Going Around to Cum Around Pt. 03

Casually zipping himself up, this poor excuse for a wrangler ordered me to stand, reverse, and back hands. I felt a zip-tie restraining my wrists, a sure sign that I was about to leave the HCI Slave Market—with any luck, for the last time. He used a leash rather than his hand on my butt to guide me. At first, I was thankful because I didn't want this creep to touch me unnecessarily, but the first time he changed direction suddenly and I didn't follow instantly, he whacked my butt with a rubber strap, something I would never have done to a docile slave when I was still a wrangler. Punishment and rewards need to be used to encourage eager obedience, not make the new slave catatonic with confused fear.

Once we reached the shipping department, he put me in "Expose" position, checked my Slave Identification Number with the shipping clerk, and left hastily, probably off to exploit another helpless cunt. The shipping clerk, Sam, DID know me, but I don't think he connected the defenseless naked girl kneeling in front of him with the confident, happy wrangler with whom he had worked for several years. I hope so, anyway, because he treated me no better than the other clown had. You guessed it—he decided to probe my mouth with his prick, which again wasn't the cleanest I've tasted. A straight transaction—in order for him do the job HE WAS PAID FOR and ship me out, I had to suck him off. Sigh. This was going to be a long seven years if every guy I met insisted on sampling my merchandise. I guess I should be happy that the shipping department was so busy—otherwise he probably would have bent me over a cage and fucked me in both openings.

By the time he twisted my face into a "slave smile" with a canvas gag, I honestly couldn't tell if that gag had the usual coating of dead sperm, because I'd already swallowed two loads since Bill gave me that bottle of mouthwash half an hour before.

Time for another uncomfortable episode of Poodle Transport. At Sam's direction, I squirmed backward into the cage, which he closed and locked, then affixed a shipping invoice and scanned it with a final "beep," confirming my departure from HCI Slave Market. I was no longer part of the inventory. The change couldn't happen soon enough for me, even if I had to pee my cage before I got to the next stop.

In a matter of minutes, Sam used a handcart to move my cage onto a small truck. I wasn't alone on the journey—two other newly-enslaved bodies were kneeling in the same truck with me. We had no way to communicate other than a silent exchange of sympathetic glances as the rear door on the small van rolled down, plunging us into darkness. At least, unlike many slaves in shipment, I knew where I was headed.

The more I thought about my experience at the HCI market, the more irritated I became. I knew I was a slave without rights, and I had anticipated harassment by the more obnoxious of my former colleagues, so I wasn't inclined to describe the experience as "unfair." In fact, Bill, Beth, and Ms. Steiner had protected me within their capabilities. Still, my treatment was inappropriate simply in terms of protecting my value as merchandise. I didn't regret blowing Bill, who had been a real gentleman and friend, treating me as a comrade who had fallen on hard times. Unfortunately, he was the exception to the AMAB—All Men Are Bastards—rule. If this was how all the male wranglers treated female slaves when no one was looking, Ms. Steiner had an even larger problem than she thought. Hell, James, my ex-fuck buddy who was the night shift manager, could and SHOULD have insisted on company policy that limited his crew to oral services except for cases of extreme indiscipline. Instead, he had manipulated my fears into making me agree to a gang-bang, and I'm sure my acquiescence was taped by the monitor cameras if he ever had to justify himself. I'd been so grateful for the crumbs of consideration he offered me that I had actually ASKED him, almost begged him, to butt-fuck me! I'd been so afraid of violent rape that I convinced myself that his relatively-gentle invasion felt good. Yeah, fuck him and the horse he rode in on—he was no better than the two clowns who had demanded blow jobs today, and he didn't even have the excuse of not recognizing me.

Worse still, I had succumbed to the psychological system designed to make new slaves into docile, submissive, horny bimbos. I had expected some of that, and had deliberately psyched myself out to maximize my sale price, but I could already feel my independent identity ebbing from my body. Now I would have to do more of the same to get through the Pearson Pussy Ranch. I wasn't even sure how far I could trust Beth and Lily, since their business success depended upon my willing acceptance of subjugation. "Sucks to be me" had never had so much meaning before.

Despite my discomfort, I managed to doze a little—there wasn't anything else to do.

