Swapping Positions

My former slave, now in my body, had another shit-eating grin on his/her face, enjoying the sight of me having to perform such an intimate service while repeating all the submissive phrases I had taught her. She answered that I still needed some more practice. I was instructed to help the other girls clean up, then take a shower, brush my teeth ("I don't want cum breath"), and report to his/her bedroom in an hour.

I knocked on her door and my own voice told me to come in and close the door. My owner ordered me to assume "Slave Fours" on the same bondage rack that I had used to break her in. Once (s)he had strapped me down, I felt a lubricated plug shoved into my butt. It was probably a small one, but felt huge to me. I barely stifled my surprise at the intrusion.

(S)he sat down in a chair by my head and looked at my helpless form, then remarked, "You should thank me for that plug, slave. Believe me, you want to stay stretched for the next time your partner decides to take you back there." On cue, we heard a female voice shriek in the next room, which was Brent's. It sounded like Cheryl, perhaps the best-looking slave we owned at the time, and she was begging "take it out, Master. Please take it out" over and over.

I'd always considered sphincter stretching to be a kindness to any slave likely to be shafted back there. Now that it could happen to me—perhaps in the next few minutes—I suddenly realized how essential that was. My "Thank you, Master" was truly sincere.

(S)he smiled gently and continued "You can thank me by giving my cock the same service you gave that bastard earlier this evening. You taught me to enjoy giving a good blow job, and I want to ensure you get the same training."

Needless to say, I obliged him/her, hoping to evoke another orgasm so as to protect my other openings, at least for a few moments. The person-formerly-known-as-Susan was too smart for me, however. She may have been a mental virgin as a male, but she pulled out too soon for me to suck him/her off. I automatically tensed up as (s)he stepped around between my legs, where I couldn't see what (s)he intended to do.

Two unexpected but relatively gentle spanks set both of my lower cheeks quivering. "Relax, 'Sweetheart.' You told me yourself that tightening up like that only causes more pain. Lucky for you I have fond memories of that body, so I'll be as gentle as you were with me PROVIDED that you cooperate."

"Yes, master." I willed myself to relax, and (s)he helped by feeling me up thoroughly, concentrating on boobs and clit but occasionally goosing the plug in my ass. Knowing what was to come, I tried to encourage the arousal this pawing caused, even though part of my mind still resisted the idea of having sex with a man.

I was grateful that my new owner chose to sink his/her condom-covered cock into my vagina instead of my butt. (S)he didn't just slam it in, either, but pushed slowly into my aroused canal until I felt muscular thighs contact my rear. Nonetheless, my first fuck as a female slave was an overwhelming experience. I'd heard people argue that sex is a much more all-encompassing experience for women than for men, but now I was that rare individual who had actually lived both sides of copulation. Not only did I feel more sensitivity over a larger portion of my body, but the threat of invasion, of having someone take possession of my bound body, was overwhelming. I was aware not only of the warm, rigid shaft pumping rhythmically in and out but also of having my rear portal filled by a plug that only increased the sense of friction. My breathing sped up, my nipples and clit became engorged, and I found myself mindlessly murmuring "Oh, God, Oh, Yes, give it to me . . . please!" over and over again. Soon my restrained form was trying to slam itself backwards against my owner, as if determined not to let that shaft escape when the owner pulled back. In a moment of lucidity, I recalled the instructions that I always gave new slaves about how to give pleasure; I began alternately clamping and relaxing my muscles down there.

The first time I did that, my new lover—for that is how I must describe the person, since he/she had been much more gentle and considerate than a slave might expect—made an inarticulate sound of pleasure, then half-chuckled/half-giggled, and quoted my own words back to me: "Something tells me that you're starting to enjoy being a sex object, my little slut."

The fact that (s)he could say something so calmly only underlined my conclusion that it was easier for a male (or at least a male body) to be detached during sex than it was for a female. I babbled something to the effect that I agreed with my Master and begged him not to stop, ever! Fortunately for my sanity if not for my pleasure, the person-formerly-known-as-Susan was still inexperienced as a male fucker instead of a fuckee; after what seemed like only 30 seconds but was probably 10 minutes of frantic pumping, I felt a warm flood as she blew a load into her condom, deep inside my new plumbing. A second later, my new body came. No matter how much my male mind might object, I had to admit that physically I had enjoyed being ravished. I almost passed out as the pleasure, while concentrated around the 6-inch battering ram, caused a tingling sensation that flowed throughout my body.

When we both recovered our breath, (s)he climbed off me, leaving me bound and defenseless on the rack. I heard the door click shut and wondered whether my owner was inflicting some mental punishment, but in a few minutes I heard him/her return and relock the door. A warm cloth wiped up the mess between and around my labia, after which I felt her unstrap the Velcro straps. When (s)he released my wrists as well, I found myself with the ten-inch chain connecting cuffs in front of me. My owner handed me a glass of cold water to drink, then took me to bed. That was perhaps the strangest sensation of all—being fucked as a female slave was disorienting, but now, for the first time since I was a child, a large, strong body was spooning behind my much smaller form, cuddling and gently stroking as if to reassure me after my submission. Oddly enough, I felt that I could trust that strong body to take care of me even when taking retribution—and pleasure—from me.

