Going Around to Cum Around Pt. 02

"My point, Mr. Stafford, is two-fold. First, if I put you or any sensible person under slave discipline here, even you would have sufficient brains to cooperate. Like 0002 a few moments ago, you would obey even if some moron belittled you and demanded that you provide oral services. I've known the former Mizz Jackson for five years, and I know she was an efficient and admirable employee, NOT someone with any desire to wear a collar, let alone service you sexually—she's a victim of circumstances, and practically anyone could be forced into the same situation if, for example, they had to pay for the hospitalization of a family member. Second, you still have a lot to learn about being a slave handler. By next Monday, I want you to re-read—assuming you ever read it the first time—the HCI textbook on the psychology of slaves. There will be a written essay test for you to take—and remember, your annual performance review is coming up. Meanwhile, I forbid you to go near this slave or encourage any of your immature friends to harass her in any way. Are we clear?"

Having seen this amazing act of poetic justice, I felt a lot better about wearing the collar that Bill restored on my neck. I tried very hard not to grin, staring into space rather than at Mark. Ms. Steiner stalked off in her usual manner, while Bill and Beth took me back to the main floor, leaving Mark still trying to pull himself together.

*****

Because I had arrived at HCI in late afternoon, the only remaining step for me was the usual slut wash, with my body stretched out helplessly in an X while a group of young men, most of them looking no older than the minimum age of 18, soaped, scrubbed, and washed me down. Naturally, they took great delight in fondling my breasts and finger-fucking both of my lower openings. Once again, I tried to smile and pretend I liked such intimate attention, remembering to say "Thank you, Master" after each invasion. After that, Bill gave me the usual slave-kibble-and-water supper, and he even freed my hands to eat rather than just shoving my face into a trough. He kindly allowed me to use the toilet (no dividers or other concealment, of course, but sitting down was still more comfortable than squatting over a slave grate)—and even gave me a disposable toothbrush to use before delivering me to a cage for the night.

As instructed, I knelt in the Expose position—thighs wide apart, fingers interlaced behind my neck, eyes fixed forward and downward. My keeper gave me the usual instructions about not using the one blanket on my cot to cover my boobs or pussy until lights out, when I could lie down and try to sleep. Lastly, Beth gave me a hug, whispering that she was proud of me and would see me tomorrow. Then Bill padlocked me into the cage and they both departed, their footsteps slowly becoming fainter as they walked away.

For the past several hours, the comforting presence of Bill and Beth, together with Ms. Steiner's timely intervention, had reassured me. Even though I was treated like any other new slut, I had felt far less embarrassed and vulnerable than I had anticipated, and no one except Mark had tried to humiliate me. Now, however, I was at the mercy of the night shift.

HCI never tolerated the kind of unauthorized rape and illegal enslavement that urban legend attributed to some slave markets. Nonetheless, having once worked on that shift, I knew that there was an unspoken tolerance for "sampling the inventory" sexually, especially if that inventory resisted in any way. All my reliance was on James Martin, the night shift manager and my recent boyfriend. I had not asked him to leave me inviolate—I had agreed that was unrealistic. Rather, I promised him that I would cooperate willingly if he would ask his people to take it easy on me. Indeed, I was almost looking forward to having sex, one more time, with James, who (at least when I was free) had been a considerate and generous lover.

So my heart was beating rapidly when, about an hour later (I had no way of keeping track), I heard the distinctive sound of multiple booted people coming towards the cage I was in. I immediately assumed the Expose position again, waiting nervously. James appeared, leading two other wranglers whom I recognized on sight, although I didn't really know them—Charlie and Karen. It still felt odd to be on my knees, looking up at people who had been my peers and knowing they had total power over me.

At first, James was all business, giving no sign that he recognized me. "0002, stand up! Back hands." He instructed in a calm voice. I dutifully complied, feeling my hands cuffed. Then Karen clipped a leash to my collar and ordered me to "Heel, slut."

I soon realized that we were headed for cage S-7, which I knew contained a special kneeling rack. That answered the first question—I was about to be used, probably by multiple handlers. The bigger question was, how rough would this use be?

