Recovering Slut Pt. 02

These events occur in a world where legalized, non-hereditary slavery is common-place for serious crime, unredeemed debt, or voluntary self-indenture. Eighteen years of age is the minimum for anyone in this world to be enslaved or be involved in slave business operations. As always, this is strictly a FANTASY—in reality, informed consent is ALWAYS mandatory and no one should ever be deprived of her or his free will.

Betsy Boyce, an average-looking young woman with self-esteem issues, has recently completed ten years as a slave in Texas after she had pledged herself as collateral for her father's business loan. Once freed, she has no idea what to do with her life, and no experience making decisions or even dating as a free person. Betsy was fortunate enough to end up in the Longhorn Slave Market's trusty program for the newly-freed, working in the cafeteria and sleeping on the premises for three meals a day and $18 per hour while she sorted out her life. After an afternoon of talking with a slave psychiatrist and her newly-freed co-workers, Betsy is half-asleep, remembering her first use at a slave brothel.

Master Charles, the brothel manager who had bought me and three other girls at the Longhorn Slave Market, was first astonished and then elated when he found out that, at age 18, I was still a virgin—apparently a virgin slave was as rare as a black swan in his world. He made a big deal out of offering me to the highest bidder of the customers who showed up for a busy Friday evening of lust—the winner, a short guy with a receding hair line, paid $460 to deflower me. I was terrified, both because I was a naked slave and because I was a virgin about to be fucked by a stranger. On the other hand, I couldn't help feeling a sneaking sensation of pride—in high school, I was so plain that nobody had even tried to seduce me, and now I was going for $460 in a place where $50 usually got the customer an hour to use any openings a slave girl had—and most of those girls seemed more sophisticated, not to mention older and prettier, than me. They couldn't have been less experienced!

Charles personally walked us to Room 26, then unlocked my cuffs and let the two of us into the room. I looked around wildly, petrified with fear of the unknown. A double bed had plain but clean sheets, while in the corner a tiny sink and toilet offered basic amenities.

"Calm down, darling," my unknown temporary owner said, trying to sooth me. "I'm not going to hurt you any more than necessary. Please, have a seat. My name's Bob—what's yours?"

I barely whispered "Betsy, Master."

Bob sat down beside my shaking form and gently reached to embrace me in a sideways hug. Realizing that resistance would only increase my pain, I reluctantly leaned into his side. It felt reassuring to be held by someone who, judging by the bulge in his pants, actually found me attractive. I startled when his far hand reached over to cup my breast, but he moved very carefully, compressing my modest-sized tit only slightly before his thumb made contact with my nipple, stroking it very softly. An involuntary sigh escaped my mouth, and he left my chest alone for a moment to turn my face towards his, barely making contact between our lips. For a moment, I could almost pretend that he was the boyfriend I never had in high school, so I parted my lips to admit his tongue while snuggling into his shoulder. Even the unfamiliar exercise of French kissing seemed enjoyable.

Looking back at the hundreds of men who later used me in that place, I'm still amazed at how much time Bob spent with me that evening. He could have just tossed me on my back or stomach, thrust my legs apart, and raped me—and some of my later "Master Johns" seemed to enjoy inflicting pain like that, penetrating my body before it could respond to them. Instead, he worked to get me in the mood, acting more like a lover than a ravisher. I don't know if I was really excited—perhaps my fear of sexual use mimicked and fuelled the unfamiliar feelings of sexual arousal. My pounding heart was soon joined by my quiet gasping for breath, and my hands even reached out, clumsily, trying to fondle my first sexual partner.

I won't pretend that Bob was some kind of white knight—he was certainly determined to get his money's worth from me, and in a few minutes firmly pressed me down onto my knees, presenting his erect cock—the first one I had ever seen outside of the Internet—for me to service. He had to tell me how to blow him, beginning with little licks and progressing until I had about four inches—all my inexperienced mouth could accommodate—to suck and lick. But even then, my temporary owner didn't try to make me gag, and once I had worked his shaft for a few minutes, he drew me back up to kiss while his other hand guided mine to clasp his intruder firmly.

