Sabbatical in Slavery Pt. 02

While the star performers were sometimes taken aside into bedrooms for a thorough examination of their skills, I and my fellow waitresses had been instructed to kneel and fellate any guest who indicated a desire to use us, but NOT bring them off if they said they were waiting to use another privileged slut. Therefore, I was pleased but not surprised when my new owner (and Nikki Sheldon's wealthy husband), Paul Sousa, gestured for me to kneel in front of him.

He did indeed unzip and offer his (substantial and clean) penis, which I dutifully inhaled. I was flattered that his dick grew quickly, but I suppose any heterosexual man would have a similar reaction if an almost naked young woman with large boobs took him into her mouth. He leaned over and almost whispered,

"Sorry, but if I took you into another room you might get in trouble. This way we can talk--feel free to take your mouth off me to answer. You don't need to prove your skill to me--I'm sure you've learned your lessons well, so just fake it."

We proceeded to have a whispered conversation, interrupted on my part by frequent slurping and moving my head forward and back to entertain his delicious prick. He wanted assurance that I was healing and not too downcast by my situation. At the end of our conversation, he suddenly sped up his pumping in and out, then pretended to come in my mouth and put his still-rigid cock away. Under the circumstances, he showed remarkable restraint--he was either an incredible gentleman who didn't want to force himself on a helpless slave (even one he owned) or he was an even rarer bird, a completely faithful husband! (I had already learned that having sex with slaves is not considered adultery in southern society--just a normal perk of being a wealthy free person.)

*****

Master Paul must have given me a flattering report, for Mistress Sophie was very pleased with me when next she had my lick HER (hairy, free, and untrained) pussy. A few days later, after a final flurry of forced fornication in all my forums and fundaments, I found myself once again bound and gagged, riding in a poodle cage inside a van. No matter how uncomfortable and demeaning the ride, I was at least traveling AWAY from the Pearson Ranch. Surely, I thought, the next eleven months of slavery couldn't possibly be as bad as the first one--you can't blame a brainless slave twat for being so wrong!

When the driver finally released me from that mobile prison, he led me on a leash, still gagged and cuffed, up the steps of a very fancy house, the kind I hoped one day to own when I became a wealthy business consultant. He rang the doorbell while I silently wondered whether this was another step in my humiliation. I was overjoyed when the door was opened promptly by a smiling Nikki Sheldon. She was wearing a very stylish business suit, having apparently just come from her work as a psychiatrist, while I was standing slave naked, in full public view--but it still felt like coming home to be transferred to her custody. My smile was as broad as hers, but I didn't know the protocol for such a situation, so I knelt in front of her and bowed my head to kiss her sandals while the driver got her signature accepting delivery. (In retrospect, the entire situation was bizarre. We had gone from friends and professional equals to owner and slave, free person and helpless "cunt," dressed professional and naked slut.)

Having been through similar experiences before, Nikki--excuse me, MISTRESS Nikki--defused the situation. She briskly ordered me to stand and follow her into the house, then gave me a warm hug before she removed my gag and released my wrists. "I'm so glad to see you, Lindsay; come on, I'm sure you need a toilet." As I followed her to the nearest half-bathroom, I realized that I was overjoyed not just to see a friend who was kind to me but to be addressed as Lindsay, rather than "Slut 6627" (the last 4 digits of my Slave Identification Number) or simply "cunt," "bitch," "slave twat," and all the other demeaning terms used to emphasize my purpose as a slave and my subordination to free people. It took so little to lift my spirits!

Nikki pointed out toothpaste, toothbrush, and mouthwash waiting on the little bathroom sink, and left me to relieve myself and clean up, telling me to join her in the living room when I was ready. I found her sitting in a comfortable chair, so I automatically knelt in front of her, fingers interlocked behind my neck, naked boobs thrust forward. Nikki made no comment about my subservience, just smiled and repeated her happiness at seeing me again. Even though I was naked on my knees, it was a joy to have a conversation without commands, criticism, or sexual overtones. Still, I was careful not to break position or omit the word "Mistress" from any sentence I uttered.

After a few minutes of chatter, mostly about what Paul and she had been doing, she finally looked directly in my eyes and remarked, flatly, "So now you know."

