Shannon and Sean Pt. 01

Which didn't make the processing any easier. The vet tech decided he had to check me for hernias (probing down there while telling me to cough) and then feel my prostrate--from the inside. He used rubber gloves and a LOT of lube to feel inside me, then followed up with an uncomfortably large rubber butt plug, telling me I would thank him for it the first time I got reamed. NOT something to look forward to.

Nor was it any fun to prance around on the worn-out wooden platform with one other guy plus Shannon and four other females. OK, OK--I couldn't help enjoying the sight of those young, healthy unclothed women shaking their bodies (I was in the back row with my dick very erect), but not while I also had to flaunt everything I had in front of Mistress Willow while shouting these disgusting come-ons as if I wanted one of the male wranglers to shove his prick into me. Yeech; if some guy pushed his dick into my mouth I'd either bite it off or barf all over him.

What actually happened was almost as bad as homosexual sodomy. Mistress Willow removed that damn butt plug, but only so she could photograph me posing, still buck naked, in various revealing poses. She particularly enjoyed having me kneel with my head on the floor, face looking back past my dangling scrotum and dick at the camera. My schlong was still erect and she'd put so much lube up my butt that I'm sure my anus, which still felt stretched around the plug, gleamed in the photograph.

Out of the corner of my eye, I had seen that dweeb Jerry putting Shannon through similar gyrations; I really felt sorry for her when he ordered her to suck his cock. Then I found out that Mistress Willow intended something almost as bad. After returning that butt plug up my wazoo and rebinding my wrists behind me, the economy-sized sexpot had me kneel under her work table in the same position as Shannon, and then she strapped a black dildo around her blue jean-covered waist. Damn thing must have been a foot long and 3 inches in circumference (I found myself trying to calculate the volume of that pecker--GAAA, is this what I studied geometry for??) I had never taken anything like that--other than a jumbo hotdog--in my mouth, so when I began to cautiously lick it she grabbed the back of my head and pushed slowly but firmly into my mouth. That monster must have been half-way down my throat by the time my nose encountered her belt-buckle. I will say that she took the trouble to ensure I could breathe, moving my head back and forth until I established a regular breathing pattern.

Her voice was almost sympathetic when she inquired, "Not so easy to be on the receiving end of a penis, is it, boy? Try to remember that when you get free and you want some woman to make you happy. I know you hate this right now, but I'm really doing you a favor. Cute boy like you? Odds are sometime over the next..." [she paused to consult the paperwork she was entering into the data base] "the next 12 months, lots of guys will want to test out your swallowing capacity. I know you're thinking about biting their dicks off, but they'll probably put a ring gag on you so you can't clamp down. Besides, you do know the punishment for a slave attacking a free person, don't you? At the very least, you'll be chemically castrated, and perhaps the court will just cut that pretty dick off you. Which would be a waste of a nice lookin' rod that women would love to play with. So, some free advice: learn to suck some idiot's cock without arguing so you can keep your own. OK, sweetie?"

(Reduced to its most basic, that idea really hit home. Here I was on my knees, trying to accommodate this huge rubber intruder, and the lady spells out that I could expect to such REAL dicks many times over the next year. I was committed to slavery, and the idea was both intimidating and revolting.)

Then she went back to entering the data and uploading the photos she had taken, making comments about what a "fine ass you have there, boy" as she did so. When the ordeal was over, she withdrew the rubber invader, used a wet nap to wipe it off, and stored it in a pouch on her belt, as if she might have to face-fuck (or worse) some other slave later today. Hell, she probably did!

The next stop was the showers, or more properly speaking the "slut wash"--instead of allowing slaves to wash themselves off, the Longhorn immobilized them--ankles restrained several feet apart, wrists, bound together behind the back, being pulled skyward to force each slave to bend forward, parallel to the ground, with breasts and genitals dangling below. Then a pair of rain-suited employees, generally 18-year-olds of the opposite gender of the slave, fondled and soaped each helpless "animal" for five minutes, taking time to brush teeth but also penetrate openings and fondle male genitalia. (The chance to play with naked bodies of the opposite sex meant that these young people usually worked for minimum wage. To be honest, my only objection was that these young women didn't CONTINUE playing with me long enough for me to orgasm!) Instead, the process was like an R-rated version of a dog washing. And THEN a warm water enema went into the large intestine, got left there for several uncomfortable minutes of gurgling, after which the "slut wash attendants" SLOWLY removed the bonds and walked the individual, who was squirming to hold butt cheeks together, over to one of several toilets where they had to unload, noisily and in full view of everyone. After which the entire process was repeated before the bedraggled slave was finally returned to his or her keeper.

