Shannon and Sean Pt. 04

Shannon and Sean, Pt. 04

(This story is set in a world where legalized, non-hereditary slavery is commonplace--usually as punishment for serious crime, foreclosure when a person pledged his/her body as collateral for a loan and was then unable to pay, or in this instance voluntary self-indenture. 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 Avicia, ESS, and Joe Doe for helpful suggestions. This is pure fantasy; please don't try this at home, even if you know some young people who would benefit from a swift kick--or more--in the butt.)

(Sean O'Brien's perspective)

This was getting old. For the third time in about seven months, I was slave naked, collared, gagged, butt-plugged, and kneeling in an oversized poodle cage with my wrists zip-tied behind my back, after which they, along with my two ankles, had been tied to the back of the cage. My dick was once again restrained in a chastity belt, and my mouth held a canvas gag coated with some unknown slave wrangler's cum--the traditional "joke" to humiliate a slave further (as if that were possible) by making said slave feel as if he/she had given a blow-job and then swallowed only part of some guy's disgusting goo. My knees hurt as I knelt on a hard tray, and worst of all I had no idea how long I would be in that cage nor where I was headed--the usual situation for a slave.

The neighboring cage contained my sister, Shannon, similarly restrained. In my mind, she had it worse than I. I hated being sodomized by free men, but sometimes I got to fuck or lick free women, so life wasn't completely bad. By contrast, my sister was a beautiful woman who was frequently used and abused by both genders of free people, and there was nothing I could do to reduce her anguish and humiliation. Fortunately, I guess, on our previous assignment as sluts a guy from our high school, Mike Lefkowicz, had discovered her quite by accident. Mike was a management intern at the resort who had at least made her feel happy and respected while he pounded her brains out. I only hoped that she hadn't fallen so hard that she would expect an epic love affair once we regained our freedom at the end of our year's servitude--for all I could tell, Mike had just indulged himself when offered the chance to screw the enslaved cheerleader queen of our former high school. If nothing else, our grandfather's insistence that we self-indenture had taught us both the value of our own freedom and the importance of treating all slaves with consideration and respect. Maybe the old man wasn't quite as crazy as we had thought...

*****

When our cages came off the aircraft at our destination, I heard one of the baggage handlers say that we were at Logan Airport, which meant Boston. Then, still bound, gagged, and caged like the domesticated animals we legally were, we were loaded into the back of a DHL van that took us on a wild, start-stop ride suggesting that the driver was weaving through heavy traffic. Eventually, we ended up at another loading dock, this one remarkably clean and filled, except for us, with pallets of what looked like copy paper, printer cartridges, and office supplies. We went through what I now recognized as the usual ritual for slaves being transferred to new owners: "beeps" indicating that our national slave numbers had been loaded into a new system, followed by someone cutting the zip-ties that bound us to our cages and then opening the cage doors to release us. Orders to shuffle forward to a line on the floor, then wait until new shock collars were wrapped around our necks. The only relevant part of the normal warning speech was the first two sentences: "You are at the slave kennels of Peterson Enterprises in Boston, Massachusetts, where you will be assigned a variety of service duties. Most of the time you will provide general office support, although during the next three evenings you will perform at a different location that we will explain later."

"General office support" didn't sound too horrible, but we soon learned that the "different location" required some of the most disgusting service of our entire year in collars. After a hasty and tasteless meal of slave kibble, my sister and I were shoved into the back seat of a car, which (even with hands cuffed) was a lot more comfortable than "poodle express" cages. That was the only consideration we received, however. The wrangler who drove us walked us into the back door of a building where we suddenly came upon a long line of perhaps 15 positions, 10 of which were filled by naked slaves, both male and female, kneeling, hands cuffed behind their backs while their collars were tied via a very short chain that held their faces close to small holes--the empty positions had light streaming through them while the ones occupied by slaves were obstructed by something as the slaves bobbed forward and back, some of them making small sucking sounds.