Eventually, I ended on my back with my legs parted—Bob had spread the room's cheap towel underneath my hips, anticipating blood. Even though I was now almost eager for him, Bob first tongued my boobs and then, briefly, my clit. I'd read about such things, of course, but the reality of these sensations was a revelation. Only when I was again panting and moaning did he slide my knees over his shoulders and use the resulting leverage to pin me down and shaft me. The pain when he thrust inside was much less than I had feared, probably because he had worked so hard to arouse me beforehand. Of course, I had no one to compare him to, but at that moment Bob seemed like the greatest lover in the world. I cried out at the unexpected sensation of an orgasm . . .

* * * * *

The memory of that orgasm, the first full-blown climax of my life, brought me suddenly awake, sitting up with a rapid heartbeat, blinking in the near dark of my little room at the Longhorn Slave Market. The sensation of dampness between my legs told me that my dream had given me another orgasm, or at least a nice sensation of sex. A quiet snoring told me that my roommate, Lorraine, was sound asleep on the other single bed. I settled back down and tried to go back to sleep, but instead thought about the sequel to my first fuck (Free people don't make love to slaves, they fuck them for their own pleasure. One of the first things I had to discard as a slave was the romantic image of love.)

I had to admit that, given my situation as a fresh caught, virgin piece of slave meat, Bob had given me the best possible experience for losing my virginity. He stayed in bed, holding and fondling me, for several hours until it was so late that evening that I was unlikely to have any more "customers." Finally, the manager, Master Charles, knocked gently on the door and Bob let him in. Bob assured him that I had been fully cooperative with some potential as a fuck, and even suggested that I be excused from "slut duties" the next day so I could recover from my "maiden" voyage. All in all, I credit Bob with the positive attitude that I developed towards my unsought but unavoidable sexual service as a brothel whore.

Charles gave me the next evening off from screwing, and had a slave veterinarian perform a gyno exam the following day. After that, I was thrown in at the deep end of the slut pool. In short order, I was not only being screwed multiple times a day but also getting face- and butt-fucked on a regular basis, usually by guys who were far less considerate that Bob. I learned to keep both of my passages well-lubricated while breathing rhythmically whenever the guy pulled his prick out of my throat. Most of my orgasms were self-induced, lying in bed after the last inconsiderate clown had made his sperm deposit for the night.

The only thing that saved me, ironically, was that I was so plain-looking that many customers chose the other sluts ahead of me. On busy weekend nights I was often pressed into service, and some guys said that the appearance of my face and boobs was unimportant because all they wanted to do was bend me over and fuck my ass. (As you can imagine, men who thought and acted like that were among the least popular customers in the place—at least two of them were banned for injuring girls, and I got several nasty infections from all that ass play. Thank heavens the management took care of us medically.) Still, once all the regular customers had tried me out, I was largely relegated to being a fluffer, kneeling with a mouthful of cock while smiling adoringly up at some guy who was just using me until he could take his turn with one of the better-looking slaves. I became an expert at edging a man, keeping him aroused without allowing him to blow his load down my throat—and I got punished a few times when I accidentally brought a customer off before he could dip his wick into one of the Choice-graded sexpots.

I even tried to apologize to those women because I didn't feel that I was doing my fair share, but they reassured me; my fluffing talents meant less time with a slob lying top of them and therefore more tips collected in an evening. The girls were too polite to say anything to me, but some of the guys made comments to the effect that the star performers looked even sexier after they had to settle for a plain girl like me. Sometimes, the sexpots even shared their tips with me. (Master Charles let us collect tips, so long as we gave him a healthy cut, with the remainder allowing us to buy sweets and suggestive lingerie.) Charles made sure that I earned my keep overall by using me as a maid, scrubbing toilets and changing and washing the sheets for the other sluts. Three years of this strange life seemed to flash by in a matter of days. I drifted back to sleep recalling all that.

