Shannon and Sean Pt. 01

(This story is set in a world where legalized, non-hereditary slavery is commonplace--usually as punishment for serious crime or foreclosure when a person pledged his/her body as collateral for a loan and was then unable to pay. This particular account addresses the third reason for slavery, when a person voluntarily self-indentures. Eighteen years of age is the minimum for anyone in this world to be enslaved or have any intimate/sexual contact with slaves. Thanks to Joe Doe, Mr. Smith, ZeeChromosome, ESS, Avvy, et al for helpful suggestions. WARNING: includes incest. This is pure fantasy; please don't try this at home, even if you live in Texas.)

(Shannon O'Brien's viewpoint)

A gentle breeze across my uncovered skin made being outside uncomfortable on a cold December day, even in Texas. Then my grandfather's executive assistant, "Belle" Bergen, gave the expected command, the first step into hell: "Collar."

My bare knees made painful contact with the sun-warmed gravel of the Long Horn Slave Market's parking lot; in the tradition of all slaves and people undergoing grading, my twin brother Sean and I were "butt nekkid" in full public view, our thighs wide apart, one hand on the waist and the other reaching up to hold our honey-blond hair (mine was shoulder length, his was barely long enough to comb) out of the way while Mistress Belle calmly cinched leather dog collars, each attached to a dog leash, around our necks. Once that was done, she issued another laconic command, or rather two commands: "Stand, back hands," which placed us in position for her to use zip-ties, restraining our wrists behind our backs. The tension of my hands behind my back forced my un-tanned breasts up and forward, my treacherous nipples erect (who knows why--nerves?) as if I were enjoying this humiliation and exposure. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed that Sean's dick was more than half erect and he was blushing at the indication that he also was enjoying his helpless nudity. We'd both been through the optional Slave Studies course in high school, where we practiced slave block moves and learned about the whole process, but this was suddenly REAL and more than a little scary, so our "fight or flight" reactions were kicking in.

Mistress took her time installing the collars and zip-ties; she was probably silently enjoying the sight of two 18-year-old "spoiled brats," whose antics had caused headaches for her and her boss, now reduced to collared slut-meat under her control. Eventually, however, she instructed us to "Heel" as she set off at a brisk pace (easier for her, clothed and wearing shoes, than for her barefoot and bound subjects) towards the large illuminated "Office" sign that marked the entrance to the slave market.

I guess I had better explain: since the death of our parents, killed a year ago by a drunk driver in a rainstorm, my brother and I were the sole heirs to O'Brien Enterprises, a multi-billion-dollar conglomerate that included everything from petroleum and natural gas to retail stores in 20 shopping centers; Grandfather even held a major stake in the Longhorn, where we were about to be sold!

Yeah, about that. Grandfather loved us both, but he was a self-made man who made no secret of his opinion that our deceased parents had spoiled us rotten. In retrospect, he was probably correct. Mom had always laughed off and forgiven any transgressions while giving us everything we could dream of, including not only Centurion black credit cards but twin Shelby GT's as soon as we got our driver's licenses at age 16. While we were too careful to have serious accidents or drive drunk, each of us had run up a number of tickets for speeding and recklessness. These and other rather-minor shenanigans (including sneaking out at night for sexual trysts) had led Grandfather to put his foot down: he demanded that, between high school and college, we spend the summer working at the Longhorn, but that seemed so lame that we had demurred. So grandfather upped the ante, demanding that we self-indenture ourselves for a year to experience the real world. If we refused, well--he would pay for college and then cut us loose, giving his stock in the company to long-suffering retainers like Mistress Belle. And we knew that Grandfather was stubborn enough to do it, too. Sigh.

*****

Grandfather was reasonable in his unreason--he reluctantly allowed us to attend our first semester of college (thus allowing me to keep my spot on the cheerleading squad) before we took a supposed "gap year" in collars. So, there we both were, seven months after high school graduation, being checked into the slave market on a Sunday afternoon in December. (The thought that our family owned the Longhorn made it even more humiliating.) In return for the one-semester delay, Grandfather had deliberately chosen the worst time of the week for us: no new slave grading or auctions would occur until Monday late morning, and in the meantime Sean and I would be just two naked "sluts" (the colloquial term for slaves) at the mercy of the weekend (and therefore probably least supervised, least professional) slave wranglers for whatever games they wanted to play. Good thing I had an IUD and had already lost my hymen...