I had just arrived at the horrifying explanation for this bizarre display when the middle-aged woman who obviously ran the place, clothed in jeans and a tight sweater, confirmed my worst fears. "That's right, boys and girls, this is the back end of a Glory Hole, and you get to provide warm, wet mouths to entertain our customers plus a free helping of protein to swallow from each customer."

The male wrangler who had brought us there explained that this was part of our orientation to working for Peterson Enterprises, which occasionally provided supplemental mouths for this establishment. "We have all newly-arrived slaves suck here for a few nights so they realize how well off they are when they work in our offices. If you balk at licking a prick or swallowing cum, Mistress Christine here will be happy to clamp an alligator clip onto your clit or penis--a clip that will be connected to an electric circuit so that the customer can shock you where it really hurts! Customers really love finding those circuits activated--the cock sucker makes such interesting noises when the button gets pushed!"

He paused to let that sink in, then continued: "Behave yourself, both here and in office work, and you probably won't have to come back and suck dick here again, except perhaps during certain holidays when demand for oral services is high. Misbehave in any way and you'll find yourself back here on your knees for a minimum of two weeks. Just remember: no matter what the executives want you to do in the office, it will be a lot more pleasant than swallowing six dicks every hour, followed by getting cum down your throat or painted all over your face. Understand, sluts?"

I was so horrified that I barely remembered to answer "Yes, Master" to his question.

That's what we did for the next three evenings. For 90 minutes or 6 cocks, whichever came first, we had to satisfy the lowest urges of free men, some of whom had significant deficiencies in personal hygiene, if you know what I mean. Then the lady in charge, Mistress Christine, would release us temporarily, one at a time, offer a sample-sized bottle of mouthwash, and let us use the toilet and try to zone out from our horrendous reality. If business was slow, she sometimes offered me (I guess because I was reasonably good looking), the opportunity--and believe me, it was an opportunity!--to kneel and orally service HER, which was a lot more fun than sucking cocks, let me tell you. I found myself thanking the Lord that Mistress Joanne, the wrangler who trained me at the ranch, had instructed me on cunnilingus, because once Christine found out how good I was between her thighs, I became her favorite rug-muncher for the weekend. Every minute I spent between her thighs was a minute I didn't have to struggle against the urge to retch around some wannabee stud's puny penis. By contrast, my unfortunate sister must have swallowed two gallons of strange goo over three nights. After hours we had to mop up the mess to maintain basic sanitation.

Believe me, BOTH of us learned our lesson, and were completely, eagerly cooperative no matter how loathsome our duties seemed in the Peterson Enterprises offices.

*****

Not only that, but in the office we actually got to wear clothes of a sort--usually the kind of cheap scrubs favored by cleaning crews, augmented for my sister by the first bra she had been allowed to wear since we stripped down at the Longhorn slave market back in December. The absence of breast support had become a much BIGGER problem because the horny juice injections given to female slaves caused her already bodacious boobs to expand by most of a cup size. She later told me what a relief it was not to deal with the weight of those puppies pulling her forward all the time she was a naked or nearly-naked slave.

All that said, the office bore only a superficial resemblance to an ordinary white-collar business. Peterson Enterprises needed a sub-title, something to the effect of "Perverts Extraordinaire: dedicated to the sexual exploitation of human beings, with occasional interruptions when business breaks out between sexual liaisons." Yet we were still expected to get through a normal load of work each day.

(Shannon O'Brien's perspective)

We did a lot of mind-numbing gofer work in the offices. After all this time as a slave, getting felt up was no big deal, but of course the dick-heads in suits didn't stop with just touching. This was heaven for overgrown little boys who could finally satisfy all their adolescent desires while actually getting PAID to do so, an incredible opportunity in the era of "Me Too" and wage equality. Almost every time I delivered something to an office or came back after photocopying a document, the douchebag in charge wanted a blow-job if not more. More than one of the free administrative assistants, almost all of whom were good-looking, college-educated women, privately thanked me for keeping their bosses happy, because otherwise the free women would have been harassed, which was not only repulsive but interfered with their actual duties.)