"Yes, Mistress," I replied. "You were right that being a slave gives me an entirely different understanding of my situation. To be honest, this is the first time in over a month that I've talked to a free person without expecting to be trained or used sexually."

Nikki smiled a little sadly. "Yeah, that's a key part of being a slave--every interaction with a free person demands instant obedience and usually sex. Speaking of which, how horny are you right now?"

I suddenly realized that my poodle transport had been the longest period of consciousness that I'd spent in a collar that did NOT involve sexual stimulation and service. She was right--I'd become so used to being a sex slave that I was already wondering when my next blowjob or shafting would happen! Helplessness, training, and "whore-moans" had made me hornier than any teenager, and the thought of that, even more than my nudity and subservience, caused me to blush deeply while still longing for more use. I nodded, but before I could even form a coherent thought, Nikki continued speaking as if she had been reading my mind.

"That's right, sweetie, they've made you addicted to submissive sex. It may fade a little if you don't get another happy juice injection, but you're still going to be begging for use on a daily basis. If this were the end of your indenture, I'd advise you on how to reduce your dependence on that, but considering you still have eleven months of enslavement to go, it would be cruel to do that now. Just remember that this house is sort of a safe zone for you--I'm sure that Paul told you we intend to have you visit here periodically so that you can rest up and write down your observations about slavery."

Wow. Considering that these two could just have pimped me out 24/7 for the next eleven months, giving me recurring opportunities to rest and reflect on my experience was incredibly generous. I started to thank her, but she interrupted,

"I'm not asking you to thank us, just trying to put you at ease. I AM going to have you do a little housekeeping around here--change and wash the sheets and towels, vacuum the rugs, scrub out the sinks and toilets--but that's just because Paul and I are too busy with our work to clean up after two and now three occupants."

Nikki continued, "But, what I really wanted to say was that any time YOU feel too horny, you just need to kneel in front of us as you are now and ask to be used. We may put your mouth to work pleasing us, or we might shaft you with a dick or strap-on, but we don't want you to suffer TOO much frustration. As it is, Paul's planning to put you to work at his BDSM club in three or four days, and let me tell you THAT should provide all the stimulation and domination you crave. Meanwhile, though, don't hesitate to ask for what you need."

Without pausing, she continued. "Paul and I have both been slaves, so we don't intend to force ourselves on you in our home, but we get just as horny as any former slave, and we've given each other permission to play with you when YOU need to be fucked, OK?" It was shocking to hear this youthful, innocent-looking and happily married medical professional speak casually of fucking outside of wedlock, but I realized that she really did understand my needs and motivations.

It suddenly occurred to me--now that I had become mentally addicted, what would I do for humiliation and sexual use once I regained my freedom? I MUST be under the influence of "Slave Mind"--here I was, praying to survive another eleven months to regain my freedom and my clothes, yet I found myself contemplating pretending to be a slave after that time, just to get my fix of submissive sex! A strange idea about that desire for submission hung just outside my consciousness, but it wasn't until that night that I put two and two together, and came up with--FLAME! Son-of-a (wait--that's not right; we've already established that I'M a bitch, and now...) If, as both Nikki and I suspected, Sarah Hollister had at some point experienced sexual slavery, then it stood to reason that she like me would feel a hankering to experience that same sexual domination periodically even after she regained her freedom. Was it possible that the slut Flame on board the cruise brothel Yo Ho Ho, the good-looking, skanky redhead who somehow had SARAH HOLLISTER's Slave Identification Number inside her lip was really Sarah getting her jollies by pretending to be a slave??

Naaah, things didn't add up. Nikki and I had both become slaves because of our ignorant and trusting natures, but NOBODY would voluntarily become a slave TWICE. No matter how much I hated Sarah, I couldn't imagine even HER being dumb enough to do that, especially when surrounded by all those slave merchants who would recognize her! Besides, Flame had a very deep, very real Sandy Foot Girl brand on her ass, and how could Sarah have gotten such a badge without people finding out she'd been a slave? Nice theory, but I found it hard to believe she had voluntarily put a collar back on to masquerade on the cruise ship.