As I started to fall asleep, I heard the voice I no longer controlled remark, in a very kind manner, that I should expect to lose the virginity of my last hole later that night. This reminded me of the plastic intrusion in my rear, but I was too tired to worry about it.

*****

Some hours later, (s)he gently shook me awake, saying it was time for the third act, and ordered me into the main bathroom, where (s)he unceremoniously removed the plug to give me an enema and, after I held the warm water in for a few minutes, let me expel it into the toilet. (S)he even wiped my bottom and applied fresh lubricant at my anus. Before I could think, I was back kneeling in the Slave Fours position in the midst of the bed. Gulp. At least this time, my only restraints were the ten-inch manacles, giving me some flexibility but no real options. "Resistance is futile," I thought to myself and prepared for the inevitable. I almost laughed out loud when my mind told me to "take it like a man."

That damn cock was fully erect again and knocking on my back door. Remembering the instructions I used to give slaves to prepare for sodomy, I did my best to tense my muscles as if I were taking a crap—that had the effect of opening up my rear hole just as the owner sought entry. The trick really worked—the tip went inside easily, and the only sound I made was a sharp intake of breath.

Once inside, though, it was a real strain. My master held tightly onto both of my well-padded hips and began pushing, very slowly but remorselessly, into my back tunnel. My bound hands clawed the bed as I tried to breathe though the stress. I couldn't really tell how far the repurposed prick had reached inside my new bowels—it began to feel as if it would come out of my mouth at any moment, even though I knew that was impossible. I felt a real sense of relief when (s)he bottomed out against my bottom—I had lived through the full intrusion. If anything, I felt more thoroughly occupied and possessed than when (s)he had screwed me in the conventional manner.

In my silent misery I had momentarily forgotten that the purpose wasn't just to push all the way into my colon but rather to fuck my butt like a tight pussy. When (s)he began to withdraw, it hurt even more because the retreating cock acted like a piston, sucking my passage in so it seemed to be collapsing into a vacuum. When the head made it back to a point just inside my anus, (s)he reversed course and slid firmly but still slowly back inside me. Fortunately for me, the new owner of my old penis lay down on my back, reached around me, and began to diddle my clit and nipples. This distracted me somewhat from the gradually-increasing pace at which I was being cornholed. In, out, in, out, in, out. I began to feel like an x-rated version of the Little Engine That Could as the piston picked up speed (I think I can survive it, I think I can survive it, and so on. Was that why my breath came out in little whistling sounds?)

Fortunately, the considerate treatment I received from my new owner made the experience bearable. After a while, I was even slightly aroused, although I never got anywhere close to climax. By contrast, the person-formerly-known-as-Susan was really enjoying this humping, mumbling constantly about how tight my ass felt and how much fun (s)he was having reaming me. Eventually, thank God, (s)he became even more rigid—which seemed impossible—and blasted into the condom inside me. After one final, stressful withdrawal, my abused rear passage was finally empty. But only for a moment—I felt the plug, covered with some kind of soothing cream, shoved back in, apparently to prevent my leaking on the bed.

"Now I see why you guys like that so much. The power trip of ramming my cock into a helpless woman's ass is incredible. And knowing how much you deserved that butt-fucking only made it better! Just a shame that guys can't have multiple orgasms. Anyway, cheer up, 'Sweetheart,' that could have been Brent's super-sized prick taking your ass!" So saying, my owner wrapped that large body around mine, stroked me until my tears stopped, and fell asleep.

*****

(S)he was right. The next day was the most excruciating experience of my life, with Brent taking me harshly in all three orifices. Even now, the memory is too raw for me to describe in detail. There was nothing erotic about it, anyway—just misery. I had resigned myself to being humiliated and subjugated, but (unlike the Susan identity occupying my former body), Brent had no interest in minimizing my pain, let alone arousing my new body so that I could accommodate him more readily.

A week earlier, I had regarded slavery as a harsh fact of life and eased my conscience by the manner in which I tried to reward new slaves and help them adjust to the sexual demands made on them. If there had been a judgement day, I would have cited my rescue of Annie from an abusive master, as well as my attempts to limit Brent's cruelty by appealing to self-interest so that he didn't "damage the merchandise." (Come to think of it, I guess my personal judgment day came in Sweetwater, and I was found wanting.)

Boy, was I wrong about my career job. Slavery is an abomination, and so is forcing a woman, slave or free, to accept sexual penetration that she does not freely seek. And the person-formerly-known-as-Susan was right—whatever Texas law says, it certainly FELT like this slave was raped. (S)he'd also been correct that I deserved this role reversal, and that somehow we had to ensure that Brent suffered for the casual way in which he "trained" new slaves by forcing himself into them, usually with insufficient lubrication. I had thought he wasn't a sadist, but I'd been kidding myself. How come I got what I deserved/Karma and he was still swaggering around with that battering ram between his legs?