When we reached the cage, Karen passed my leash to James, who led me forward and talked to me, almost whispering. "OK, sweetheart. You're even more gorgeous in a collar than I thought, so naturally everyone wants a piece of you, but I want to treat you fairly. You told me last week that you were willing to cooperate with my crew. That would be the best outcome for everyone—the whole crew would not only enjoy themselves but try to make sure you get SOME pleasure out of it. If you don't agree, I will limit them to oral service, but some of them might get pretty rough. Slaves don't usually get any choice, but this is the best deal I can offer you and still keep my crew satisfied." Something in his eyes didn't quite match his pose of caring about me, but I'd have to think about that later.

There it was. I did NOT and do not subscribe to that male chauvinist bull-pucky about "When rape is inevitable, lie back and enjoy it," but I'd known from the beginning that this would probably be the outcome, so I was prepared mentally. As James had remarked a week ago, this should be a relatively low-stress introduction to my new role as a slut. I chose consensual non-consent, if that makes any sense.

So, I nodded, and said "Yes, Master—I'll cooperate. May I ask a favor, please?" He nodded back. "Will you please be the first guy to use my butt? I'm not a virgin there, but all my previous experiences of anal sex have been very painful, so I'd much rather have you stretch me out before anyone else." He smiled, and mumbled something about being honored. Coming from a free citizen to a slave, it sounded odd, but it showed one more time that James still had a little empathy for my horrible position. Neither of us had really felt we were in love, but I thought at least he would cover my ass—literally.

Hoping for the best, I dutifully complied with his instructions, soon finding myself strapped horizontally, face down, in a sort of Slave-4s position, about three feet off the concrete. I was acutely aware that all three of my holes were now in a convenient position for penetration, and that I could do nothing to defend myself. There was an adjustable-height chair directly in front of my head, and Karen sat down on it, petting my hair gently.

"OK, James," she said, and I felt a gloved hand packing large amounts of lube, first between my labia and then even more in and around my asshole. A few times I grunted when he stretched me back there, but I knew that it was all in my best interest. I heard the "snap" of a latex glove being discarded, and a moment later I groaned in pleasure at the familiar sensation of James' rigid prick sliding into my vaginal sheath. Damn, he felt good.

Karen waited, still stroking me gently, until I had adjusted to that first invasion and James built up to a rapid pace. I knew he wouldn't last long, and I expected him to shift to my other opening soon.

Karen was a pretty, blond, tall woman, somewhat heavier than me but by no means fat. She finally spoke, trying to get my attention. "OK, Cindy—let me talk to you now, while you can still think. How much pussy-licking have you done?"

"None, Mistress," I replied, in between strokes, "but I know that has to change for me now."

"A Les-birgin!" She remarked, trying to make a gentle joke. "I'm not much for rug munching myself, but I only enjoy using a strap-on when I can take a guy down a peg, if you know what I mean." I did, and we shared a smile that reflected both of us having pegged rebellious male slaves more to dominate and discipline them than for physical pleasure. "So, if you don't mind, let me be the first to test-drive your tongue."

"I live to serve you, Mistress," I replied, repeating a standard slave mantra. Without hesitation, she stood up, skinned her jeans and thong panties down to her knees, then sat back down and adjusted the seat until her hairless labia were less than two inches away from my head. I noticed that she was somewhat moist—whatever she claimed, this was clearly not the first time she'd had a female tongue her. I set to work, trying to do what would feel good to me while she gave me a few suggestions.

My tongue and nose were deep into this new experience when I suddenly felt an emptiness between my labia. I told myself to relax and stay calm, but James still had to try several times to push past my sphincter. Belatedly, I remembered that I should pretend to push out fecal matter (to be as delicate as I can) when I actually wanted to help a guy enter in the opposite direction. He slipped in with only a little pain, but I groaned at the novel experience of being filled back there. (My old boyfriend had cornholed me, but he didn't have the same equipment as James.) It felt weird but not unpleasant, as if I were connected to this guy whom I liked. James, bless his horny heart, stayed absolutely still for several minutes to let me adjust to the invasion. I felt him lean down and press against my back while he reached around and cupped my breasts, gently rolling my nipples between his fingers.

