Pre-Nup 01

You've all read stories about the humiliations inflicted on slaves during in-processing, but no words can have the same emotional impact of first-hand experience. Mistress Josephine casually toyed with my body, and missed no opportunity to remark on how being a slave visibly excited me. When she wasn't leading me around by my turgid cock she was steering me with her hand shoved up my butt crack, the middle finger goosing my anus while her thumb and other fingers rhythmically fondled my lower cheeks. That only served to increase the rigidity of my dick, which she pointed out, chuckling, as she toyed with it. After the fact, I realized that she was deliberately arousing me in preparation for the mandatory "pink photographs" taken of each new slave—pornographic and humiliating poses that displayed my naked, collared body with rampant prick, swollen balls, and winking anus. The experience of being photographed like that, as if I were some domestic toy being recorded after apprehension by Animal Control, pushed me almost to orgasm. After that, I was put in the stirrups of a modified OB/GYN table while a young veterinarian, whom I distinctly recalled when she had been an intern at my hospital, did her best to pretend she didn't recognize me (I can only imagine her breathless confidences to the rest of her class that evening). I got the full treatment—blood draw to check for STDs, casual fondling, with her gloved hands gloved, of my dangling scrotum and treacherously-rigid penis, speculum stretching my anus while she probed my colon and pronounced me "virginal" down there. Josephine snickered and audibly wondered how long THAT virginal state would last. The reality that, as even a FINO slave, I might get sodomized, with some guy's dick shoved up my ass, both alarmed and further excited me. I had consulted on a few cases where abused slaves had developed a permanent anal "gap" that even Dr. Zee's excellent pharmaceuticals couldn't tighten completely, so the poor slave got a colostomy bag—intellectually, I knew that my darling wife/owner would never risk permanent injury, but I didn't want to find out how close she could come!

At my owner's behest, Mistress Josephine devoxed me and spread me out on a bondage display frame with other slaves, even though (under the terms of the FINO) I wasn't for sale. I spent that hour silently praying that none of the gawking spectators who filed through the display would recognize me. Fortunately, most of them seemed to focus on the young adults of both sexes who, having recently turned age 18, were on display to obtain slave gradings, either as collateral for a loan or as bragging rights for how hot their bodies were. I empathized with the helpless young women (and especially the young men!) who were fondled and jeered by their peers, and felt guilty that their abasement served to distract attention from the old codger (me) lying near them. Still, after the full-time merchants came through to actually grade the helpless bodies, I couldn't help being pleased that my old but still furiously aroused body graded out as Choice Minus.

Mistress Josephine once again led me, hands cuffed behind me, on a cock leash, this time to one of the innumerable wire cages, where she sprayed the antidote for devox down my throat and left me with a water bottle to recover my voice.

Half an hour later, I heard the sound of several people approaching my cage. Following the rules explained by the massive female wrangler, I assumed the correct position for a slave to greet free people—kneeling, thighs wide apart, fingers interlocked behind my neck, eyes downcast looking at the floor just inside the wire gate to my cage. I couldn't help reflecting at "how the mighty had fallen;" yesterday, I had been a respected surgeon in charge of a large team of nurses, physicians, and students, master of pretty much everything I could see. This afternoon, I was a collared, naked slave kneeling in submission to any free person. And my treacherous dick was still half turgid.

A pair of large black combat boots, presumably belonging to Josephine, appeared in my view as the cage gate opened. Next to those boots were a pair of shapely legs in high heels—legs that I immediately recognized as belonging to my wife. At last, the queen whom I wanted to serve, the real reason I had put myself in this excruciating situation, had deigned to visit her lowly subject.

(Jeanie Harrison's viewpoint)

The sight of my kneeling husband so humbled and miserable almost made me give up on the whole idea. Almost. Then, I decided that if I stopped now it might still lead to divorce, whereas going through with the plan should improve our marriage immeasurably. Besides, I knew enough about Jim to suspect that he really WANTED to be my collared sex toy. But first, I had to ensure that he would be deterred forever from accepting another slave girl blow job, so I hardened my heart.