* * * * *

The next morning when I awoke, I had to put those memories aside. I was back to a humdrum but safe existence wearing clothes and working in the slave market cafeteria. A few days later, I finally received a birth certificate and social security card in the mail, allowing me to get a driver's license (I barely passed the road test) and, more importantly, to have my first real bank account. Ruth, who mothered the trusty population for Human Resources, was glad not to have to pay me in cash any longer. She had me sign an accounting for everything I'd been paid up until then, including withholding for social security and federal income tax, so that the Longhorn could fully comply with IRS regulations. (Yet another revelation about being free—slaves were literally property, and got no social security credit for their labors. A wise owner might allow them to keep tips, but in theory every penny that a slave received belonged to the owner. There were a few slaves, especially the top-shelf call girls and extraordinary talent specialists, who earned so much money for their owners that it was worth the IRS' time to go after those owners for taxes, but most of us came out of slavery with nothing but a gap in our earning records that would eventually be reflected in lower retirements. Thirty-some years after I regained my freedom, my servitude would still leave me fucked-over, at least figuratively.)

Anyway, once my payroll status was regularized, my bank account began to grow by several hundred dollars every two weeks; I only withdrew about $40 in cash each payday because I had almost no living expenses so long as I worked as a trusty at the Longhorn. At some point down the road, Ruth reminded me, I would have to find another job or possibly become a permanent employee in the cafeteria, which would mean higher pay per hour plus health and retirement benefits but also oblige me to find a room to rent and some form of transportation to my work. Lorraine, in fact, did move out and go to work as a waitress in a restaurant. That left me lonely in the evenings, but we still kept in touch, intending to go out together some evening when she had off from her work.

The first time we went out after work was a revelation to me. By now, my ex-roommate had a beat-up used car which gave us much more freedom of movement. We went to a dancing club, where Lorraine was so cute that the bouncer let her bypass the waiting line—and when she insisted that I was with her, he reluctantly let me pass as well. Lorraine attracted a constant string of men, not all of whom were drunken fools. I watched her skill at turning them down without irritating them, and eventually a pair of guys, whose names were (I think—it was too noisy for serious conversation) Phil and Bill came up to us. Phil was the self-confident, assertive type whereas Bill was much more hesitant, so naturally Lorraine danced with Phil and I with his shy friend. Fast dancing was OK, but when the DJ suddenly played a slow number, I found myself in a guy's arms for the first time in my very short free life. Bill didn't push matters, thank god—he kept his mid-section well away from mine, I think to conceal an erection—but even so it was a shock.

I did my best to remain calm, just as I had kept an eye on what we drank (mostly bottled water and soda) all night. At the end of the dance, though, I didn't resist when he softly kissed me on the cheek, perhaps the nicest gesture any man had ever done.

Lorraine, I was glad to see, was as cautious as I. After a few more dances, she signalled that we had to leave. Outside the hall, we thanked them both but insisted that we had to work the next day, which at least in my case was true. We declined to give them any phone numbers or last names, but did kiss them on the cheek and say that we might come back two weeks from tonight.

The two of us were soon on the road home, with Lorraine dropping me off at the Longhorn so late that I had to buzz the door and get Josephine to admit me. Before she left, my ex-roommate confided that, for a pushy guy, Phil wasn't half bad, but that we both needed to go slowly. I had to agree, but still went to bed smiling after the first social interaction (even if it wasn't really a "date") I had ever had as an adult.

* * * * *

In my ordinary role as a food service worker for the Longhorn, my environment was friendly but hardly arousing. I began to realize that, after a decade of daily if not hourly sex, I was having withdrawal symptoms, going "cold turkey." Although I loved being free and eagerly counted my modest savings, I felt myself slipping back to my high school days, when I had no love life or even the prospect of one. For want of any other stimulation, I found myself day-dreaming more and more about my dubious career in a collar. For a few days, these thoughts enabled me to jill off repeatedly while in bed, but then the arrival of an even newer recovering slut, black haired Lisa, as my roommate inhibited me. Still, I had my memories. . .

I had spent three years at my first brothel, acting as a combination chamber maid and oral fluffer with occasional bouts of (usually painful) service as an ass whore. Eventually, however, the owners of this classy (as in low-classy) place decided they wanted to upgrade their inventory and with it their prices. A plain jane, flat-chested girl like me didn't fit that new image, so one day Master Charles abruptly handed me a garbage bag to pack up my meager belongings, turning me over to the Whips and Sticks Bordello.