At least it was warmer when we got inside the lobby, where a semi-circle of check-in stations stood, most of them unmanned at this hour on a weekend. But the humiliation of being naked, collared, bound livestock was reinforced when she led us up to the one active podium and ordered us to "Kneel, slave spread." Normally, that position meant not only widespread thighs but also fingers interlocked behind our heads--but with our hands still bound behind our backs, all we could do was kneel with our backs very straight, which in my case meant thrusting out my D-cup boobs even more. I have always been proud of them as they attracted the attention--and often the admiration--of almost every male who saw me since age 14, including the house slaves. I had even had to strap a household slave who was so mesmerized by my breasts that he didn't hear me give him an order. It felt very different for me to be the one wearing the collar, especially because, without a bra, my girls wobbled everywhere as I moved. In this instance I swear they didn't stop bobbling until 10 seconds after I knelt. Not only that, but the cold weather ensured that my nipples remained at full alert.

Another small mercy was that the person behind the podium was female--I knew that lots of guys were going to look at and probably play with my "girls," especially during the next two days, so I was glad to delay that experience for another few seconds. But this African American woman was intimidating in her own right, and not just because we were nude on our knees and she was looming over us, dressed as a slave wrangler--jeans, boots, and "Long Horn" logo T-shirt, plus an equipment belt festooned with various menacing objects including a taser, quirt, and handcuffs. The slave quirts that I had seen and used on others for years suddenly seemed much more frightening. Not that she would need these weapons with me--I was bound and besides, she was huge. Not an ounce of fat on her, but just BIG. She towered over Mistress Belle, and was probably taller than Sean even if he hadn't been on his knees looking up, his half-erect dick hanging out where she could easily kick it. The woman--whose nametag read "Florence"--was well-muscled and her body--well, let's just say that her chest was larger than mine, although proportionate to her form. Not surprisingly, she exuded self-confidence and control as she grinned down at us:

"Well, what do we have here? A matched pair of fresh-caught slaves?" she inquired in amused voice. Her eyes swept past my breasts (and erect nipples) and came to rest on Sean's cock. "Lookin' good, sweetie," she remarked, winking and obviously ogling that prick (I assure you I had NEVER wanted to see my brother's package, especially when it was erect--eeuuhh--but I had to admit it looked bigger than the two guys I had sucked off since turning 18.) Wordlessly, Mistress Belle handed "Florence" the notarized powers of attorney that authorized her to sell us into slavery--with minimal restrictions such as "No foreign travel"--for the next 365 days.

Florence glanced through them, then looked hard at our temporary mistress. "I've seen things like this before--did these two screw up big time, or what?" Belle didn't answer, but her face seemed to agree with the comment.

The Black wrangler fiddled around with some electronics, apparently scanning the documents into PDFs, and then returned them to Mistress Belle. She must have pushed a button to summon help, because a moment later two wranglers came through the double doors behind her. One was a Caucasian copy, almost a photographic negative, of Florence, a tall, smiling, pink-skinned woman wearing a nametag that read "Willow"; she headed towards Sean and replaced the dog collar with a heavier one that I knew must be the battery-powered shock collar used by most slave markets--as if they needed more control over us!

I only registered that later on, because my heart was sinking through the floor when I recognized the six-foot, surprisingly-weedy looking guy behind "Florence." Jerry had been in my high school class until a few months ago--a studious type with whom I'd had little interaction. I hadn't insulted him so much as ignored him, focusing instead on better looking (but dumber) guys who majored in sports rather than academics. Damn! Going to a slave market 40 miles from home, I had hoped that my brother and I could get through the ordeal of processing--which was bad enough even when conducted by strangers--without meeting anyone we knew. Just my luck to fall into the hands of the class nerd! He HAD to recognize me, I thought, even naked on my knees, but he just gave a little smile while he changed out my collar and substituted leather manacles for the zip-tie. I was shaking and humiliated (not to mention aroused for some reason, warm wetness between my thighs), and only barely registered the standard warning he was reciting:

"... the collar you are wearing can deliver a powerful and extremely painful electric shock if you attempt to leave this building without permission. Additionally, all Long Horn employees are authorized to use any means deemed necessary to compel you to comply with all orders given to you, and those means include electrical shock and whipping. If you follow my instructions you will not be hurt. Do you understand?"

