Sausages for the Slave Ch. 07

The wife is enjoying herself over dinner, looking at her instagram feed or twitter feed or something. Her mind is only half on her food. My mind is fully on her food, because most of my dinner derives from her food and has yet to arrive on my plate. I'm hungry, but she probably had a big business lunch. I've had a busy day shopping. I bought the hand tied sausages she was going on about, which are going to taste just like ordinary sausages. The fact that some big fat hairy butcher's assistant mauled them with his bare hands while twisting them into bundles of eight doesn't do anything for me. But she thinks it's funny; hand tied sausages for the slave.

We are having one of her favourites; the pork chop and sausage combo. She has a pork chop and I have a sausage - the hand tied sausage. She has control of the vegetables; boiled potatoes and steamed broccoli in a dish beside her plate. She peels whatever number of potatoes she wants and then I can take her peelings, the skins of the potatoes, from her side plate. Same with the broccoli, she cuts off the little stalks. She is finicky like that, a fussy eater. After she cuts off the stalks and puts them on her side plate I ask nicely if I might have some broccoli and she kindly says, after a pause, 'you may', with a little arch of her eyebrow that lets me know she might just as easily say 'you may not.' She likes to keep me on the edge in more ways than one.

At this stage I have a good idea of how much vegetables she will take. Cooking a double portion so that I get the leftovers doesn't work. I had to give up on that trick a long time ago. Now, after the meal, she supervises me to make sure I dump all the leftovers into the food bin. Then, if there is too much going into the bin, I am punished for wasting good food. So I don't try that on anymore.

My single hand tied sausage looks lonely on the plate as it waits for its garnish of potato skins and broccoli stalks. She has advised me in the past that I should realise that I am really getting the better of the deal because all the good of the potato is in the skins. No doubt some study or other will shortly find that all the good of the broccoli is in the stalks. Meanwhile she decides to include me in on whatever is amusing her.

She turns the phone towards me across the table, laughing. "You've got to see this," she says, "they loved it."

It's a close-up of me eating my dinner out of the dog bowl a few nights previously. She must have fitted a tiny camera down in the corner under the cupboards that day before she came up to let me out of my T-bar bondage. The picture is at floor level; a close up of me from across the dog bowl in front of me.

If I knew there was a camera on me from that angle I'd have tried to look a bit more dignified about it. There is my face all twisted like a snarling dog as I try to gnaw into the big raw broccoli stalk without using my hands to control it. There are lumps of rancid yoghurt stuck around my mouth and on the tip of my nose, criss-crossed with blurry black dots of the fruit flies buzzing around the dinner and crawling on me. The caption under the still says; Lord of the Flies?

"We've got four hundred likes," she adds. She flicks on to two similar twitter photos or whatever and shows me. Their captions read 'A side order of flies?' and 'Did I order French flies.' How original. I need to be careful here and not make a sarcastic comment. I don't want to spoil this business partners/ business buddies moment. We're a team. We're making it happen. I'm suffering for the team; high five.

"They are witty indeed," is the best I can muster. She gives me a bit of a funny look, but lets it go. She's too full of the success of her latest podcast in her 'Making the Slave Suffer' series to pull me up on it.

"They liked the other view too," she says. "They thought your period pole was a flag pole. She showed me two stills of the other view. It was taken from the camera near the kitchen ceiling. I know about that one, it is always there, always monitoring and recording my activities in the kitchen when she is at her office. The still views were of me from behind with the great big pole sticking up out of my bare ass and my red dress slid down and crumpled up against the back of my head over the dog bowl. She'd had me painfully wave that pole over and back a few times by waggling my ass for the camera.

I might have guessed she was doing a podcast. One of the captions said Apollo 18? Another said Dark side of the Moon? Fair enough, in the photo my ass looked a bit like the moon; pale and big and round, with the pole sticking up out of what might be politely called a crater in the centre of it. "They want us to put a flag on the end of it next time. We might make a game of it; the Flagpole Challenge: Guess what crater of the moon we've colonised with the flagpole. Colon-ised geddit?" My, we are in great form tonight.

