Going Around to Cum Around Pt. 04

Of course, the executives still had the perks of fondling, finger-fucking, and fellatio at my expense, but most of them treated me like a human being and even thanked ME when I sucked them off after solving their computer issues. (If I haven't mentioned it, slaves were expected to thank masters and mistresses for the honor of being fucked, punished, fed, or almost anything else.) Most of these executives were older guys who genuinely appreciated help with technology, although two assistant vice-presidents, Masters Bart and Chuck, got such a taste for my use that their computers mysteriously required work orders every Friday afternoon. The other IT folks shook their heads and rolled their eyes sympathetically when they sent me off on these wild-goose chases, knowing that I would probably get goosed and more in the process. Both of the assistant VPs were in their forties and wore wedding rings, which didn't say much for the state of their marriages if they needed blow-jobs just before every weekend. Still, Bart and Chuck were personally clean and polite and didn't try to choke me with their rods, so it wasn't all that bad. Lily assured me that I was providing a service not only to the IT department but also to the executive assistants of these guys, who in bygone days before slavery might have suffered sexual harassment. And every mouthful of jism was $40 off my debt to Russell and Sullivan, billed to the bank as "employee morale support." Remember, though, that they were employees while I was simply contractor-furnished equipment.

As Beth has told me, that was my job about 25 to 30 hours a week, plus doing laundry and other minor housework in their home. The downside was the rest of the time when I was one of the bank's resident whores.

My first introduction to this part of my existence was, on the surface of it, "just another blow-job," but it carried a psychological cost to me that seemed greater than the $40 in "government relations"—that's how Russell & Sullivan billed the bank—that I earned from it. If you've read the stories of my predecessors in bondage, you can guess what I mean, but if not, well . . . Because so many education, business, and mortgage loans used the borrowers' bodies as collateral, the bank had considerable dealings with the Texas Agriculture Department, which kept the records of all slaves and indentured persons. Every time a judge rubber-stamped a foreclosure, every time someone like me self-indentured to forestall full-time slavery, and every time (more rarely) that a slave worked off his/her debt and was manumitted, that change of status had to be recorded at the Agriculture Department. Which meant that, almost weekly, Lily or occasionally Beth had to go see Mr. Shively or some similar official in Agriculture. In this instance, my owners were acting not as slave merchants but as employees of the bank. Lily oversaw slave "resources" as deputy head of Human Resources, while Beth was Ms. Williams' executive assistant, acting for her boss if Lily were unavailable or if the matter were urgent. The two women tried to take care of all such transactions for the week in one trip on a Thursday or Friday morning, so that (for accounting purposes) a bad debt did not carry over the weekend.

In turn, that meant that the Agriculture official, having obliged the bank by processing its debt transactions as a top priority, expected a "tip," usually the tip of his cock in a slut's mouth. On rare occasions, the appropriate official might be female, but (if only to maintain their own sense of self-importance) such women often insisted on pussy-licking or used a strap-on even though they got no physical pleasure from it. From my viewpoint (on my knees, looking up while pretending that I loved being a sex object), the only differences were that the woman was more likely to be clean and to use me in private, rather than letting the whole office see her half-naked with a slave's head between her thighs. A VERY few women even recognized that this whole tipping practice was an extension of male chauvinism, and refused to exact my oral submission. Thus, even in this moment of humiliation for me as a slave, the female of the species treated me with more consideration than the male. I say again, All Men Are Bastards, AMAB.

When a debtor made a deal with the bank for self-indenture, said debtor, like me on my first day of slavery, came in person to swear herself/himself into a collar, after which Shively or whomever would introduce the brand-new slut to oral servicing. (Even strongly-heterosexual men seemed to have no problem using a male slave's mouth or anus—because slaves have no free will, citizens CLAIMED that such sexual services were not subject to conventions such as heterosexual, homosexual, or even incest-ual. Any slave's warm orifice was fair game for any free person to enjoy. Thank heavens I had no close relatives.)

In addition to such do-it-yourself sucking by fresh-caught slaves, other geographic divisions of the XYZ Bank had their own resident sluts who sometimes did the (dis)honors of "tipping" the appropriate officials. Still, Lily told me once that I personally helped her process about 60 percent of all bank transactions with the Agriculture Department.