*****

The loading dock area at the Pearson Ranch was smaller than at HCI, but the procedures were much the same: two men unloaded our cages, a firm voice ordered us to crawl out and stop on a line, and a new shock collar went around my neck. I heard the usual lack-of-rights warning, similar to that I had recited to a thousand slaves at HCI, except that this one included the sentence "You are at the Pearson Pussy Ranch to be trained as a pleasure slut." These wranglers must have been familiar with the needs of slaves after long poodle rides, as they promptly led us to a slave restroom where I collapsed, with my wrists still bound behind my back, onto a toilet and unleashed a strong stream downward. Soon, one of the wranglers released my hands so I could eat some kind of vegetable mash, the first real food I'd had since Lily handed me a candy bar just before I indentured myself, 35 hours earlier. (Slave kibble doesn't count.) My handler let me wash up and (thank heavens) gave me a toothbrush to use. Then he left me, unfettered, in a larger cage, with even a cot and blanket for the night. My fellow travellers were in nearby cages, but we were too exhausted to talk.

The next morning began, after allowing me to use the toilet, with installing locking bands onto my wrists and ankles. The handler then linked my hands behind me and attached a rope to pull them upwards, forcing me to bend, chest parallel to the floor and boobs handing down, to reduce the strain on my shoulders. He nudged my ankles apart and thrust a lubricated tube up my rectum. Gallons of warm soapy water flooded my intestines, and I tried to hold it in, knowing I would be punished for any mess. After a long 5 minutes, he slowly released me and allowed me to discharge into the toilet. He repeated the process, telling me that tomorrow he would show me how to give an enema to myself, and I was required to do so twice each morning.

The curriculum at the ranch was largely hands on; except when performing fellatio, that meant THEIR hands on ME. There were daily exercise sessions involving not only slave block positions but specific exercises to tighten gluts, throat, pelvic floor, and so on. The objective was clear—anywhere a man could insert a penis, we were expected to clamp down on that penis, rhythmically massaging it. We were also the passive recipients of men compressing our buttocks and breasts to provide friction around their pricks. Much of the practice was done with dildos and strap-ons worn by female wranglers, if only because no male could perform for as long or as often as necessary to train all those sluts.

Every morning after the first one, we were required to lubricate each other's lower openings and then, on our knees, back up onto fixed nozzles to clean ourselves out. "Water fountains" were similarly mounted close to the floor and designed to look like pricks, so we had to suck really hard to get a flow of water.

I disliked it all, but always obeyed orders and tried to perform as instructed. The wranglers themselves—of both genders—were generally healthy, good looking young people for whom it was almost a pleasure to perform. Still, there were field trips that exposed us to much more sordid realities. Imagine being chained by the neck facing a glory hole, expected to suck off all cumers (pun intended), some of whom were seriously lacking in personal hygiene—the first time I did it, I almost puked over a smelly, tiny, limp dick that I somehow had to bring to climax if I ever wanted a breather. Worse still, as far as I was concerned, were the more specialized establishments where we would be chained with our legs and buttocks protruding through holes in the wall, so that (for a fee) the punters could ram their cocks into whichever hole their chose without any consideration for the faceless slut on her knees. By contrast, servicing a woman orally was a vacation, although again, some of the practical exercises required us to pleasure poorly-cleaned, overweight pussies. Yeech.

I don't want to give the impression that it was all misery. I was a healthy young woman in the prime of child-bearing years, so all this sex gave me more than a few orgasms. Even when I didn't cum, some of the trainers were considerate of me (perhaps they were playing good cop, bad cop). The operant conditioning reinforced me to want to provide pleasure. On those occasions where I could perform without too much coercion or bad odors and flavors, giving head to either sex or even being fucked hard was enjoyable. As long as I could breathe, it was often pleasant to be screwed or to have a guy get off with his rod squeezed between my tits or rubbing inside the cleft of my butt. I tried to take such enjoyment where I could, hoping that I could satisfy their demands while still keeping at least part of my own identity. Still, it was a challenge to balance the two objectives while pretending to be Bimbo Cindy.