My brother seemed to get the same treatment, and I knew he hated sucking dick whereas I had gotten used to it and could (sometimes) enjoy a mouthful of cock so long as it was clean. Even the taste of cum didn't bother me much after eight plus months in a collar, especially when you work in a place where the bathrooms all have bottles of mouthwash for the sluts. Fortunately for Sean, there were a significant number of females on staff, including at least two who were senior managers (to be honest, some of the male executives enjoyed staring at the bodies even of those women, although the dick-heads never dared proposition them--why risk harassment charges when they had a slave staff to service their over-active pricks?) Not all the free females were young and good looking, of course, but almost all were in far better shape than the average woman who had used my brother at the resort, so I don't imagine it was any major task for him to get it up. In fact, given that we no longer wore chastity belts, I noticed a bulge in his scrubs and his eyes sometimes tracking the better-looking females, slave and free, in the offices of Peterson Enterprises (with the word "Peter" in the firm's title, why was I surprised there were so many stiff peters around? It was as if some of these jerks really were brain-dead, but for some reason rigor mortis has set in on their cocks and their little brains before their joints.)

Anyway, my brother later confessed that he enjoyed fellating and fucking the female staff; he sheepishly acknowledged that while he had no desire to be sodomized, it was still much nicer to have a sweet-smelling woman rub her boobs on his back while pegging him than to have a male butt-fuck him. In other words, we had both gotten over many of our hangups about servicing other people--which still didn't mean that we WANTED to be used casually like that, nor that we had become willingly bi-sexual.

In fact, there were unspoken limits concerning how the free people could use the slaves. Nobody cared how WE felt about being face-fucked, bent over a desk, or sodomized and left unsatisfied, but in my first month I twice heard a supervisor reprimand a junior suit for neglecting his duties while he got his jollies from the collared staff. When that happened, I pretended to be selectively deaf, although it was nice to think that I had indirectly been the instrument for a self-propelled dick-head to be punished for his thoughtless use of my body...

What went on after hours was often far more debasing. Based on seniority, the suits of all genders could reserve the slaves for evening use, with Fridays extending into Saturdays. The only time limitation was that we slaves must be returned to the kennels by 7:30 a.m. on weekdays and by 7 p.m. on Saturdays, giving us time for a shower on a weekday morning and a long rest on Sundays. Every Monday morning, we were all tested for sexually-transmitted diseases, which suggested that the management was well aware that their slave inventory was sometimes used for gang-bangs on Friday nights, and wanted to do contact tracing before we might spread an infection the following week. Lawyers are supposed to be amoral, but if they got VD it might cut into their billable hours (horrors!)

The female executives seemed divided into two groups: some borrowed male slaves like my brother, while others enjoyed dominant lesbian games with the female sluts like me. One such female would book several female slaves and choreograph a lesbian porn scene; after we had rehearsed it she would film us doing lesbian porn for her private enjoyment. At least I HOPED it stayed private and didn't end up on the internet somewhere; another part of me hoped that I got to watch these scenes, as they were wildly erotic and the best lesbian sex I had all year. I still had only limited interest in lesbian sex, although it was nice to be with someone who cared about my pleasure and might even snuggle with me once we were finished.

The male dicks, especially the overgrown adolescents right out of college, tended to cooperate with each other, reserving two or more of the (usually female) slaves so that they could be shared around and double-teamed on evenings or weekends. I must admit that I usually got a thrill out of being filled by two or three dicks at once, and one memorable time I had three cocks inside me and two more than I was somehow expected to entertain with my hands. I sometimes doubted whether there was sufficient room in my bowels for two pricks, even small ones, to fit side-by-side in my soft tissues down there, but after ten-plus months of sexual servitude I couldn't help climaxing at the sensation; my birth canal and colon both compressed so strongly that my own orgasms triggered those of my temporary masters. No sense kidding myself--I had been conditioned to be a cock-hungry slut, whore, or whatever pejorative term you cared to apply to me. I just hoped that I could regain a LITTLE control over my horniness when the collar finally came off in December. Otherwise, I might as well give up on college studies and just major in whoredom, fulfilling all the negative and unfair stereotypes concerning cheerleaders.

