, I agreed. I only hoped that seven years of my life was worth enough on the auction block to cover the $95,000 I owed on the mortgage after surrendering the house. Otherwise, I'd go through this hell and still owe the bank.

Then, for the camera, I read the statement. Most of you have studied the statute in high school civics class, but the last two phrases made things real for me:

". . . I convey ownership of my body and surrender all civil rights to the XYZ Bank of Dallas, Texas, its heirs and assignees. This indenture is irrevocable."

Those words scared the crap out of me, but I did not hesitate about reading or signing the document—no sense dragging my heels at this point. He fed the paper through a little machine that imprinted the Texas circle star on the document, then made a copy for Lily.

I took a deep breath and stood up, looking at Lily. When she nodded, I began stripping as quickly as possible, handing each item of clothing to her so she could shove it into my backpack. For some reason, I didn't mind exposing myself in front of Lily and Mr. Shively—they were the two people who had enslaved me, so they had a right to see this. Yet, being watched by the two witnesses, especially the sweating middle-aged guy, seemed like unnecessary cruelty. After handing my panties and slacks to my new owner, I braced into the "Present" position—feet about shoulder-width apart, hands interlaced behind my neck to thrust my boobies outward, eyes fixed ahead and slightly downcast, looking between Lily and Shively rather than at their faces.

"Collar!" she ordered, causing me to drop onto widespread knees, left hand on hip and right hand holding my hair up to expose my neck so that she could install a simple leather collar bearing a tag that (I presumed) would identify me as her property. As she bent close to me, she whispered, "Sorry about the next part, but it's what got you priority service here."

I soon understood what she meant, as she asked the official, "Would you care to get the first sample, Mr. Shively?"

"Don't mind if I do," came the reply in his deep voice. "Crawl around the desk, slut." I could see where this was going—a slave for only one minute and about to give my maiden (hah) blowjob.

I followed instructions, gritting my teeth until I found myself kneeling in front of him. I knew what I had to say: "How may I serve you, Master?" The first of many scenes in my continuing acting career as Cindy the slave whore.

He unbuckled his pants and extracted his cock, which hung, half-erect, right in front of my face. I was glad it appeared to be clean. I leaned over and began fellating him with my tongue and mouth while fondling his scrotum and balls. For a few seconds he let me nibble around, but eventually he pulled on my hair and pushed himself slowly into my mouth and then, after a pause, down my throat. For once, I was glad that my boyfriend had treated me this way, as I had learned to handle it without too much choking. I went into overdrive with my tongue, lips, and throat, all while gazing up at him with a look that (I hope) conveyed my utter joy in servicing him.

It must have worked because he got his rocks off in less than four minutes total. I managed not to swallow the loathsome result, but patiently stuck my tongue out to show it to him, after which he graciously permitted me to swallow. Dumping a load of sperm and then forcing the woman to display and ingest it on their command was another disgusting way that men marked their territory on slaves. Who was it who came up with the acronym AMAB, All Men Are Bastards?* At that moment, I felt that truer words were never spoken, and yet I suspected that Master Shively had treated me more generously than many of my future overlords. At least he had closed his blinds.

As soon as he nodded for me to swallow, Lily told me to stand and "back hands," whereupon she zip-tied my wrists tightly together. Clipping a leash to my collar, she ordered "Heel, slut," and set off at a brisk pace back towards the elevator.

This was my first exposure to the infamous "walk of shame" for new slaves. Some 25 bureaucrats of both genders had gathered at the entrances to their cubicles, ready to fondle and belittle me as Lily led me past them. "Cunt," "whore," "slut," "bimbo," "bitch," "skank,"—you name it, they called me any insult or term intended to belittle a female. The guys also took the opportunity to tweak, fondle, and goose my body as it passed. Buck naked and unable to defend myself, I was thankful for Lily's rapid walk because it reduced the opportunity the spectators had to play with me. In record time, she got us to the elevator, then maneuvered things so that she was between me and Shively's division, which discouraged the mashers from reaching for me.

After what seemed like the longest 45 seconds in my life, the elevator arrived, and I gratefully took shelter inside. As the car descended slowly, Lily looked at me with genuine regret, mumbling something about "sorry about that—I hope it will get better with time." Wait a minute, I thought—I had to come BACK here and be humiliated AGAIN? I later learned that visiting this office was a significant part of my new role. (Yeah, I called it a role—remember I was telling myself that I was just acting a part for the next five to seven years. Sometimes that helped.)

*****

As I had expected, Lily had pushed the button to take us to the basement loading dock. When we got off the elevator, however, she led me into a Ladies Room where she presented me with a bottle of mouthwash to clean out the cum taste. Bless her. She asked if I needed to use the toilet, even though I had gone less than 30 minutes earlier. Then she gave me a hug "because you look like you need one."