For the next three days, I had an easy life, at least easy for a slave. During the day I was often alone, left to do housekeeping and then write out my observations--many of which I've confided in this tale--of what it meant to be a slave. Having been reduced to a "brainless, cock-hungry bimbo," I found it surprisingly difficult to express what I had learned in dispassionate academic terms without the obscenities that appear constantly in this paper. I even asked Nikki to review the first draft, and she gave me some good ideas to explain my motivation. (This tale of a slave tail grew out of her suggestion that I write a chronological recollection of my experiences to help me identify the lessons involved.)

In the early mornings and early evenings, when it was chilly, she let me wear T-shirt style nightgowns. They may have been large by Nikki's standards, but on ME these garments were so tight across the boobs and butt that they made my body look like an over-ripe Jessica Rabbit caricature (I know that's a redundancy, but the newly-discovered slut inside me enjoyed the idea that some free man would see my tightly- and barely-draped body and give me some of the dick I so desperately craved.) Nikki also bought me several see-through bras to support my newly-expanded boobs.

When Paul was home of an evening rather than working at his club, he and Nikki spent some time cuddling on a couch while watching TV or Netflix; both of them seemed very willing to have me kneel while orally servicing them. One night, Nikki was gone overnight (I think she had to consult at a slave market elsewhere in the state), so Paul generously--and I do mean he was generous, not lascivious--cuffed my hands and bent me over the back of that couch so that he could slowly shaft his slave while he watched the evening news over my head! I know that sounds weird, but in a way he seemed to be just indulging my addiction, not "fucking the collared help," a common if crude pastime of wealthy men in Texas. Afterwards, he sent me to shower and then allowed me to cuddle with him in bed. It wasn't about sex--he just remarked that, when HE had been a convicted slave on a chain gang, he had really missed the reassurance of physical contact. Another thought for my paper. Sigh; that was undoubtedly the best night I'd spent since I was collared, and he didn't even tweak my nipples!

At various times over my remaining indenture, I spent 3 more periods of 4-7 days each at Nikki's house, writing my thoughts and washing laundry in the daytime, and (if I begged enough) servicing my two owners sexually at night. When Paul was away, Nikki would strap on a dildo, bend me over, and shaft me vigorously while praising my performance as a whore.

That first interlude of 4 days ended one morning when my legal owner, Paul Sousa, had me strip off my nightgown, don the transparent plastic poncho permitted to slaves in inclement weather, and sit in his car, collared and cuffed, while he drove us to his club in Fort Worth. Paul made it very clear that he would NOT force me to have sex with anyone against my will, but by now he knew that I was so horny I would gladly agree to ANYTHING that involved being fucked!

Arriving at the club, Master Paul turned me over to a woman who held the oxymoronic title of "Head Submissive,"--that is, the den mother of the young women who acted as paid submissives as well as waitresses at the club. She was a very pretty, busty brunette of about my age, who introduced herself as "Cheryl Pierce, Cheri to my friends." Once she convinced me not to stand on ceremony by calling her "Mistress," Cheri outfitted me with the tight leather outfit worn by the other girls--a broad fake collar (that covered my actual collar, converting my appearance from genuine slave to a volunteer submissive) with a tight bustier/bra that put my 38DD's on display and practically begged any male to reach into my cleavage. She also gave me tall leather boots with 3-inch heels and finally a pair of tight leather short-shorts that came with some interesting appendages. Nikki had warned me about these shorts, laughing at the memory of herself wearing them: inside each pair were two thick, plastic-covered shafts, clearly designed to fill my lower openings. The front one was six inches tall while the rearward (both towards the rear and going into MY rear!) was somewhat shorter and narrower, with a narrow neck just above the point where the dildo was attached to the shorts, turning it into a plug that my anus would embrace tightly. That meant that I spent every evening with both of my lower openings stuffed--except when I volunteered to be a bondage submissive, in which case the shorts would come off so that flesh and perhaps strap-ons could fill me instead.

Nikki had warned me that each shaft was actually a powerful vibrator, with a third one mounted on the front of those shorts where it would make contact with my constantly-aroused clit. Every table in the club had a device where the members/customers could "tip" me for good service or just to watch me jiggle around--if more than one table tipped me at the same time, more than one vibrator would start up, running for two minutes that felt like forever.