For the moment, I attempted to endure the humiliation and take some pleasure and comfort where I could find them. In the process I became a fairly good actress. In the office, I tried to appear blank and emotionless, avoiding any feeling or sign of humiliation that might encourage the dick-heads to target me when they wanted to enjoy subjugating a woman. Once I was singled out for use, I would smile like a mindless bimbo, giggle happily when penetrated, and work hard to bring them off as quickly and painlessly as possible. And I learned how to bring on my own orgasm almost whenever desired, usually by remembering all the happiness I felt when a genuinely-considerate master--Mike Lefkowicz--made love to me. I admit it--I had (and still have) it bad for that guy, who had known me in high school and could have made my life hell at the casino, but instead he treated me as a precious human being while still pounding my brains out to our mutual satisfaction!

Imagine my elation when, one Friday night when three junior executives had checked me and two other girls out for the evening, I arrived at the designated hotel suite to find that Master Mike was part of the party! Acting disinterested went out the window in an instant as my face was split by the widest possible grin--one of the other girls later told me that I suddenly appeared to be as eager to get it on as the clowns who had reserved us for the evening. I had no idea what magic had brought him to that Boston hotel room, but I was overjoyed and incredibly aroused to see him. (My grandfather's executive assistant, Belle Bergen, later told me that Mike had the audacity to make an appointment with grandfather and ask permission to propose to me once my year in a collar was finished. Belle was so impressed that she privately told Mike where to find me, after which he had befriended several of the young morons who worked at Peterson and maneuvered himself into an invitation to a slave bang weekend. But Mike himself never told me or anyone else that he knew me, just winked at me to play along with his game.)

Anyway, there he was, and without bragging he somehow convinced these walking erections that his experience working with slaves at the Casino made him an expert on motivating them. He began with the obvious, but often overlooked, point that treating slaves with even a modicum of consideration would get much more aroused and cooperative slave girls. Of course, he "randomly" chose me as his demonstration subject--or I guess "object" would be more accurate than "subject," considering how little autonomy slaves had. We pretended not to know each other, but he proceeded to enact the perfect conduct for a new slave owner--he asked my name and thereafter used it exclusively, complimenting me on my beauty and praising my obedience and performance. After the fact, the other two girls described his act as a model of how they wish they were treated at all times; they told me that the clowns who had checked me out for the night appeared astonished at how responsive the unusually withdrawn, distracted blonde slave became. He asked about my previous service, pretended surprise that I had worked at the same casino where he was an intern, and thereafter described to his audience how my previous training would make me more responsive--the pony girl who wanted approval, the casino slave who would respond to specific instructions, and so on. He politely ordered me into different poses, then fondled me intimately. At one point, he had me sit on the edge of a table in front of him, then interlock my fingers behind my head and lean back, displaying most of my erogenous zones to his touches (including the touch of his hands massaging my nipples while wrapping my tits around his dick) and compliments. I didn't need any acting skills to be overjoyed and orgasmic when he spent one minute tonguing my labia--which was about 40 seconds more male-on-female cunnilingus than I had received in my previous six weeks of servitude at Peterson's!

By that time, I was so happy to see the love of my life and to be handled by a guy who actually cared that I went off into multiple orgasms, after which I fulfilled my previous promise to Master Mike that I would willingly humiliate myself for him--I began repeating slave mantras, begging him to "Ram your huge cock into any of my openings, Master; use me, make me your property, your slut" etc., etc. He had me turn over so that I was bent over the table, facing away from him, at which point I reached back with both hands to spread my butt cheeks apart and offer him his choice of whatever he wanted from my body--and he didn't hesitate to ream me fore and aft. To this day I still blush when I recall how servile I was that day--which doesn't prevent me from acting the same way any time he wants me!