Jake Lied on his Resume

"What about your collar, Sir?"

"I don't wear one anymore. I'm now vested with the company, and it is an employee owned company, I own shares and am now considered a part owner. 'Owners' don't wear collars."

"Yes, Sir. About the plug?"

"Think of it as a physical manifestation that you are ours for the length of your contract. You'll be given three opportunities to take a shit each day. For as long as I am your supervisor I will be the only one who has the key to unlock your plug. If you don't go or can't go when you're unlocked then you'll have to wait till the next allowable time."

"It sounds like I'm a slave"

"In a way, you are." He takes out a file, "Gregory Jacob Wellsworth, Jr. Graduated Cum Laude in Liberal Arts, but no minor in business. That's the first lie. Half of your work history doesn't exist. More lies. Mother died, but not of cancer. You're wanted in the questioning of her mysterious and untimely death. Another Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. So, you can either be our unique employee, work and have some semblance of a normal-ish life, or you can be found out and become a burden of the state for the next twenty years. Choose."

"what is 'normal-ish'?"

"Do you want to flip a coin? twenty years in a brick box, iron bars, steel toilet seat, possibility of being raped without concern of your welfare or pleasure, or more of the taste that you've had since this morning. Choose, and choose now."

"I will be your employee."

Mr Thompson goes to the hall to see that Ms Swanson was headed their way with the contract in hand. Mr Thompson held the door for her and she promptly placed two sets of papers before Mr Wellsworth. "This is your contract from last night with your false name on it detailing the sexual encounter and experiences thereafter as a result of that encounter that you signed to. Here's your contract for your life moving forward with our company. Read it thoroughly this time."

"Sir, What about when I'm not 'at work'? What clothes do I have to go 'grocery shopping', go 'exercise' the gym or 'run/cycle' down the street, go sit 'at the theater', go 'anywhere' in? Sir?"

"This company has provided you with clothes. Your uniform is the only clothing that you may wear while in employment with us. You represent us with everything that you do and every place you go. Your uniform is quite durable and can handle just about anything. It's a manly outfit, you should be proud to wear it. If your shirt or kilt is ever damaged, report it and a new one will be provided. If you have to, think of it as your orange jumpsuit or your stripped pajamas. You belong to us, and you will represent the best of us in every step of your life. Who knows, it may make you a better man because of it."

"What if I do something that is inappropriate or doesn't shine the best light on the company, Sir?"

"If you think that you can't be anymore humiliated, we'll put you into a full body, skin tight catsuit with a horse bit in your mouth, hooves shaped gloves on your hands and feet and walk you through downtown, and then photograph you for a future reminder. If you discredit or worse to the reputation of the company, we'll either punish you with pain, such as electrodes on your balls, or up your ass, or we'll simply sell your contract to a less forgiving company, and we'll let karma work things out.

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Jake was a prisoner of his own hell. His ass was plugged all times of the day and night except for once in the morning, once at noon, and once more before bed. Each time being unlocked by his supervisor to use the facilities. His body adapted quickly to what there was no option but to accept. Another consequence of his new contract is a full metal chastity belt. The straps riding above and in from his pelvic bone keeping the device devilishly in place and immovable. His dick is the size of his chastity belt and no bigger or smaller, making his man meat utterly irrelevant. His balls are tucked inside. He will never see his jewels again. He bathes daily to keep it clean, and uses a squirt bottle to keep the air holes and urine holes clean and clear.

He walks down the street and everyone just stares at him. He looks like a straggly stepsister of a princess who was actually born a boy. His uniform makes him look so girly and sissy with his light duty frame and no body hair. It isn't just the women who laugh at him. Man or woman, who would want him now?

At home, he has had to learn how to do his chores all over again, like relearning how to ride a bike without training wheels. Greg has had to relearn how to sit and stand and walk, how to kneel, how to squat in chastity. His metal collar forced him to sit up straight because he couldn't slouch to watch tv, read, or even to eat. His lower jaw would awkwardly rest on the crest of the collar as it sat uncomfortably across his collar bone otherwise. At least he wasn't on camera, or so he hoped.

As every man has needs, even girly/sissy ones, he really missed not being able to stroke his dick, handle his balls, or have someone else do those for him. His ass was also locked so he couldn't play there either. Celibate living was not for him, but what's the alternative? Prison bitch? Boss's bitch? But still, he needed a reprieve of some kind.