I didn't really mind the oral service itself—in fact, I was secretly proud of how quickly my mouth and hands could reduce a supposedly-superior "free" human being of either gender to a quivering, sometimes-moaning recipient of my attentions. And that servicing did chip away at my huge debt. What bothered me was that, on a weekly basis, I had to re-live the walk of shame I had experienced the day that I had self-indentured. Only this time I had to traipse naked, cuffed, and leashed through the department offices in BOTH directions, coming and going, rather than just on the way out as I had experienced on my first day. And everyone in those offices was fully aware of why I was there. Eventually, I learned to put myself on auto-pilot and day-dream my way through the humiliation, but it was never fun. I ALMOST wished that the officials in question would demand more than oral sex, so at least I earned more money, but that rarely happened. As my ex-boss at HCI, Ms. Steiner, had observed, oral service by slaves was an accepted practice, but going beyond that might appear improper. Strange logic, but that's how things were in the male-chauvinist slave state of Texas.

Sometimes other government officials, especially a judge and/or his executive assistant, also wanted a reward just for doing their fracking jobs, such as approving a bank petition to declare a debtor enslaved. Again, I was the default oral rewarder when they declared the borrower in default. Lily and Beth both told me tales of being ravaged in all three openings by judges, so I guess I had it easy by comparison. Given the recent scandal and enslavement of Roy Bean for such behavior, very few judges dared to use my cunt or ass, at least not in their offices.

(For those of you in the North and far West, where slavery is still rare: Standard loan instruments, including my mortgage, required the borrower to waive any right to a court hearing if he or she became delinquent. Often, the first notice the borrower received that he or she was in default would be the appearance of a slave catcher who tased, stripped, and bound her or him. This cruel denial of warning made it easier not only for the lenders but also for the slave catchers by reducing the opportunities for borrowers to flee.)

As time passed during my long indenture, some officials began to relax and demand more from me. Moreover, such people were often on the guest list for Ms. Wright's "cocktail" parties, where they could demand tail like mine to please their cocks.

*****

Such entertainment, either at Ms. Williams' home or at an upscale hotel, was the principal "opportunity" for me to display the full scope of what I had learned at the Pearson Pussy Ranch. These events often began as a conventional dinner or reception, to which Ms Williams invited many people with whom she did business. Not all of these guests were interested in sex, either. After dinner, or after perhaps an hour of polite chit-chat at a cocktail party, the guests who were NOT looking for love in all my wrong places would depart, leaving the more adventuresome behind for the main event. This involved not only me, but most of Russell & Sullivan's kennel of pleasure animals. When I first arrived, these included Clarice, Nikki, Maria, and Charlotte. Clarice was a strikingly-beautiful young Black woman who, I eventually learned, had been framed into a drug charge; as a price for giving her a reduced term of indenture working at the bank, Judge Bean had roughly plundered all her holes in his office and then insisted on a circle-star criminal brand on her butt anyway. Nikki was the all-American cornfed center-fold girl, although I noticed she had incredible grace and muscle tone. Maria and Charlotte, both collared for debt, were equally attractive women of different physical types; the first time I met these four, I seriously questioned how I could compete with such goddesses. Each slut began the party wearing a frilly apron that barely covered her nipples and cunt in front but left the back view—including her butt—obstructed only by a bow tied at the waist. Fairly soon, we lost even the aprons and ended up with the guests exploring us in the various bedrooms, not to mention various orifices.

When the bank was entertaining REALLY high rollers, including its board of directors, the free graduates of Ms. Williams' harem/kennel would also join us. Lily's red hair was set off perfectly by an emerald green version of the classic naughty French maid costume, and brunette Beth looked equally alluring in a scarlet version. When they appeared like this, the two women were usually in the greatest demand; as Lily explained to me afterwards, precisely because slave pussy was so plentiful, hyper-competitive guys who thought with their dicks were even more determined to dominate and "conquer" free women, even if those free women were ex-pleasure slaves who had put themselves on the menu. Of the women at these parties, only our boss, Ms. Williams, truly had a choice about participating, although I have a vivid memory of her enthusiastically taking a judge in her mouth and an oil baron between her thighs at one party.