"Enjoying your collar, slut?" I asked him in a condescending, almost sneering tone.

Jim gulped at the reality of his situation, although I noticed that his half-erect dick suddenly regained some turgidity. "No, Mistress," he said, keeping his eyes on the floor.

"That's odd," I replied, "Because your cock seems very happy about it. Anyway, you have one more step to in-processing today, after which you'll spend a few days here at the market to recover before you go off for training. But this last step should ensure you think twice before straying again." The nervous look on his face said he already deeply regretted his escapade.

"Since you're my property for the next five years," I continued, "I'm sure you agree that I have the right to label my horny animal in case someone finds you running around loose, correct?" He nodded, visibly alarmed. "At some point I'll loan you out to my friends, but I don't want the Slave Patrol wondering who you belong to. So, Josephine here is going to take you down to get my initials branded onto your slutty ass. That way, anyone who fucks you will have to notice you're already my property, hmm?"

Now he was REALLY alarmed. My voice turned honey sweet. "Of course, I want to minimize my little bitch's suffering, so I've paid extra for local anesthesia PLUS, just for you, I've rented one of the female slaves that belong to the market. She'll take care of that naughty erection of yours while you're waiting on the rack. The endorphins should further reduce the pain when you get your 'two ass-burns' instead of aspirin, but I also want you to remember just how you got into this mess, OK?"

Now his already-terrified face took on a look of absolute humiliation and fear. I couldn't help it—I had to give him SOME comfort. So I patted his head, making soothing noises as he leaned against my leg like a grateful pet. I felt a little dampness from both my own sense of power and a few tears leaking out of his eyes. I swear, if Josephine hadn't been looming over him, he probably would have tried to hump my leg like the randy dog he had become.

With a final admonition to "be a good boy, now," I left the cage and went to wait in the buyers' lounge. After the fact, I would look at the deluxe video of his branding (cost me $40!), but I cared too much about him to want to be in "the room where it happened" just then.

*****

(Jim Fuller's viewpoint)

I had thought I had sunk as low as I could, but watching my ripe, gorgeous former wife and new owner swing her fine hips out of that cage, leaving me behind after warning me of my fate, was devastating. Someone once observed that the only thing worse than experiencing injury, pain and/or humiliation is knowing about it ahead of time and having to wait while anticipating the disaster to come. That was certainly true in my case, anyway. Fortunately for me, Mistress Josephine wasted no time in re-cuffing and re-leashing me, then leading my naked, chilly body down a corridor of cages towards me fate, the branding room.

The heat and smell struck me well before we passed through the doorway, a door decorated with a 9-inch wide burned-in imprint of the Longhorn logo: An outline bull's head shaped like an isosceles triangle with two long, hooked horns sticked out of the sides. As an adult Texan, especially one in the medical professions, I had seen numerous slaves, mostly women, with the same pattern burned into their shapely, lily-white (or black or tan) asses, usually at an angle to fit the whole thing onto one buttock. For the first time, the reality of what those slaves had experienced struck home. I decided to be thankful for small mercies that I was "only" getting three initials as a brand rather than that monster bull's skull on my tender flesh.

Inside the spacious branding room, a gas-fueled, fan-driven forge flooded the room with heat, light, and especially light. There were two complicated frames of gleaming metal, clearly intended to restrain slaves for branding in any desired position. Plus two grinning men dressed as wranglers but with leather aprons; one was in his 40s with a full beard, the other a brown-haired guy in his late 20s or maybe early 30s.