I was glad to remember (who knew that a high school class could be useful?) that slaves weren't supposed to look at masters' faces without specific instructions, so instead I stared at the floor, nodded my head, and loudly announced "Yes, Master" when he asked that final question. A moment later, he had ordered me to stand and then guided me through the swinging doors. I was acutely aware of his warm hand gripping my left buttock, his fingers deep inside my crack and brushing against my cringing anus. This was going to be even worse than I had thought--so why were my damn nipples still sticking out? I won't even talk about the dampness and tension between my legs at the thought of this suddenly-powerful guy being in total control of my bare, bound body.

I could hear Sean walking behind us as we all headed to the "Veterinary" station, where I got restrained on my back in a Frankenstein version of an OB/GYN's table--there was an indentation for my bound hands, plus the dreaded stirrups (with Velcro straps attached) holding my legs up high and FAARRR apart. The guy who examined me wore a lab coat, but his nametag did not say anything about being a physician--guess that wasn't necessary on the weekend, when sales weren't imminent. Which didn't stop this wannabee slave veterinarian--probably an EMT--from fishing around inside me with the traditional cold speculum as well as his fingers. (Why did my damn birth canal get excited and self-lubricate?) At least he knew enough to recognize that I had an IUD; I had been prepared to protest (not that it would have done any good) if he tried to give me the birth control implant that slaves usually received. He did take some blood and proclaimed me free of known STDs (Duuh), which didn't guarantee that I might not end up getting one as a slave. One more thought to terrify me.

After that came the next stage to dread--getting a slave identification number (SIN) tattooed inside my lower lip. Again, the person doing the tattooing looked very young but at least it didn't hurt too much--a quick spray of anaesthetic, then a humming machine that felt like a thousand pinpricks, another spray of antibiotic, and I was done.

By this time I had almost--not quite--become accustomed to Jerry-the-nerd squeezing and goosing my butt, an act that even yesterday would have earned him a slap and an arrest for sexual assault. Now he was getting PAID to do something that hundreds of guys in my high school had dreamed about (I hate to sound arrogant, but Sean had told me that at least twice he'd decked guys for expressing a desire to grab my ass!) I decided that the best thing for me to do was pretend I couldn't feel it or at least didn't notice it--any kind of wiggle or protest was likely to get me even more fondling, not to mention increasing the chance that he recognized me. Besides, it felt kinda good to be controlled like that.

Sean and I, along with a half-dozen other naked, nervous people, ended up on a battered wooden platform, our hands unbound so that we could practice "Block Moves," the cruder, ruder, and lewder form of Slave Yoga, gyrating and exposing our bodies while loudly repeating suggestive come-ons (or should I say cum-ons?) such as "Master, my tight little ass can't wait for you to ram your monster dick up it" and "I long to swallow your massive cock, Master." I felt sorry for Sean, who was blushing at having to say the same things. The audience for this self-humiliation was a small group of slave wranglers; I couldn't help noticing Jerry grinning like a horn dog at all those tits & asses on display, bouncing everywhere while we were required to beg for use. By the looks of the bulge in his jeans, I was probably going to have to pay for the promises my mouth was making; I guess the liquid dripping down my inner thighs was a defense mechanism to prepare my body.

So far, all the slave wranglers I had seen, even the females, were large and imposing--most of them looked good, just scary, the kind who could tie me into knots and then suffocate me with their massive thighs. Now, however, the mistress of ceremonies directing our block moves looked like a child dressed up for Halloween--a short woman with a pretty face and protruding boobs that strained her logoed shirt, wearing the jeans, weapons belt, and boots of a slave wrangler even though those around her were nearly twice her size. Her name tag read "Shirley;" over the next half hour, Mistress Shirley issued a series of commands, demanding that we follow instructions correctly and, while we're at it, shout an appropriate slave mantra as if we REALLY wanted some dickhead to shove his filthy pecker into all of our openings. If anyone made a mistake or was less than enthusiastic, Mistress Shirley wasn't cruel but didn't hesitate to publicly shame and call that slave out, insisting that the move be repeated solo while sounding like a sex-crazed bimbo. Again, the forced enthusiasm contributed to my visible arousal; my three most sensitive nubs were protruding, and I felt a little trickle of liquid down my inner thigh. Even Sean and the one other male slave had erections; in fact, the sight of those "swinging Richards" probably contributed to my excitement. (Wash my filthy mind out for thinking about my brother like that!)