You may have heard of that place—as the name implied, it was dedicated to BDSM. Its clientele were so sadistic that they would rather cane a girl than fuck her, even in the butt. Of course, they did both, but overnight I literally became a whipping girl, regularly reduced to tears and sometimes even losing control of my bladder (sorry to be crude; it happens). This was the only time in my entire slave existence when I got no pleasure at all. I was usually in such pain that I passed out before my sadistic temporary master got around to shoving his dick into my bruised body. In fact, the bruises were what saved me. I heard many of the customers say that they liked a "nice canvas" on which to work—that is, a victim whose skin showed no marks before they began flailing away. For that reason alone, the Whips and Sticks had about three times the number of girls—plus a few male slaves—that it had customers on a busy night. But my skin was so slow to recover from a beating, and even on a good day looked so unappealing, that the Whips and Sticks management decided I wasn't worth keeping around.

* * * * *

I was actually relieved to get to my new position, even though that position meant hours of kneeling, chained to a wall while sucking off anonymous pricks. Yeah, that's right, a glory hole, used by some of the least-appealing and smelly pricks in the Dallas region, the guys who could never persuade a free woman to bed them willingly. I'm not going to pretend that being a full-time cock-sucker was a barrel of laughs, but after working at Whips and Sticks for several months it was a relief to settle down to a steady diet of cocks and cum. Because of my time as a fluffer, THIS was something I knew how to deal with. Once I realized that I no longer had to "edge" a guy, but could get him off as quickly as possible, I really went to town, unleashing everything I had learned about oral sex. For the first time in my servitude, and perhaps even my entire life, my physical appearance was irrelevant—because the customer couldn't see me, he was free to imagine that I was the most gorgeous, prime-grade slut in the state. And, in terms of my skill at getting him off with my mouth and tongue, that was essentially true. After a while, my average time from first lick to getting a mouthful of baby batter went down to less than five minutes. And, because the glory hole operator allowed a 15-minute break after every ten successful sucks, I got to spend almost a quarter of every evening just relaxing.

Besides which, the glory hole's operator, Mistress Alice, was amazingly kind to me. In terms of physical appearance, our only similarity was in brown hair. Other than that, Alice was everything I'm not—tall, confident, handsome (maybe not beautiful, but imposing), and built like that famous red masonry restroom. Perhaps she felt a little sorry for me, and certainly she appreciated my dogged willingness to do anything asked of me no matter how disgusting. More fundamentally, however, Alice was a practicing feminist in the male chauvinist world of slave Texas.

That may seem odd, considering that her business depended upon one of the most submissive acts imaginable, kneeling to perform oral sex on male genitals without any hope that the male would reciprocate. Yet on any given night, no more than three or four of the twenty cock-suckers at this glory hole were, like me, female. The rest were male, many of them slaves but some volunteer submissives who willingly allowed Alice to lock up their pricks until such time as they had fulfilled a contract to swallow specified amounts of cum. These contracts required them to suck off up to 2,000 men, including a minimum of four hours' service each week during peak evening hours, before they would be freed. After I got comfortable with my new owner, I gingerly asked her about this, and she encouraged me to join in the cosmic joke she was playing on her customers, all of whom assumed that the mouths that serviced them were female!

Mistress Alice objected in principle to any form of slavery, but found it particularly objectionable for women who, to a much greater degree than men, were exploited sexually while wearing collars. Her business could not be profitable without using slaves, but she tried to minimize the oppression involved, especially of women. She did not mistreat the male slaves, who were as much victims as the girls. About once a week, she would permit each male slave to jerk himself off, or even (if they were very productive) to get a blowjob from another "employee." {If you're wondering, the women and even some of the men were willing to service each other in this way, because a 69 position gave both participants a chance for pleasure.) Alice DID go out of her way to humiliate and dominate the free submissives, but assured me that most of them actually WANTED a strong woman to control and debase them—they were submissives who liked the illusion that they were forced to act in this manner. Besides, as Alice reminded me, most guys can only think with one head at a time, and their locked-up genitals took priority over their brains. Privately, Alice admitted that those kneeling men, with their locked cocks and their mouths overflowing with cum, were actually quite brave, because they admitted and acted out their submissive tendencies in a society that strongly disapproved of such attitudes.