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The Kilt is the normal day in and out wear. His colors are now yellow dominant with thin lines of purple and gray. Yellow hat, yellow polo, black boots, yellow boxer underwear. Greg's job is now the specialization of receiving and delivery. And, for the first time in his new career he got to see just what was being transported. Everything from priceless works of art to exotic pets, to people (either prisoners in private transport to celebrities or politicians needing a discreet transport). And, as part of his job, Greg has needed to be present with a team lead to verify that the merchandise was correct when picked up and verified that the receiver is the official recipient with proper paperwork and provide proof of safe transport for mutual receipt of safe delivery.

Work was good, gave value to Greg's life. In time, he cared less about his personal humiliation. People still gave a look or two at him whenever he went shopping, out to eat, cycled down the street, but he just looked past them and lived life as best he could.

Scott & Knolls took really good care of him. He met with a trainer three times a week to exercise and learn how to eat right. He was even given coupons and vouchers for the food he needed to eat properly and be healthy. When he abided completely to his trainer's set regiments, he very rarely paid for his own food. He even stopped buying anything that he couldn't get coupons or vouchers for.

When the company competed against other companies in team sports, Greg was given the opportunity in time and training to learn a new sport: archery, bowling, swimming, cycling, softball, flag football. Greg loved archery and cycling, but was unsure about the swimming because of the chastity and the lack of a swimsuit. But, his supervisor put in the requisition paperwork for a smaller chastity device and a swim brief to match the rest of the team, and cycle shorts, shirts, and adequate shoes to match his cycling team. His collar was removed for team sports, which was a wonderful idea, but also made Greg feel naked without it. He had worn it too long to be comfortable without it.

As for the removal of his chastity belt for the smaller cage for team sports, Greg used to get erections each time his dick was temporarily freed. Now, he's naked when not in chastity. Yes, he can grow with the occasion, but it's less like a rock hard log and more like a plump, uncooked sausage. And, as a good slave boy, he's never unlocked in private, but in full view of his teammates. He's not the only one who needs such attention, so why should he get private attentions?

Greg still yearns for some kind of sexual release, but for now, burning off his testosterone in competition will have to do. But, God, he is horny.

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As Greg's body changed, and his twink-ish, sissy frame was replaced by muscle and definition, his kilts and polos no longer fit. He had to go back to Mr. Jackson and Cynthia for a new fitting. He arrived at the now completed Thomas and Golde building. The uniform is quite literally falling off of him as his body has grown, and the straps don't really clasp together well anymore. She gave him requisition paperwork, and a visitor's pass. As he walked to a chair the clasp on his kilt gave way and exposed him in his beauty and bondage.

"You waited too long I see. No matter. Shirt too, take it off and I'll dispose of them. I see you're no longer wearing underwear."

"What's the point of underwear? I stopped wearing it some time back. It feels so natural without them."

"I'll make that notation in your file, Mr Wellington. I will need your shoes, your socks, and your hat as well. Mr. Jackson is no longer with us, you'll be measured by Mr. Simon Gunther. It looks like your chastity belt is also a bit tight on you. I'll note that as well."

"Thank you, Ma'am. Where should I wait, Miss?"

"This pass will allow you to the elevators and to the third floor only. Cynthia will meet you at the desk and give you further instructions. Don't lose your badge or your visitor's pass."

"Thank you, Ma'am." To which he slid his badge into the slot by the door and entered a long hallway. Greg has made some progress. He's no longer ashamed of his body, or cares who sees him naked or in chastity. There were a few people in the hallway, but no one seemed to care that he was there or not. His unexplained lack of clothing seemed to be an ordinary experience.

"Hey, you can't use these elevators! You need to use the service ones on the other side of the building."

"I'm sorry, Sir, I was told to simply use the elevators. I assumed it was these." Greg swiped his badge into the security box, but it was rejected.

"Let me see your badge, serf!"

Greg had never been called that before. But, he did show his visitor's badge and his employment badge to a different company. Strange, most men in all these companies wear kilts. But this man is wearing a very formal double breasted three piece suit.

"Ah, you wouldn't know to not use these unless you've been here before. I will show you this once, serf. Take this hallway to the end and turn left. Those elevators near the loading dock are yours to take. Swipe both your visitors' badge and your employment badge to get upstairs or down. They're the only elevators that go to the basement."

"Thank you, Sir."