After that, having to eat with bound hands, kneeling on concrete to put our faces into dog bowls of slave chow and water, was positively benign. Next, it was time to relieve myself, although it was difficult to urinate while a smiling, massively-titted female wrangler held my dick and pointed it at the pee grate on the floor. Next, our two keepers marched us to separate cages, equipped with cots and wool blankets, to spend the night. Mistress Willow released my hands and gave me instructions for the next morning; she did demand that I kneel down and kiss her boot, but that was a minor indignity, almost a routine gesture, after what I'd been through that afternoon.

Actually, I got off lightly and had as much sleep as was possible in such uncomfortable conditions. Much later, I learned that my sister had been bent over the back of a chair, ankles and wrists restrained to the chair legs, while two wranglers spit-roasted her. She pretended to be embarrassed about the experience, but the gleam in her eye told me that she had enjoyed having all that dick in her at once!

*****

(Shannon's Perspective)

I had finally fallen into a dreamless sleep when a raucous buzzer brought me back to unpleasant reality. The lights came on and my first view was of the wire mesh cage in which I was secured; if that didn't remind me of my new enslavement, once I began moving I was aware of an overall stiffness and slight stickiness--probably from all the stiffies that had been stuffed inside me the night before! That thought brought a slight smile to my face. Yeah, I know that no self-respecting woman should enjoy being used by a couple of strange guys, but at least they had taken pity on me, roughly manipulating my nipples and clit to ensure I got some enjoyment out of it. As I've said before, all slaves are addressed as "slut," probably to remind them that they have no say about how free people use them, but I guess I qualified as a slut under the more traditional, pejorative classification of a promiscuous, horny female. That was NOT what I expected to feel after my first--what, 16 hours of slavery? In that time, I had sucked more cock, some of it less than clean, than in my preceding life as a free woman. Still, if I got that many orgasms every day, I might survive my year in a collar.

But now I needed to get going so the wranglers didn't have an excuse to punish me. I quickly re-folded the blanket and laid it at the end of my bolted-down cot, and then knelt in the "slave spread" position, this time with my hands behind my head as well as my knees apart, facing the padlocked cage entrance to show everything that a free woman is taught to conceal. I had already noticed that the other girl in "my" cage--a black-haired, rather plump young thing who had appeared horrified when I got shafted last night--had gone through the same drill.

We had to wait, our bladders straining, for some undetermined time before a bored-looking wrangler arrived to secure our wrists and walk us to the slave toilets--no dividers or other privacy, so it was kinda hard to relieve myself with the male wrangler watching. I blushed even more when he used toilet paper to dry me afterwards.

Toilet, kibble and water for "breakfast," and then preparation for exhibition and slave grading. The handlers put a bunch of us on a practice platform and drilled us again on block positions and slave mantras, flaunting naked bodies in the chilly air conditioned air; the "Master" of ceremonies didn't seem as skilled as Mistress Shirley had been the night before. This experience was not only humiliating in itself but also a memory of my lewd display for a group of wranglers the previous afternoon. The block positions achieved their purpose, arousing all of us slaves again before we were graded to help us get the best possible scores.

Before I knew it, someone had sprayed Devoxer down my throat, depriving me of speech before restraining me on my back on a cold metal table that was then cranked open, leaving me spread-eagled in all my nudity, open for display. Quite apart from the sensation of helpless exposure, I was really worried that "Master" Jerry would have told our entire class to come see their favorite wet-dream ex-cheerleader "whore" spread "open for business" at the Longhorn. (Admission to the grading was available to anyone who could prove being 18 years old and could cough up a dollar for the entrance fee.) Given what he could have done, I felt almost grateful that, apparently, Jerry had only told two of his chums, the nerd couple Betsy Shuler and Terry Hastings. Terry was as silent as the Devoxer had forced me to be, staring wide-eyed at my "famous" tits and face, not to mention my heretofore carefully-concealed cunt. Two night ago I had shaved my bikini area clean, making me feel even more exposed. The bulge in Jerry's jeans told me he enjoyed the view of me both nude and helpless. (If you're wondering why I used such crude terms, remember that I'm writing this after an entire year in which I learned to think of myself as a bimbo sex slave. No sense worrying about euphemisms.)