*****

Gradually, the trainers/handlers modified their treatment of us. When I first arrived, I was treated as either a dog or a prisoner. Most of the time, I was expected to move—quickly—from place to place on all fours, and for several hours each day I sported a large, penis-shaped butt plug that trailed a 6-inch tail—with hair color that matched that on my head. The handlers used a leash to lead me, and often restrained me in the position they wanted. When we first went to the glory hole, for example, I was not only chained with my head close to the hole, but also shackled hand and foot—one pair of cuffs held my elbows together behind my back, while another joined my ankles, with about a 2-foot chain connecting the two cuffs, so that I was in a loose hogtie.

The first time that the trainers made me "air-tight" was far more challenging. I was required to mount a woman wearing a strap-on, who in turn was lying on her back atop a padded rack. After that, they cuffed my hands behind me and then pulled those cuffs upwards, connecting them by a rope to the D-ring on the back of my collar (this naturally meant that the front edge of that collar rose upwards against my chin, which was quite unCUMfortable.) While this was happening, another handler lubricated my anus and slowly (thank heavens) worked his rubber-wrapped cock into my colon. Only then did a third "trainer" straddle the woman's head and push himself into my mouth—apparently he didn't want to risk my suddenly clamping down on him when I was first sodomized! The three of them worked together to slowly fuck me, but all I had to do (that time) was lie there and take it. Once I learned how to breathe with their rhythm, it was actually enjoyable, and I did my best to smile and moan around the dick in my mouth. I do remember the woman complaining that it was somebody else's turn to be on the bottom of this pose.

Gradually, however, we were allowed more freedom of movement, yet encouraged to act as if we were servicing people willingly. This was almost my downfall. Somehow, it had been easier for me to submit passively than to pretend I wanted this, begging for use like the most despicable of sluts.

For example, one of these experiences involved the intense humiliation of lying on my back, pulling my legs up until my feet were in contact with my butt, and then grasping my ankles and spreading myself wide for whatever wrangler dick or strap-on I had to accommodate, all while begging that wrangler to "please fuck this worthless piece of horny slave meat." I will never forget the self-satisfied smirk of the twenty-something "trainer" who had achieved the "amazing feat" of making a defenseless slave prostrate herself and beg him to penetrate her. I had no doubt that he was but the first of many arrogant pricks who would enjoy dominating me over the next six years and eleven months. Yup, AMAB.

Most but not all of the female handlers were more considerate when they were driving strap-ons, if only because they had some idea what it felt like to be on the receiving end of such oversized invaders. At the risk of being politically incorrect, however, I can only conclude that two of these women were bull dyke sadists. They clearly got the same kind of power trip as did a man by ramming into my orifices, without even the excuse that they experienced physical pleasure when they forced me to beg for the "honor" of having counterfeit cocks shoved up my cunt and cornhole. The only honor involved was that they were honorary male bastards.

There was an even more humiliating variation of eager surrender to penetration. While again lying on my back, I had to use my hands to pull my bent knees up to my boobs, which naturally pulled my buttocks off the floor. On order, I had to spread my legs wide apart, exposing both of my openings while pleading and moaning for the trainer to choose whichever hole he/she wanted "because I'm slave-hot and all I can think about is you ramming me in all my holes."

And those were the simple, straight-forward, almost missionary situations. The next time I got filled in all three openings simultaneously, I was expected to first work myself into an erotic lather, then rub myself all over my three "trainers" like a bitch in heat, kissing their feet and entreating them to fuck the crap out of me while breeding me to produce another slave whore! Performances like this earned me rewards, including rare pieces of meat and sweets added to the bland, vegetable-based diet.

One member of my "class" of 11 girls rebelled, refusing to cooperate, which I thought was foolish even before I witnessed the consequences. Three "trainers" tacked her up as a pony girl: arms pulled tightly together in a leather brace behind her back, a stiff posture collar to hold her chin up, a headdress with bit and blinkers, a tight corset-style waist nipper, and thigh-high boots with horseshoes on the high-heeled soles. To complete the image of a pony, the sides of her head were shaved and the long hairs in back tied into a mane, while a frightening-large butt plug gave her a suitably long tail. Each of her nipples had a clamp on it and her bridle ran from the bit, down through rings on these clamps, and under her arms back to the driver. For hours in the Texas sun, this unfortunate woman had to pull a little cart, carrying the heaviest slave handlers, around a track while they whacked her exposed butt to encourage speed. Eventually, the handlers tied her bent over a railing with ankles pulled apart. They removed her nipple clamps and butt-tail, but only so that every handler in turn could ream both of her openings with dick or strap-on. They would reach around to diddle her nipples and clitoris, but always stopped just short of allowing her to orgasm. At night, she was tied in a narrow stall so she couldn't lie down to sleep. In less than three days, she was so desperate for rest and orgasm that, when they periodically removed the bit to feed her, she babbled promises to obey. Thereafter, she threw herself into anything she was told to do, willingly debasing herself like the caricature of a mindless bimbo cunt.