"No, I have a name, as you can see on my badge, serf. My name is Mr. Gunther."

"I beg your pardon, Mr. Gunther. I am actually here to see you."

"I don't know anything about that. You'll have to talk to Cynthia."

"Thank you, Mr. Gunther."

"Serf! Aren't you forgetting something?!"

"Why do you keep calling me a serf? You've seen my badge. You know my name, and I do have a name, Sir, just like you."

"I'll be sure to remember you, Mr. Wellington. I'll explain once you're on my table." And, with that, Mr. Gunther swiped his badge and an elevator immediately opened for him. "See you soon, Mr. Wellington."

Greg went down the hallway he was instructed to, up the back elevators. When the doors opened, there was only one room, a reception desk, and two ladies doing paperwork. He walked up to one and started to speak...

"Wait your turn, serf!"

"I am not a serf. I am Mr. Wellington. I'm here for a fitting for a new uniform."

"You certainly look like a serf. Where are your badges?"

"Here you go, Ma'am."

"I am not a 'madam'. I am Mrs White, as you can plainly see from my badge. This is Ms Grace as you can plainly see from her badge. It would be wise for you to pay absolute attention to what is distinctly right in front of you, serf. It will serve you well."

"My name, as you can plainly see, Mrs White is not 'serf' but Mr. Wellington."

She just smirked and ran his badge against the Corporate database, and Greg did pop up. "Mr. Gregory Jacob Wellington, Scott & Knolls employment, new yellow kilt uniform and possible new size to chastity belt... Oh, look at this, workplace designation: serf."

"It does not say that!" She turned the computer monitor around to show me. It does. Yes, it really does. "I'm a serf?!"

"That's right, boy, and that means we will not be calling you, Mr. Wellington. Not now, not ever. So, better start getting used to it. Take a seat, serf, and we'll get with you shortly."

Greg could feel what was left of his dick shrivel a bit inside his cage as he went to sit down in a chair.

"Are you daft, or something?! Serfs don't sit in the chairs, you kneel on the floor in one of those designated areas!"

Greg looked to the center of the room and there are small boxes in the carpet just big enough for someone to kneel within them. So, he made his way over, knelt down, and tried to make sense of this all.

Ms Grace went over with a long rod and a short rod. Slap across the sole of the feet! "Toes within the box!" Slap across the thigh. "Knees to to edge!" Slap to the back. "Sit up straight!" Slap to the Thigh again. "Hands facing upward resting on your thighs!" Slap to the chest. "No talking, whimpering, or crying. Eyes forward. Serfs wait like this till called upon. You should practice this daily till it becomes second nature."

"Yes, Ma'am"

Slap against the chest.

"Yes, Ms Grace!"

"Better, serf." With that she strutted back to the reception desk and continued with her tasks. Mrs White didn't pay any attention to Greg from then on.

Greg had never been treated like that before, and he didn't know of anyone from the company who was. He just sat there, patiently, waiting, hoping that Cynthia would remember him as Mr Wellington and some semblance of normalcy would begin again for him. But, he then remembered, his cross tone with Mr. Gunther earlier, and he started to tear up.

Cynthia came from a back door that was slightly elevated from the reception desk, and came around, stood in front of me. "Mr. Wellington. I see you're being taught a lesson in respect. The ladies don't enjoy being treated with a cross tone or bad behavior of any kind. It simply will not be tolerated."

"I beg forgiveness, Ma'am."

"I'm sure you may, but we'll see if you're really sorry. Apparently you were hostile to Mr. Gunther downstairs. Is this true?"

"I may have been, Ma'am. I didn't know who he was."

"Stop! You may never know who is what. But, typically, you treat everyone with respect, or did Mr Thompson not drill this into you?"

"Yes, He did, Ma'am."

"So, why are you disrespectful today, serf?"

"Please stop calling me that."

"Ah, so you don't take pleasure in being referred to as exactly what you are."

"No one's ever called me that before, Ma'am. It's so degrading."

"None the less, serf, it is exactly what you are. If you cannot respect yourself, then how can it be considered that you would respect anyone else? I do not believe that you will meet Mr. Gunther today. I'm sending you to a training camp for a few weeks so that you may become accustomed identifying yourself as just what and who you really are. Mrs. White, I need a requisition form for serf training. Ms. Grace, I need a requisition form for a box."

"A box, Ma'am. What kind of box?"

"Silly serf. How else should company property be shipped?"