Betsy, bless her heart, was much kinder. After the first look of shock when she saw my body on display, she resolutely focused only on my face, walking up very close to me to almost whisper, "I think you're very brave, Shannon. In your place, I'd probably faint from the horror of this situation. Keep it up, girl!" After that encouragement, I was almost GLAD that the three biggest nerds in our high school class had witnessed my debasement at the Long Horn.

I was still feeling reassured and happy, smiling quietly, when the slave wranglers swept out the peanut gallery of just-turned-18s and dirty old men, making room for serious, middle-aged men and women each carrying a tablet--the actual slave merchants whose average assessment would constitute my slave grade, followed later that day by those same merchants bidding to literally "own my ass." These people had seen so much slave dick and pussy that, apparently, they no longer reacted or felt attracted to it. Instead, each one silently looked us over and made notes on his or her tablets. A few peeled back my lips to check my teeth, as if I were a horse for sale--that image made me shudder at the thought of becoming a bound pony girl! Otherwise, almost the only touching was to slide a finger between my labia, apparently checking for arousal. I couldn't see why they would need to check, considering that I was still half-terrified, sporting erect nipples on heaving breasts while my clit stood at attention in the center of a tiny puddle.

Then my exposure was over, thank heavens; an anonymous (if handsy) wrangler released me from the rack, clipped my wrists together, and marched me off to another of the many wire cages. There, he sprayed the antidote for Devox down my throat, casually groped my breasts and labia, and released me. Just before he locked the cage door, he looked at his tablet. For the first time, he was almost human, telling me that I had graded as Choice Plus and that I needed to maintain my arousal so I would do well when I came up for auction.

He was right, of course--Choice Plus was a fairly good grade, but if I wanted to earn a high price at auction--and therefore PROBABLY better treatment as a slave--I needed to keep fondling myself so that I was close to boiling when I ended up on the auction block. But masturbating started to irritate my sensitive skin--horrible as it may be to admit, I almost wanted to be back on display to keep me turned on. I also wished that I knew how Sean was doing. I didn't realize that both of my wishes were about to come true in the most bizarre manner possible! At least I avoided the auction block for now...

*****

(Interlude, Shift Manager's Office)

After years of boredom and aggravation on the afternoon-evening shift, Harold Wallace had finally gotten his big break, becoming the shift operations manager for the 6 a.m. to 3 p.m. shift, when everything was happening. He wanted things to go smoothly, but didn't have a clue how to improve sales in the Longhorn's gift shop. He blamed Becky, the scatter-brained woman who ran the shop--as far as he was concerned, she was an affirmative action hire, in this case NOT because of her racial background, but rather because she was an ex-slave, one of the homeless and clueless people whom Jesse Foster, the VP for Operations, had hired on for six months while they transitioned back to freedom. About the only thing Becky could do without screwing up too badly was work in the shop, but by process of attrition she was the most experienced employee there, so now Harold was pressuring her to find a way to increase traffic and sales.

Well, he reflected, even a broken clock is right twice a day--she actually came up with an idea while looking aimlessly through the photo log of the current slave inventory.

"Well, well, well, lookie here--a brother & sister, both graded Choice." Becky cooed. "I bet you two think you know each other pretty well, huh? How about you get to know each other a little better?"

She turned to Harold. "Any problem if I put these two in the robo training collars, and have them 69 each other on the rotating display in front of the registers?"

"It's your department, Becky," Harold said, not looking up from his inventory tablet. "I don't care if you have Santa butt-fucking his elves while Rudolf licks their boobs, so long as you get your numbers up."