I shuddered at her fate, quietly thanking my good judgement for never resisting what I knew was a well-calibrated system of operant conditioning. After five weeks of this hypersexualized existence, I thought I had adjusted well. Without hesitation, I would slobber over any dick, prick, or pussy that needed a lick, and beg to be used in any of my obscenely-offered openings. In retrospect, I blush to think about the demeaning things I did and said. I never refused or even hesitated to do what was expected, but despite my best efforts, I apparently wasn't fully convincing as a sex-crazed slave whore who couldn't go 15 minutes without getting screwed silly.

Mistress Sophie, a tall, cool blond who might have passed for my sister before my fall from grace, was my "advisor," if you will, the slave handler/trainer who spent more time with me than did any other member of the staff. She was sufficiently professional that she wanted me to succeed at the ranch, but that was not the same as caring for me as a person. If I did something well, she praised me by name as if I were a show dog and gave me a sweet; if I screwed up, I was "Cindy, you ignorant slut" or "0002, you stupid cunt," often accompanied by multiple whacks from a rubber strap.

One day, however, she ordered me to heel and led me to a private room where she sat primly on a chair. At a gesture from her, I dropped into "Expose," my fingers interlocked behind my head with my thighs widespread and my eyes downcast. At the moment, I did not have that #$%&@ butt plug tail stretching my sphincter, so I was no more uncomfortable than usual. I'd long ceased to feel any shame about my nudity or submissive posture.

Her next words surprised me: "0002, look at me." I hesitantly looked into her face, which displayed a vague sense of frustration. "You're not fooling me, you know."

"Mistress?" I inquired, trying to play dumb bimbo as usual.

"You can drop the act, girl." She said—not angry, just skeptical, almost amused. "I can tell you're just sleep-walking through this place, pretending to be an eager little slut whereas in fact you have no interest in what we've taught you. Oh, you do everything we tell you to do, and often do it well, but that's not you, is it? No matter what you say or do, you're just pretending. You don't have a single submissive bone in your body, do you?"

Sigh. No sense pretending, but this conversation wouldn't have a good ending. "No, Mistress. I don't. I have done my best to learn, but . . . My apologies if I have disappointed you."

Sophie continued, almost as if she hadn't heard me. "I talked to one of your owners about you." That did surprise me. "Mistress Beth actually went through this school some years ago, and she told me that she knew you before you were enslaved. She was not surprised at all when I told her I thought you were faking it." Her tone shifted. "How does she know you, by the way?"

I again tried to give her a half-answer. "We worked together about six years ago, Mistress."

"Doing what?" she asked.

"We both worked at the HCI Market, Mistress."

"You were a slave handler." She made it a statement rather than a question. "I think that proves my point—you really AREN'T submissive in any way."

"No, Mistress. I know I'm not that anymore, that I'm a slave now. I'm not stupid enough to think that I'm better than I am, but I just . . . can't enjoy it."

"Well, you'd better learn," she replied, flatly. "You haven't flunked, yet, but in order to graduate you're going to have to adjust. Your first chance comes up this Saturday night. It's time for one of our periodic open houses, where we throw a party for our customers, both current and future. You're not ready for the big time, the finished sluts who mingle with our guests, but you are sufficiently ready to be one of the waitresses who are still available for service if anyone finds them attractive. Time for you to prove you're hot enough, horny enough, enthusiastic enough to EVENTUALLY graduate from the Pearson Pussy Ranch. If you do, you'll continue your training. If you DON'T, well . . . at some point we may have to concede failure. We don't like to do that, naturally, but when we do, the owner usually takes our advice and sells the slut off at a loss. You're a Prime Minus, so one of the better brothels might buy you, but if you don't like THIS place, I can guarantee you'll HATE working in a brothel. Understand?"