One rack already held a pretty and VERY busty blonde, aged perhaps 25, whose face displayed the same terror I felt. For some reason, she seemed to be asking herself "How did I let myself get put into this situation," a sentiment with which I could certainly empathize! She was strapped down in a bent-over position, head low, legs low and spread wide, with her shapely butt at the highest point on her body or the frame. When she lifted her head, I saw that her teeth were clenched around a large wooden dowel, held firmly in her mouth by a strap around the back of her head. In seconds, I was secured in a similar position (including the wooden gag, which I found had deep indentations in it from the teeth of previous users), after which someone mercilessly rammed into my winking starfish with a lubricated rod that felt huge (or "uuge," if you're a MAGA fan). Next, the younger smith, presumably the assistant, pushed two large trays filled with kitty litter underneath our immobilized bodies. Hers was centrally positioned to catch any emissions, solid or liquid, from her groin or anus, whereas mine for some reason was offset two feet to my right side. The reason for this was obvious when a cute, Asiatic girl-woman, no more than five feet tall with shoulder-length black bangs, complete with collar but no restraints, was ordered to crawl underneath me. She grinned at me sympathetically, obviously relieved to learn that I rather than she was about to become so much seared meat. She immediately began fondling, licking, and sucking on my dick, which may have wilted somewhat at the terrifying sight of the forge but now responded to her frantic hoovering. Occasionally she paused to envelop my dangling balls in her warm, moist mouth, swishing them around like I was so much mouthwash.

I was distracted and almost lost my erection when the woman next to me emitted an incredibly loud scream, barely muffled by the dowel in her mouth. Her entire body convulsed, attempting in vain to escape, and I heard a drizzle as, presumably, she lost control of her urine. That reminded me that we were both here not to have sex but to be branded like livestock, and I began shaking. I heard the older smith say to her,

"There you go, 6627. Congratulations: a perfect Longhorn brand for a perfect ass." He strode rapidly to the forge, thrust his used branding iron into the center of the fire, and returned, holding another iron, to stand behind her. "Just one more thing, darlin'." Another scream, presumably when he added the "P" for Prime. "Now your husband and his friends will know without question that he owns one of the finest pieces of ass in all of Texas, a Prime-rated rump roast. Once it heals, you'll have to shop for the tiniest g-string available, so that everyone can see the proof on your little behind when you go to the pool. My assistant has sprayed you with pain killer and liquid bandage; once you catch your breath, he'll take you back to the vet for some after-care."

I could hear more than I could see, of course, and was immediately distracted by renewed oral attention on my dick. Once the tiny Asiatic cock-sucker had me fully aroused, her look of rapturous delight at swallowing my sausage disappeared, and she slowed WAY down with her fellating while her eyes seemed focused to one side, as if waiting for a signal. I felt a tiny prick in first the left and then the right buttock, and decided that someone really knew how to give an injection, in this case (I hoped) anesthetic. Then the almond-eyed cutie resumed her maximum suction while her tongue licked around my shaft, and before I even knew it I was climaxing into her mouth. I would have preferred that she keep on licking dick, but instead she abruptly pulled her mouth away, allowing half of my discharge to spray on the floor while she hastily pulled the kitty litter tray under me while rolling outside my view. I caught a flash of a Longhorn bull brand (with a "C" above it for Choice) that stretched half way down her left leg. That reminded me of why I was here. Uh—Oh; Showtime!

That thought had just crossed my sex-intoxicated brain when I suddenly felt two, separate, very sharp burning sensations right on the fleshiest part of my left buttock. I screamed like a little girl, and was barely aware of the smith walking away from the rack and then returning, at which point a third burn, presumably an "H" for my wife's last name, blossomed on my OTHER butt cheek! (Looking in the mirror later, I confirmed my suspicion. My ass was permanently marked with the initials "JCH" to denote that I was now the property of my wife/mistress. Talk about making me her bitch!)

I almost passed out from the shock, and recovered to the sensation of cooling pain killer and liquid bandage being sprayed all over the new wounds. A pair of black fingers snapped in front of my eyes to get my attention, and then I heard Mistress Josephine's throaty, amused voice talking in my ear. "Your mistress asked me to tell you that you got branded this way, right after a blow-job from a slave cutie, because she wants you to associate having sex with a slave with intense pain, so we don't have to go through this again. Got it, darlin'?"

I groaned around my gag, "Yes, Mistress." Traumatic learning: No way in hell I wanted to EVER risk pain like that again!