The main thing was that my wife thought the whole thing a great success; lots of likes, lots of shares. If she's happy, I'm happy. I'm becoming a movie star in my own little way. In fact sometimes when I'm out doing the shopping I see people looking at me a bit that way.

It's like they presume they know me more than just somebody they see on the street. A snigger, a knowing look, a wink, a quick whisper to their companion while nodding their head in my direction. I can guess what they are saying; 'it's your man, you know, the slave guy from the podcasts.' No doubt the media stars get this all the time. Nobody's asked me for my autograph yet though. What would I sign it if they did? Slaveman Dan: how's that sound? Or Dan, the slaveman: more of a ring to it.

The shopping trip this morning was the usual mix of business and mortification. She makes me wear my shopping outfit. On top I wear a simple white tee-shirt, fairly tight and thin - a bit gay. I have black stretchy pants, a bit like what the male ice skaters wear in the figure skating competitions; tight and snug at the top and more normal down below the knee. They pull up tight into the crotch and around the cheeks of my bum. She had her alterations lady sew a little elasticated pouch into the front, stretched across like a flap. The flap is black and matches the pants. When I pull on the pants I have to position my dick and balls into the flap. If my cock behaves itself all is well. Everything looks normal, just a slight manly bulge in front. But when I get an erection, my hard-on points skywards, and pulls the flap up with it, pointing it like a tent. The golden rule with these pants is; don't get an erection in public.

Before she goes to work on a shopping morning my methodical wife always tugs at my balls, pulling the flap upwards to check the goods are properly positioned and will display if the worst comes to the worst. She'll tell me not to make a disgrace of myself while I am outside. 'I don't want the police phoning me up telling me you have been arrested for indecent behaviour in a public place,' is her usual parting shot as she heads off in her big car to her big office, at her big IT company, with her big salary.

To complete the shopping outfit I have a leather dog collar around my neck with one or those circular brass tags hanging off it, like you see on real dogs. It has my wife's phone number on one side along with the word 'text.' That's for if I get lost. Ha, ha. The other side just says 'Dan,' which is frankly, fucking insulting because Dan is my name. It gets me every time when I put the collar on as I get dressed for shopping. It takes me down, which is what she wants. It should be a nice adventure, getting to go out and wander down the main street, see what's going on, see other people going about their business. But what do they see? They see a grown adult who is being kept as a pet, labelled as a pet, and treated as a pet. So they treat me like a pet too.

I'm not a total pet, obviously. I have debit card, even if it has her name on it. I don't know the PIN but I can use it for purchases of up to 30 euro contactless. It can be embarrassing if I accidentally go over 30 euro limit. I have to leave back some stuff and redo the whole thing. I leave the receipts on her desk for her to check after I come in from doing the grocery shopping. She has an account at the butcher, the delicatessen and the green grocer so I don't have to use the card there. They all seem to know my status, including most of the checkout staff in the local supermarket.

They must be subscribing to the podcast. In the supermarket, the checkout person might say, 'Been a good boy then, Dan?' as I'm packing my groceries into the wheelie trolley. I'm supposed to say, 'woof, woof' back to them because they seen me do that regularly when I'm being put through humiliating doggie stuff on the podcast. Not just eating out of the dog bowl; even more humiliating stuff.

That's the trouble with living in a small commuter town. Not that everybody knows everybody, but enough know enough so that you do meet people you know regularly, especially those few of us who live there all the time and don't rush off to big jobs in the city every day. Me tugging my little shopping trolley along the street heading to the local supermarket is a common enough sight.

When this 'who's a good boy, then' stuff first started I didn't chose to go along with it. I just ignored the question. That was until a cheeky brat of an eighteen year old cashier refused to accept my debit card until I responded appropriately. A Mexican stand-off followed. I had my pride back then. I was blocking the other people in the queue. Stalemate; until the brat picked up the phone and said she would call the police and report me for attempted shoplifting.