Standing back, she again became the Mistress, ordering me to open my mouth. Then she inserted a canvas gag, pulling the ends around to tie them behind my head. Next, she crimped an aluminum shipping seal across the gag strings. She told me to look in the mirror, where for the first time in my life I saw myself as a naked, collared slave, complete with the "slave grin" caused by the gag pulling back the corners of my mouth.

Lily spoke to me gently. "I gave you this gag because you know, as well as I do, that most of the shipping offices like to soak their gags in semen, and I wanted to spare you that, at least for your first transport. I think this experience will be harder on you than on Beth and some of my other acquisitions. You aren't naturally submissive, but I hope you can accept this so you don't tie yourself in knots. You're tough, I know you can get through it; just keep your temper, OK?" I nodded—who would have imagined that I would be GRATEFUL that she had gagged me with something clean?

She disconnected the leash from my collar and pulled open the door. Then, I felt another role reversal. For years, I had managed cooperative slaves with one hand cupping a buttock, my fingers curled between the butt cheeks so a slight pressure could guide the slave where I wanted him or her to go. Now for the first time, I was the bound slave and SOMEONE ELSE had her hand on and almost up MY ass, guiding me towards my fate at the first of a number of loading docks in my future.

At least, unlike most fresh-caught slaves, I knew where I was going, even if I could wish it were not HCI, my old employer. Lily walked me up to a bored guy sitting on a stool, and presented a prepaid shipping invoice for me. I saw a brief flash of irritation in his face as he registered the gag and shipping seal; I imagined he would have liked to use my mouth once my owner had disappeared! He still managed to squeeze both of my boobs and one of my buttocks as he (unnecessarily) forced me to my knees and urged me to crawl backwards into a wire cage suitable for transporting large dogs. That, after all, was what I had become—collared, bound, and gagged on my knees, caged like a bitch puppy. This was all part of the subjugation and dehumanization inflicted on slaves, reducing me to a helpless piece of livestock.

Once I was secured, I expected Lily to depart, but instead she hung around for 15 or 20 minutes, talking idly to the attendant and playing with her smart phone. He kept watching her, but at first neither of us could understand why she remained. Then it dawned on me—she didn't want to leave me alone with an attendant who, balked at using my mouth, might very well drag me out of the cage and shaft me the moment she departed! Lily Russell, ex-slave and bank executive, knew all the little tricks that shifted a slave's life from miserable to intolerable. Bless her one more time, I thought; too bad I won't have someone like her to watch out for me when I get delivered, gift wrapped, to the workers on my own shift at HCI.

Just then, I heard the electronic beeping of a truck backing up to the dock. Lily smiled and reached through the top of the cage to pat my head, gently—even she couldn't resist treating me like a dog! "Be good, sweetie; I'll see you."

The frustrated attendant had grabbed a handcart, and now levered me into a panel van. I noticed there was already one cage in the van. Most new slaves are relatively young, so I was surprised to see that this cage contained a tall, lean man who looked to be in his mid-50s. More surprisingly, out of the corner of my eye I noticed that this elderly (to me) guy had a recent, angry-red brand on his right butt cheek. I'd seen similar brands many times, and they weren't decorative—this was the circle star of a person recently sentenced to slavery as a Texas criminal! There were also a lot of lacerations, as if he had been repeatedly whipped and tortured. He was gagged in the same manner as I, so I could hardly ask him what happened. Before the door closed and plunged us into darkness, however, I saw his eyes; he was furious, even more angry than I about being enslaved!

Then it dawned on me, this was the infamous ex-judge Roy Bean V, a horny sadist who had abused his power to plow every hole of Lily, my friend Beth, and numerous other women, slave and free, right in his office. He finally got caught blackmailing free women who were accused of minor crimes, threatening to enslave them if they didn't let him ravage their bodies.

Well, that was ONE asshole who wouldn't be able to exploit my slavery. In fact, male slaves are often referred to generically as "assholes," just as female slaves are often called "cunts," and for the same reason—each word designates the primary sexual orifice that the slave has to surrender to cocks and strap-ons. Looked like the judge had just shifted from the fucker column to the fuckee. Not that it helped ME anyway, but I was sharing this van with someone whose enslavement would probably be even worse than mine, and who would get even less pleasure from his treatment than I would from mine. And I had thought that being a slaver turned into a slave was bad!

(To be continued)

[* Note: The acronym AMAB—All Men Are Bastards—which is a recurring theme in this story, came from Jenny Walker's brilliant novel Breaking Cover.]