The cherry on top of my conversion? I found out that the branding rack could be manipulated to turn me onto my back. There, the cute slavegirl used her hands to arouse me, but then carefully disinfected the glans at the head of my cock. When I felt the assistant smith sprayed my dickhead with a numbing agent, I knew what was coming even though I didn't want to believe it! Once again, I screamed around my gag as the smith used a curved, sanitized needle to penetrate that glans and install a small gold ring; a similar ring was installed into my lower groin (much less painful but still no fun). I knew what that meant—my Mistress had given me a reverse Prince Albert—somewhere I had read that rings in those precise locations could stimulate the lady's G-spot and, if she were very lucky, her clitoris as the guy pumped in and out, but that was only when she unlocked the two rings from each other!

*****

The next three days were a haze of discomfort and ignominy for me, eating slave kibble and doing mild exercise (mostly slave block positions) to stretch the injured skin. Twice each day, I went to the Longhorn staff veterinarian to have my wounds examined and bandages changed, after which I got a few pain killers (after the first day, just ibuprofen) to swallow. By now, the young female vet (who by Texas law had to have an MD because slave anatomy was, after all, still human) had lost any awe or deference to me in my former incarnation; she casually referred to me as "Doctor Slave" and (having looked me up on the national slave registry) asked me, seriously, how I enjoyed being a FINO. But she wasn't cruel about the situation, nor did she hint at any blackmail or payback; she was both amused by the role reversal and interested in my take on the now-infamous FINO prenup, saying that she intended to demand the same agreement from her fiancé, Dr. Josh Birmingham, whom I had also taught. Having no more status to lose in her eyes, I did confess to her that acting as a submissive was a great relief from the stress of decision-making that every physician experiences. That put a thoughtful expression on her face, as if she imagined herself playing slave for Josh.

Nights were particularly challenging for me. It goes without saying that I didn't sleep on my back! Beyond that, however, the airconditioned market building was so chilly that I needed warmth to sleep, but the single wool blanket provided on each slave bunk was scratchy. I contemplated my fate for the upcoming month during long periods of sleeplessness and occasionally wondered how my resident was coping with emergency surgeries.

Three days after my branding, the vet said I was starting to heal. That afternoon, I again heard someone approaching my cage, where I had been waiting in boredom. Assuming the kneeling position, which was now much less painful than it had been previously, I was soon visited by an unknown (to me) wrangler accompanied by my darling wife, Jeanie—I mean, Mistress Jeanie! I know that I perked up at the sight of her, and she seemed equally happy. She asked the wrangler to return in 20 minutes, as she wanted to talk to me.

No sooner did his footsteps echo in the distance than she seated herself on my bench, spread her legs, and motioned for me to shuffle over between her thighs and "get to work."

"Aaahh." She said, sounding very relieved as began lapping her. "I've really missed getting regular slave cunnilingus since we got married, Babe." OK, confession time: although I knew HOW to give cunnilingus (studying anatomy has to have a few side benefits), the "free" me had only used his tongue on his second wife a few times in our marriage, when I realized that she was desperate for some attention down there. It just wasn't my thing, and I found it very uncomfortable. Now, however, I was becoming programmed to service any free woman, and I felt honored to give pleasure to my wife/owner. I went to work doing my best to get her off as I listened to her monologue about how much she had missed me and how she was looking forward to having me available to "kiss my cunt" whenever she wanted. My still-healing dick was painfully erect.

Then she turned her attention to what would happen next, telling me that she was shipping me off to get further training in cunnilingus, fellatio (I almost bit her clit at that point!) and (unspecified) other skills of a submissive male slave. And the best place to get such training was at the Cougar Club, the notorious club house and slave market for dominant females controlling (read emasculating) male slaves.

I paused for a moment at the mention of that club, which had a vague but undeniable reputation as a group of "ball busting Dykes" who enjoyed subjugating males, sometimes even turning them into sissy slaves. I shuddered at that, but reflected that I had wanted to submit to women, or at least one woman whom I adored. Besides, it wasn't as if I had any choice in the matter. For all intents and purposes, I had made myself into a slave, at least for any "free" (ha!) time I might have for the next five years.

(To be continued)