I get very nervous about any threat of police involvement, for good reason, and she guessed as much. We subservient types get used to having to acquiesce to bullies. They sense our weakness and play on it. I quickly climbed down off my high horse and gave her a few woof, woofs. Anna, as her name tag said, wasn't going to be bought off that easily. She has got up a head of steam now and was going to show everybody in the supermarket who had the power and who didn't. A bully on a roll is best avoided, but I was caught in Anna's sights. 'You need to learn to say woof when I tell you to say woof, not when you feel like it,' said Anna, 'In this shop you will do what you are told to do by people in authority. And now you are going to learn a lesson that will help you to remember that in future.'

I stuck in another 'woof, woof' in the hope of placating her, but Anna was on a mission. She said she was not going to serve me and ordered me to go around the store and return everything onto its shelf. She said I could explain to my owner why I had got no groceries. I now know she was a big fan of the suburban slave podcast, or whatever the series was called back then.

She was a frequent tweeter, giving my wife her weekly thoughts on what she liked and didn't like in the podcast. She seemed to think she owned a bit of me, so she enjoyed shouting at me that I was putting this thing in the wrong place and to move that thing from here to there. Of course I got a massive erection while this was going on. The old humiliation kick was kicking in. As my penis engorged it stuck out into the flap of my black pants and hauled it upwards and outwards.

I covered it as best I could with one hand while running around the store returning the stuff. But my hard-on was obvious when I returned to the cashier. She had me stand at the side of the checkout with my hands at my sides, and my cock virtually visible through the stretchy elastic.

The bratty cashier made sure it was obvious to everybody. 'Look at him, the pervert. We can't have him going down the street like that.' Then she looked at me in the eye and said, 'Now who's a naughty doggie?' And I replied, 'woof, woof.' as I lowered my eyes before her brazen stare.

She told me to remain standing to the side while she checked the rest of the queue through. My rock hard cock was pushing heavily up into the pants flap and stretching the thin elastic material. A big drop of pre-cum had eased up and out the tip of my cock. Tell you something you mightn't know about stretchy nylon. It has no soakage. The shiny wet blob of precum oozed out on top of the point in my pants making what was happening obvious to everyone. You could even see a hint of the pink knob of my swollen cock through the thin stretched material.

I got a good looking over from the shoppers as they went through the checkout as I just stood there hands by my side, eyes down. Some of the locals in the queue were getting in on the act, chucking me under the chin as they went past, saying 'good doggie,' and getting an surly but compliant 'woof, woof' from me in return. The last two, as they went past, actually grabbed my cock through the thin material of the pants and gave it a couple of strokes, drawing more fluid out and spreading the wet patch. One was a woman of a good age who should know better, clearly reminding herself of good times gone by. She told me I was a bold doggie as she had herself a good feel.

The other was a man around my age. It seemed to be an impulse thing with him, as he was following behind the woman who stroked me first. She'd done it so he'd do it, or maybe he'd always wanted to feel another man's cock and suddenly a great chance presented itself. He was kind of tentative about it at first but let his hand linger as he asked if I was an obedient doggy. I felt like a piece of public property with total strangers queuing to feel me up and play with my cock.

There was a break in the line of shoppers after that and the cashier had me bend towards her so she could read the phone the number on my collar. She called my wife and told her that I had refused to cooperate with one of her biggest podcast fans. The eighteen year old had kept a hold of my collar, keeping me bent over the checkout counter, her hand gripping and hanging out of my brass name tag, while she was talking, enjoying her bit of control, getting into it. My wife must have told her to put me on, so she held her mobile to my ear. While my wife shouted at me for being stupid and made it clear I was going to suffer for this embarrassment, Anna kept hanging on to my name tag, like I was about to make a run for it.

The cashier took the phone back and they talked briefly. When the call finished she told me to stand facing the wall in the corner of the shop beside the office. She left me standing there for about 20 minutes until it was her time for her break. I read and re-read notices about fire drills and product recalls until she took me inside to their little tea room/office and told me that she and my wife had agreed that I should jack-off before I leave the shop.