Getting us aroused made sense, because the next stage in processing was to take VERY explicit, pornographic photographs of each new slave. I knew my face looked distracted and aroused as Master Jerry insisted that I face the camera, one hand cupping a breast and the other fingering my clit; then on my knees, with my hands in the same places, and finally a rear (in both senses) shot through my widespread legs while my head was on the floor, looking back; Jerry had me hold my labia apart, showing my pink inner core glistening in the light from the camera. I'm sure my anus was also winking at him. I knew that there were serious criminal punishments for leaking official slave-grading photographs, but I suddenly got even more turned on at the idea of nerd Jerry selling those photos in our old high school! (What the heck was wrong with me, enjoying the idea of such humiliation? Clearly, Mistress Shirley had done a good job of turning me into a horny bitch.)

I was so aroused by thus treatment that I didn't even think of refusing his next orders: he had me crawl backwards on my knees into the leg space of a computer table, after which he casually unzipped his jeans, whipped out his junk as he sat down in front of me, and calmly ordered me to "Suck my dick, slut." Up to that day I had not been promiscuous, having only seen the equipment on three guys (not counting Sean.) But, at least from my crouching position, Master Jerry's shaft and balls looked really big and even tasty. After just one preliminary lick, I wrapped my lips around the head of his penis. I guess that wasn't enough for him, as he reached behind my head and pulled me firmly towards him, shoving his growing dick into my mouth and throat. Now it REALLY felt huge, and he wouldn't let me back off more than a few inches, either. I struggled not to gag.

Once I had settled into a rhythm, pumping the top four inches in and out while making wet sucking sounds, I heard him typing on the keyboard above my head. Belatedly, I realized that if he were entering me into the National Slave data base then he MUST know who was giving him head. A minute later, he backed up, momentarily removing his prick to look down at my face, only to remark,

"You know, everyone in the AV club was convinced that, with those dick-sucking lips always coated in red lipstick, you must give the best blow-jobs in the whole school. I'm really kinda disappointed; that performance won't satisfy anyone who owns you. You have to get a lot better at sucking real fast. How 'bout you try harder to make me hard, Shannon?" Now I really was blushing, but in a strange way his criticism made me determined to prove him wrong, to earn his respect if only as a fellatrix. Then he gently slapped his moist, rampant shaft against my face a few times, teasing me until I captured his mushroom head in my mouth and tried to inhale as much of his shaft as I could.

For the next three minutes I licked, slobbered, kissed, and swallowed every inch of his tool while staring soulfully up at him. I knew I was succeeding when his hands reached back behind my head and he vigorously face-fucked me a dozen times. I had trouble breathing as he pounded in and out, but in a perverse way I was proud when he suddenly erupted, firing what felt like several mouthfuls down my throat. I managed to catch the last of it as he pulled back, so I pushed his spew into one cheek while I slowly licked every inch of that shaft clean, then leaned back slightly and, with a smile on my face, stuck out my tongue to show him the goo, proof of my first slave suck.

"That's a good cock-sucking bitch; I knew you could do it! In fact, my dick looks so much better in your mouth than a silver spoon ever did." He remarked, nodding for me to swallow as he patted my head. (Only then did I realize how much I had enjoyed this experience--damn, I must really BE a slut, I thought as my face get even redder.)

*****

(Sean's perspective)

I had dreaded being a slave but figured it would be much worse for my sister, being a naked babe in a slave market; when I saw who was taking charge of her, I was sure of it. I thought she might die from the humiliation. But I found out the situation was no cakewalk for me, either. I mean, how would you like to be nekkid and bound, with your dick swinging around like you ENJOYED being a sex object? And that was even before I registered how emasculating it was to be pushed around by that incredibly stacked and imposing Amazonian wrangler, Mistress Willow. Dark red hair, tight clothing over a voluptuous body, usually smiling, and in total control of me. Given our size differential, it felt almost as if I were a 10-year-old being managed by an exceptionally large (and sexy) babysitter.