At almost the same instant, Karen came to a peak and used my hair to pull my face farther into her snatch, demanding my entire attention for the next minute or so. By the time I could breathe again, I realized that James was slowly pistoning in and out of my butt and it felt OK, maybe even good. A few minutes later, I began to push backwards each time he pressed forward. It felt so good I had to force myself to focus on satisfying Karen—apparently I succeeded, because she climaxed again, making my face wet just as James collapsed on me while still frantically trying to ram his cock deeper into my helpless body.

After that, Charlie took Karen's place and fed me his penis, which fortunately for me was only about 5 inches long so that I could shallow-throat him and still breathe. I was even more happy about his limited size ten minutes later when, having humped my primary entrance frantically, he shoved a rubber-wrapped and well-lubricated mini-shaft into my butt. I would have asked him "is it in?" but by that time I was fellating yet another wrangler, Ben. Because Charlie's unobtrusive anal efforts didn't distract me, I was able to focus on Ben's prodigious proboscis to the point where he shot straight down my throat. The taste was bad, but his unexpected ejaculation meant one less guy stuffing my back door, at least for the next hour.

And my full-contact introduction to pleasure slavery went on for longer than that hour. James stayed in the cage as much as he could, while using the excuse of other responsibilities to spread his team out so that I got a few breaks when no or only one of his wranglers was using me. James finally announced that it would be lights out in 45 minutes, and told the last two guys to finish up in my mouth and cunt, respectively, then get back to work. A new form of coitus interruptus.

James unstrapped me and helped me sit up, then held a water bottle steady while I slowly emptied it and overcame a slight dizziness. What he did next was completely against the rules, but I really appreciated it—he helped me walk, without cuffs, to the staff men's showers and stood guard while I had a much nicer shower than the slut wash I'd gone through four hours earlier. He also let me use a toothbrush and mouthwash to clean out my mouth, then walked me back to a cage where other pleasure slaves were waiting for lights out. Once the buzzer sounded, he practically tucked me in for the night. I was so worn out that I fell asleep in moments.

*****

The next thing I knew was the buzzer and lights going on, telling me it was 6:00 a.m. I took a moment to think—1 day of slavery down, 2,556 to go. Then I snapped out of it, folded the blanket neatly at the foot of my cot, and again assumed the Expose position. Harry, with whom I had worked for the past three years, showed no sign of recognition when he appeared to restrain and coffle us (yeah, I had adjusted to being one of a group of slaves), marching us to the toilets for a blissful moment of relief. Back in coffle to the cage, where he gave each of us a baggie of slave kibble and water bottle for breakfast. Forty-five minutes later, Bill appeared to walk me through the preparation for my slave auction.

I didn't need new photographs for the National Slave Registry, since my original ones—when I applied for the mortgage that got me into this mess—was less than three years old. That just meant more time on the practice platform, going through every block position imaginable while loudly and enthusiastically announcing various mantras designed to entice buyers and indoctrinate us as sluts:

"I live to serve you, Master;" "Please buy me and use me for your pleasure;" "All my holes belong to you;" "I long to feel your monster cock fucking me, Master;" "Slavery is my destiny;" "Please stretch my ass with your magnificent prick," and so on.

It was hard to concentrate and make myself horny, which is what I really needed to get the top price on the block. Instead, I couldn't help thinking about how extreme the auctioning process had become in the past few years, and that process was about to bite me in the ass—perhaps literally in the ass.

If I had to blame one person for this change, it would be Professor Sarah Hollister of Haaavaaad University. That condescending blond bitch (I'd seen her lectures on U-tube) had developed a marketing plan for the Big D Slave Market in Dallas. Her plan was intended to unbalance every slave psychologically, dehumanizing the slave and reducing him or (usually) her to a frantically-horny animal. She had nothing but contempt for the foolish bimbos who allowed themselves to be enslaved, arguing that most of them were better suited to servicing customers sexually rather than trying to think for themselves. Sarah used the facilities of the Big D from when it was a cattle market—cattle chutes, block and tackles to string up the animals for washing, sand around the auction block—to convey to both slaves and customers that the slaves were nothing but desirable livestock. She had even introduced ear tags, identical to those that marked cattle but now intended to cater to customer prejudices and fetishes so that they would buy the appropriately-labelled merchandise: a megaphone for a cute cheerleader-type, a blue outline of California to suggest a snooty liberal bitch, a pair of handcuffs to identify a slaver reduced to slavery (thank heavens I wasn't going through the Big D today!) Then, the slaves waiting for the auction were encouraged to openly, frantically masturbate, hoping they would actually climax when they reached the auction block. With Professor Hollister advising the market, the Big D had developed name recognition, claiming it sold the finest pleasure sluts known as "Sandy Foot Girls."