Even without these vibrators, I had a blast that evening, flirting with and teasing the customers, trying not to spill drinks when vibrators cut in suddenly. Now that the slave market and Pearson's Ranch had turned me into a horny bimbo slut (redundancy?), I really enjoyed waitressing for a crowd of males plus a few free females. I purposely bent over whenever I served drinks, allowing the customers to fondle my boobs in front or slide their hands down my tight shorts and squeeze my bare butt.

By the end of the first evening, I was on the verge of climaxing from this combination of stimulation, fondling, and flirting. Cheri told me to sleep in one of the scene rooms, but I was so hyped up that I scarcely got any rest. When a lull came early on the second evening that I worked at the club, I begged Master Paul to ravage me.

"Let's be clear about this, Lindsay," he replied, quietly. "I've already told you that the only way for you to get used sexually here is to surrender your body as a submissive. Are you asking me to use you in that way?"

I babbled a response, eagerly agreeing. In the blink of an eye, he had cuffed my hands behind my back, led me into the room where I had crashed the previous night, put me on my knees, and abruptly ordered me to "Suck dick, slut." I eagerly tongued, slobbered over, and swallowed his cock and balls, doing my best to get him excited. In less than 30 seconds I unleashed a tiger--Master Paul jerked me to my feet, bent me over and bound me to a bondage rack, then pulled my tight leather pants with attached shafts down to my knees.

By this time I was begging him to use me any way he wanted--"whip me, fuck me, cornhole me, POUND me, Master. PLEASE!" He obliged me, ramming my twat doggie style for several minutes and then, as I began to twitch and shake in submissive orgasm, he shifted targets, hastily squirted more lube up my back passage and worked himself deep inside me. Lying down on top of me, Master Paul reached around to toy with my boobs and clit while building up the rate and force with which he butt-fucked me.

I don't even recall when and how he discharged inside me, because I was so overwhelmed by his masterful use that I shook and vibrated for minutes on end. When I recovered consciousness, he was releasing me from the rack and my cuffs, then firmly swatted my butt as he sent me into the shower for a quick wash.

From then on, for the next two weeks or so, Submissive Lindsay was the new toy on the block, being regularly humiliated, restrained, flagellated, and gloriously shafted by every member (in both sense of that word) of the club. I awoke refreshed every morning, having flirted outrageously with the customers every evening and enjoyed it when they plowed my openings every night. If it were possible to drug yourself with submissive sex and whipping, then I overdosed and became addicted. Twice, the owner or his bouncers intervened to protect me from injury, after which I got a night off for my skin to recover--a night I spent longing for more male use!

I realized that was the key--the sex was fun, but what I really craved was the attention of free men; slave mind had set in HARD. I lost track of how many times I got fucked in which holes but suffice it to say that Master Paul told me, a week into this string of nightly orgies, that I was a credit to Pearson's training. Another brainless and promiscuous Pearson pussy.

*****

I would happily have served out the remaining months of my indenture as Lindsay the bondage bimbo, acting the entire time like the kind of slave slut that I had so often disparaged. All good things come to an end, though...

One late morning, Cheri told me to go to the boss's office. I reminded myself that I was still Master Paul's property, so I paused to strip off my robe before knocking on his door. When he responded to the knock, I walked in and assumed the Present position in front of his desk with my legs slightly apart, fingers interlaced behind my neck, displaying every inch of my body to him; just standing there like that fueled my sense of vulnerability and submission. "You sent for me, Master?" I asked, half hoping he would throw me over his desk and give me a morning fuck--let's face it, I'd become an insatiable whore! Still, his next words filled me with dread.

"I have to be honest with you, Lindsay: as a former slave, it bothers me that people like you actually make careers and profits at the expense of enslaved human beings." I was shocked and briefly terrified--I had come to trust this man, my owner, and now he told me that he hated what I did?

He went on without pausing. "At least you have the guts to actually experience this evil first-hand, which is more than most people in the business do. Besides, if I treated you the way most slaves are treated, I would be no better than you--and no, BDSM play isn't real punishment because you seem to be a natural submissive who ENJOYS it." He paused, then continued. "However, as I recall, you enslaved yourself because you wanted to understand how sex slaves think." Without waiting for an acknowledgement, he continued. "So, I've decided to help you with your 'research' [his hands sketched imaginary quotation marks around the last word;] I'm leasing you out to SlutsRUs."