(For the benefit of those readers not up on the latest in slave training technology: the so-called "robo collar" could be attached to the top of an existing slave market shock collar, where it did two things: First, it had strong magnets that, while fluctuating in power every few seconds, pulled the wearer towards metal plates in a tight set of webbing around another person's thighs and genitals. Secondly, the collar attachment both held the slave's mouth open (like a dental dam or ring gag) AND would tense and relax in the same rhythm as the magnetic fields changed. The result? A slave wearing such a collar attachment, when ordered to fellate another person wearing the webbing, would find himself/herself rhythmically moving head and mouth back and forth, unable to break contact with the receiver's genitals while being forced into wide-open mouth. Any resistance led to audible warnings as the shock circuits engaged. One attachment even allowed the wrangler to automatically dribble water into the mouth so that the mouth remained hydrated and sensuous.)

(One more point, a spoiler alert: what Becky planned might be considered incest if it happened between two free people. Slaves, however, have no freedom of choice concerning whom they have sex with, regardless of their preferences about race or gender, nor are they allowed to refuse because of being married or genetically related.)

Giggling to herself, Becky wrote out an e-mail to Jerry and Willow, the two day-shift wranglers who, among other duties, were responsible for shepherding the O'Brien twins through their processing. Jerry just smiled at the thought of the high-and-mighty cheerleader queen bitch being humiliated in such a manner; he wouldn't have treated her like that on his own, but couldn't help enjoying the prospect of it happening to her. Willow felt sorry for the girl and guy, but that sympathy was soon replaced by a rosy daydream in which the redheaded wrangler and her husband, Jack, got to play the starring roles...

*****

Despite the perversity of it, Shannon's tongue felt magnificent, and her mouth encased him like a velvet glove. "If she wasn't my sister..." Sean thought. Catching himself, he realized that she WAS his sister, and he actually enjoyed licking her pussy while her warm tongue caressed his cock. They lay bound together, mouths to crotches, on a slowly rotating platform where six aisles of the Longhorn Gift Shop met in sort of a roundabout. And every few rotations, an automatic whip laced across his bare buttocks or the soles of her feet. The public address system, which had been playing cheesy Christmas songs, suddenly interrupted "Grandma Got Run Over By a Reindeer."

"Would you like to buy your sweetheart an early Christmas present?" the recorded voice intoned. "How about a brother and sister slave couple? Now available at the Longhorn Slave Market."

"Wow, do you think you and your sister could do that, honey? For Christmas? Or how about me and your sister?" a husband asked his wife.

"In your dreams, Donald."

Sean was about to cum when a shock from the tiny collar encircling his penis jolted him back to the reality that he was here to please others, not to be pleased. Shannon felt it as well and gave out a little cry as the buzz from his control device shocked her mouth, too.

"Flip," the voice in Sean's ear commanded. But Sean didn't want to flip, as he knew he'd be putting Shannon's shapely ass--and he couldn't help admiring it from this angle--up in position for the whip. Gritting his teeth, he decided to hold on.

Crack! Crack!

"Just do it, Sean," Shannon said, popping his dick out of her mouth to speak. "I'll be all right. They just want to us to switch positions for variety, and make sure the folks watching get to see... everything they want to. AAAAH!"

A crack across the soles of her bare feet and a computerized voice in her ear informed her that her brother's dick was NOT to leave her mouth.

Not that she needed much reminding--she had only spoken because she felt sorry for him, trying to be the big man accepting suffering to protect her. No, she didn't like being whipped--not really--but she was so damn excited that even the pain contributed to her endorphin high. For 20-plus hours now, she hadn't been Shannon O'Brien, rich cheerleader--she'd been a slave naked object, getting felt up and manipulated and just plain used by everyone she met. Even the high school nerds were now her superiors. Embarrassment [she noticed the sound of "bare ass" in the middle of that word], stimulation, subjugation, had all brought her to a boil. She knew she shouldn't be intimate with her brother, and the back of her mind asked how the hell she would ever look him in the eye when they regained their freedom? The FRONT of her mind was too busy enjoying the dual sensations of a warm tongue bathing her clit and labia at the same time she had a warm, firm dick to lick--the fact that it swelled as she stimulated it gave her a sense of sexual control over the guy even though she had no real control at all.