I'd heard a rumor that Sarah had deliberately gone undercover as a slave at the Big D, allowing herself to be processed through her own nefarious system. As if—she was much too arrogant, too convinced that she was mentally superior to the unfortunates who became slaves. Why should she ever lower herself to their level, allowing herself to be dehumanized and sold as what she crassly termed "profit per pussy?"

Still, it was a nice daydream—I wished I were still a slave wrangler who got to collar, cuff, and expose that woman to the demeaning system she had invented. After all, she was responsible for part of what was going to happen to me today.

To be fair, Sarah wasn't the ONLY cause of the hyper-sexualization of slaves. State governments had discovered that they could make money by televising the punishment of criminal slaves, including branding, whipping, and victim atonement, when the victims got to use and (within limits) abuse the convicts who had caused them pain and anguish. Then one of the cable TV channels, Sports Center, had developed a new sport, called "crop-gasm," in which skilled bailiffs competed to see who could extract the maximum number of orgasms from female slaves being punished.

I shivered just thinking about such advanced sadism and subjugation. Thank heavens I wasn't either a criminal slave or a Sandy Foot Girl. Still, HCI had been forced to make some changes in order to compete in this new, over-sexualized market. That's why Bill and the other handlers urged me on, just as I had urged slaves only a few days ago, encouraging us to masturbate, daydream, and have as many orgasms as we could manage. It also meant that the auctioneer would do his best to subjugate me, reducing me to nothing but a horny cow begging to be purchased and fucked.

All too soon, it was my turn to be strung up on public display. For me, this was not about grading, although the professional slave merchants might decide to raise or lower my existing slave-grade of Choice. Still, since I would be in the coffle for sale today, the merchants (and everyone else) deserved a chance to see and touch the merchandise (me) before the auction.

In preparation for this, Bill inflicted the customary final indignities. First, he sprayed Devox down my throat, depriving me of a voice. Then he marched me out to the display area, my hands cuffed behind me while he guided me with his hand cupping my ass, fingers inside my crack. Finally, Bill secured my wrists to one end of a display table and my wrists to the other end, then turned the cranks that forced my legs apart. I had always felt sorry for women treated like this, but now it was all too real to me—I was butt naked except for a collar, spread-eagled flat on my back so that anyone could touch me, even walk between my outstretched legs and ram fingers into my openings! And if I wanted a high price at auction, I had to pretend I enjoyed it. Bill did what he could for me, gently tweaking my nipples and clitoris. His hand came away wet from my labia.

I tried to convince myself that this was an enjoyable sex fantasy, continuing to pant gently so that my breasts kept moving slightly. As I expected, the first group of spectators were gawkers, mostly 18- and 19-year olds who paid a dollar each to fondle naked young women. They had fun with me and the other poor creatures spread before them, and we could do or say nothing to deter them.

Then the situation went from uncomfortable to horrendous in one swoop, when my ex-boyfriend, Mason, suddenly appeared between my legs, grinning.

"Hi, babe—this brings back great memories of being between your thighs! You look fantastic like that. Just perfect—Cindy on her back, ready to fuck, collared and unable to talk." What the hell was he doing here?

As if he could read minds, he answered my thoughts: "I suppose you're wondering why I'm here, right? I went by the house yesterday, and the real estate person told me that you had been repossessed and would probably be sold soon. So, I called around and found out you'd be here this morning. Isn't that great?"

I should get an academy award for the performance I put on. Internally, I couldn't decide whether I wanted to throw up or wrench myself off this table and strangle him where he stood. But I managed to smile, pant, and give him a come-hither look, begging for his touch. He obliged by finger-fucking both of my openings, then bent over to whisper something that added to my misery.