After the thorough training at the Pearson Ranch, my pussy—not to mention my mouth, throat, colon, and anus—responded almost automatically when a guest wanted me to perform. As I've remarked before, I had learned to be proud of that performance, and even (to myself) feel a little bit of power when I succeeded in making one of these free people moan, squirm, or climax. Because I did my best to psych myself into being a horny bimbo, I frequently (but not always) orgasmed once or twice in the course of an evening. I welcomed such convulsions because they made the people using me believe that I really was hot for the collar and/or they were better fuckers than they were.

Despite that pleasure, I was depressed after each such performance. I had no agency, no will or control over all of this. When (as often happened) I ended up on a bed or bent over a sofa with multiple people using me, I didn't even get to obey orders—I was simply a sex toy or doll that was positioned and used by them, completely helpless. Viewed from the outside, I might as well have been a cute-but-not-beautiful android, passively entertaining the "real" people. I knew I had no right to expect anything else as a sex slave, but it was still profoundly depressing and alienating. (It could have been worse, of course—one time I encountered another slave, Danielle, who was really a male but his female owner had locked up his dick and feminized him. Instead of too much sex, like me, he got too little, and seemed to spend most of his time alone.)

There was no point in complaining about my lot, of course, so I said nothing even when Lily or Beth hugged me afterwards and tended to any sore spots or bruises I acquired. Thanks to the Pearson Ranch, I had learned to be a good actor, so if they occasionally noticed that I was down, I quickly went into my happy Cindy act. (I didn't pretend to be a bimbo, just satisfied with my fate, an act that was even harder than playing slave hot.) I didn't fool them completely, of course. Beth in particular, who had worked with me for months at HCI Slave Market, knew that this was not my normal personality. I treasured the fact that the two of them were usually friendly and caring at home, but it still didn't bridge the gap between my powerlessness and their relative freedom. In a bizarre way, even the fact that they prostituted themselves at the parties as a favor to their boss made them far freer than I had ever been because they had a choice.

For about a month after I started at the bank, Nikki, the beautiful all-American honey blonde in a collar, lived in the same house and worked in the same office as did I, giving me a genuine peer. We couldn't talk too much, but just seeing her every day, exchanging smiles and knowing that she faced the same problems made my heart a little lighter. Unfortunately, Lily warned me that Nikki was only there temporarily, and on top of that the poor girl was almost raped in the office by a thug she had known in college. (Don't tell me that slaves can't be raped, whatever the courts claim. Need I repeat, AMAB?) Lily stopped him with a taser, and he was soon enslaved himself for embezzlement, but that episode virtually ended my acquaintance with Nikki, leaving me again the lone woman at the bottom of the totem pole—or maybe with the pole rammed into her bottom. I didn't see Nikki again until four years later, by which time I was really struggling mentally.

*****

As far as I was concerned, the only positive benefit of serving at Ms. Williams' parties was the dent those parties put in my debt to Russell & Sullivan—usually $750 for an evening, but sometimes more if the guests kept me overtime or caused me great discomfort.

Servicing major investors and other non-government clients was almost equally lucrative. Uninhibited by even a pretense at government ethics, such clients often wanted more than oral sex. Following Ms. Williams or Lily into the executive suites of high-rise office buildings, I often found myself bent over the back of furniture or face down on an executive desk while some oil baron with more money than brains rammed me fore and aft. Once they got to know me, some of these rich men asked for me specifically, either by name or (more commonly) as "you know, that blonde with the high boobs and tight little ass." Sometimes, if the customer praised my performance or was particularly disgusting (either as a person or in what he did to me, such as ass to mouth), Ms. Williams would add an extra bonus to the ledger, although she didn't pass those costs on to the bank. Every week, Lily showed me the effects of my slave prostitution. Gradually, the debt began to go downward, to $145,000, then $140,000, then $130,000. That was encouraging, one of the few bright spots in my wretched life.

One evening, Lily broke slave protocol sufficiently to tell me to sit on the couch beside me—she wanted to explain an opportunity to me. It seems there was another form of slut service that would speed up my payments. Sooner or later, I would have to do this, but for the moment, Lily offered me some say on whether and when I wanted to begin doing so. Of course, I was all ears (which is better than being all cock receptacles).