I had to stand there in front of this eighteen year old and pull down my pants and do it. It took a while. She filmed it all on her phone. After I had juddered out the last bit of cum for her, she went to the office fridge and took a small bag of ice and pressed it against my already shrinking dick. It quickly shrivelled to a sticky mess of nothing and I pulled up my elastic trousers, with the flap folded down now that everything had shrunk out of sight.

Of course I had to lick up the few drops of cum off the floor for her. "Now who's going to be a good boy in future?" she said, slapping me steadily and firmly on my bottom which was sticking up in the air as I licked up the mess. "Woof, woof," I replied between licks. She sent me home with an empty shopping trolley and some explaining to do. An eighteen year old kid had slapped me, a nearly forty year old man, on the ass like I was a naughty schoolboy, and stood over me while making me jack off.

What made it worse was that it was clear that she hadn't the slightest sexual interest in me. I was just a temporary diversion from her daily grind; an opportunity to lord it over someone for once. It worked too. Now I dread going into the supermarket in case she is on the checkout. That day set the gold standard for humiliating shopping trips.

This morning I got on reasonably well at the shopping. I waved my wife off after she had checked out my package then made a quick visual inspection of the lawn for weeds as I headed out on foot pulling my shopping trolley with my shopping list and the debit card in a little pouch in the side of the trolley. There are no pockets in my pants or shirt. I feel a bit like I'm in a version of that book The Handmaids Tale, except instead of women it's men that have to dress in a certain way and are made feel like criminals if they get horny in public. My name would be Ofmary. Sounds OK.

In my version of the book there would have been some genetically engineered virus spread maliciously by man-haters and 90% of men were now sterile. Us remaining 10%, who accidentally avoided the virus, were very precious for the propagation of the race. Of course women were now in charge. Only women were allowed access the professional careers, teaching, public service and, of course, policing.

Men were used as gardeners, general labourers, tradesmen and in basic clerical support roles. We, the virile ones, were obliged to wear a tight pink polyester/lycra onesie when we went out in public. It had a tight hood that enclosed our head except for a small circular opening for the eyes, nose and mouth. In a crowded street the occasional round pink bobbing head and pink body made us look like the precious wriggling spermatozoa we were harbouring. Maybe that was the idea. The sterile males wore yellow, anything yellow would do.

Once a week our owners - because we virile ones had been auctioned off to the highest bidder - sent us to the local public sperm bank to make a compulsory donation for use by the State. We stood in line in the milking parlour with our tight pink outfits pulled down to at our knees. There was a row of milking stations in the main room with each station manned (that word had fallen into disuse, of course) by a female milking attendant.

We would bend over into the milking station with our hands resting on a low shelf in front that was below knee height. The attendant slipped a vacuum tube over our cocks with one hand. At the same time she would ram a permanently plugged in prostate massager into our asses and hold it hard against our prostate while the vacuum started pulling and squeezing on our cocks. An automatic card reader beside our head read the identification chip implanted in our ear lobe. The whole process took about two minutes. The amount of sperm produced was logged automatically and a statement issued to your owner. You got used to it.

While standing in the queue waiting for a milking station to become vacant, the loud rhythmic pulsing of the central vacuum pump coupled with the steady thrumming of the vibrating massagers was enough to set you off, so that you had a full erection by the time your turn came. You rarely got to come, it was more of a milking than an ejaculation. The prostate massager got the sperm flowing whether you were ready to come or not. The fact that there was a naked man bent over on either side of you, grunting occasionally as their sperm was drawn, their hands resting on the shelf inches from yours, made the whole thing very perfunctory.

The milking attendants didn't help either. They were usually fairly dim, hearty ladies prone to upper lip hair. They wore white lab coats straining over substantial waist lines on top of white trousers tucked into white wellington boots and were topped off by the obligatory hair net. All this was to convey the impression of it being a hygienic, laboratory or veterinary type operation. The attendants, sitting on stools beside each station, carried on shouted conversations with each other over the thumping din of the vacuum pump, ignoring you completely. Not that you would have tried to join in. Under the new dispensation men didn't dare to initiate conversations with women, or even speak without permission of their owners. They could answer a question that had been put to them.