Two years earlier, Ms. Williams had started a contest, in which the employee-of-the-month for XYZ Bank (in the division she then headed) would get to use one of the resident sluts for a three-day weekend. Beth had been the original prize, but currently the winning employee had the choice of Clarice, Maria, or Charlotte. The winner could even specify how he/she wanted his choice gift wrapped: As a French maid, a lady in a little black dress, or (the most popular option) a slave slut, delivered to the winner's home as I had arrived from the Pearson Pussy Ranch. Thus, the chosen sex toy often began a weekend with vibrators strapped into her cunt and ass, kneeling naked, gagged, and bound in a dog cage. Oh, joy.

Having a trained, choice- or prime-rated pleasure slut for the weekend had done marvels for employee performance by every measure. Now, Lily asked, did I want to be added to the menu? There was no guarantee I would be chosen, but every time I DID win the lottery, they would deduct $1200 from my debt, invoiced to the bank as Employee Incentives. At first, I could not believe that many employees would choose me over my gorgeous counter-parts, but apparently I appealed to some deep-seated sexual stereotype (tomboy, perhaps?), as I found myself chosen quite frequently. Eventually, Ms. Williams upped the ante to offer TWO of us to the top two performers every month, and then I got a workout much more frequently.

The boss had put limits on what the employee-of-the-month could do with the chosen girl. She didn't want one of her harem gang-banged by dozens of guys or exposed to STDs, so the lucky winner had to list all third parties in advance of the weekend party. Despite such precautions, there was a certain degree of risk involved, being at the mercy of some guy (it was usually a guy) for 2 ½ days, but it seemed like the fastest way to freedom, so I willingly signed up. I sometimes came "home" with my buttocks and pelvis bruised not by beatings but by overly-vigorous hip-thrusts from horny men in their 20's or 30's. They left me so worn out afterwards that Lily usually gave me a day off to recover. As an added bonus, being gone for a three-day weekend meant that I wouldn't be available to give Bart and Chuck their Friday blow-jobs, I mean, computer services. In fact, only the IT department suffered—slightly—from my absence for two work-days each time I was chosen.

Most of the employees-of-the-month were rather unimaginative—they would screw my mouth, my pussy, and my butt, usually in that order, and almost always using condoms, if not for my sake than for their own protection. The guy and I would collapse into sleep, only to repeat the cycle a few hours later. Some chose to vary the pattern, which at least avoided boredom. One guy dutifully listed five of his friends as having access to me, and then began a marathon poker session. For the first few hands, he had me crawl around under the table, sucking off each guy in turn—sometimes, the suckee was so distracted that he made a dumb mistake, usually to the benefit of our host. Then the host began to bet my cunt and/or ass in the pot, after which the winner of that hand exercised his right to screw me in the host's spare bedroom. After a while, they had to call a halt while I washed and changed the sheets on that bed, then resumed the game. Eventually, three of the players had to go home to their wives, while the other three rendered me airtight, rotating which opening they used. That was sometimes disgusting for me, but when they fell asleep I was able to sneak off to the bathroom and flush all my openings.

Once, one of the nerds in IT actually won the contest in December, when cold weather enabled him to pull an interesting trick. As soon as he was notified that he had won, he asked to borrow me and privately inquired what sized clothes I wore. He picked me up from work, took me to his home, and without laying a hand on me, sent me into a bathroom to dress in a set of jeans, turtle-neck sweater, modest underwear, and tennis shoes. The turtle-neck covered my collar and therefore my slavery. Then, this very kind nerd took me out for a normal girlfriend-boyfriend evening: dinner, movie, the entire bit. When we got home, he kissed me at the door as if we had been on a date. More amazingly, he told me to take the bedroom while he slept on his couch! Such gallantry deserved a reward, so I invited him into "my" bed for an evening of gentle sex and cuddling. I don't know whether he was a virgin, but he certainly learned a lot about sex that weekend! He treated me in the same, respectful way for three days. At the end, when he drove me back to Ms. Williams' home before I reluctantly disrobed, I gave him the best blowjob I could manage while parked outside. For a month, I actually had a friend at work, but that was too good to last. And friend was all he could be—the rules prevented any personal contact at work, and I was not free to date. He was so smart that he soon went back to school full-time, and I didn't see him again for years. At last, I had found a SECOND exception to the AMAB rule.