Perhaps it was Stockholm syndrome, but I had much more positive, almost affectionate, feelings about my other master. Don't get me wrong—my mind was still male and wanted no part of any intimacy with any man if I could avoid it. But I had always advised new slaves to just accept their fate, including getting aroused to minimize the discomfort. So, I could get dreamy about the way in which (s)he had made firm love to me instead of just fucking me. I knew I would be sold soon but could only hope I got another Master/mistress who was equally considerate.

After showering in a vain effort to wash off the humiliation I had endured, I happened to look at myself in the bathroom mirror. Humm—the face was nothing memorable, but the hair was curly, the boobs were large, the waist was small, and the legs seemed to go on for miles. The collar promised instant submission. I turned sideways and admired how my tits protruded in front and that much-abused butt stuck out to the rear. My male consciousness briefly re-emerged to comment on the vision: "Nice-looking slut. I'd do that in a heartbeat." I snickered to myself—I had tapped that slut only a few days ago, but now the shoe was on the other foot, or more accurately the cock was on the other groin.

Thank heavens that Brent went out on another multi-day round-robin of possible slave auctions, with plans to meet "Jim" and the entire slave inventory at the big monthly sale in Wichita Falls.

In the interim, my new owner spent a lot of time getting me to explain slave business and slave law so that (s)he could impersonate me better. I saw no reason to risk suffering by withholding information. In return, (s)he was almost gentle in using my body. (S)he never touched the other girls but did let some of them use Annie's "little" strap-on in all three of my openings. (S)he claimed it was to help them understand their slave status better while training "Susan," but (s)he certainly seemed to enjoy the sight of me bound and screwed—usually quite gently, to be fair—by my former property. At least two of the girls whispered to me that they'd REALLY like to use this toy on Master Brent instead of "another slave."

"Jim McNamara's" odd behavior prompted Annie to pull me aside one day while we were working on the garden. When she asked me what was going on, I played dumb, but in her exasperation she started whispering to me:

"Oh come on, Susan. Both of you are acting weird. First, the girls say that when you went to Sweetwater Master Jim shocked you, which I've never seen him do to any slave. And then he starts having the other girls use the strap-on on you, even though I've heard Master Brent warn him that the toy can only give slaves ideas above their station. Master Jim told me to order see-through bras like mine for all the girls, only we aren't allowed to wear them except while working in the garden. Sometimes Master Jim walks putting one foot in front of the other and swinging his hips, while you stumble around like you never learned to walk at all. He keeps chuckling, almost giggling like a woman, whereas before the Sweetwater trip he seldom laughed. And both of you seem to have forgotten everything you ever knew—he keeps asking me how to do things that I've seen him do a hundred times, and you seem to have forgotten how to give me oral sex, not to mention how to weed the crops properly. At first, I just thought you two were distracted because you had a crush on each other, and that was kind of cute, but that doesn't explain all this odd behavior."

"Maybe you're right, Annie, but what's the big deal, what do you think is going on?"

She stared hard at me for at least 30 seconds, and then just spilled it all out. "I know this sounds crazy, but I think you two have swapped positions. I've known and admired Master Jim for two years, and THAT'S NOT HIM. It's like a science-fiction movie where the aliens take over a human being. I don't know HOW it happened, but you're acting like Master Jim in your body and he's acting like Susan in his."

I tried to deny it, but I guess I lost my poker face along with my dick. She was relentless—I never knew she could be so observant and so intense. Finally, I gave in, but begged her not to get me in trouble with the masters, who would declare me crazy if I said I was Jim. She assured me that Master Jim had been so kind to her that she would NEVER endanger him—or rather, her.

When the owner called us in from the garden after our talk, I saw Annie ask, respectfully, to speak to "Master Jim." The lead slave must have blurted out her suspicions, because (s)he looked very surprised and they had a long talk that none of the rest of us could overhear. They kept looking up at me while the discussion went on.

That night, (s)he pounded my "cunt" for almost an hour, giving both of us a real thrill. Those rough hands really felt good on my breasts, and the French kissing really took my breath away. At moments like that, it was easier to just forget I'd ever been a free man, and instead enjoy being possessed by a considerate owner. Then my owner held me in his/her arms and told me that (s)he had admitted what happened to Annie, and they were trying to think of some way to take Brent down without getting caught—a prominent slave merchant couldn't just disappear without the sheriff and the state Agriculture Department asking questions. Of course, I offered to help, but there's little a slave can do against a master.

*****

The monthly sale at Wichita Falls, Texas, was a big deal for our partnership. The city was so large that one or two other merchants also displayed their wares, although in my biased opinion their girls nearly as desirable as ours—now including yours truly. Therefore, it was an all-boobs-on-deck event. "Jim McNamara" drove the van carrying all the trained slaves, including Annie, although she kept her see-through bra on and moved around freely at the site, running errands for the two owners. That day, Master Brent (as I had to think of him now) arrived with three new acquisitions. They were all ripe young girls (one looked no more than the minimum age of 18) who were still showing the shock of enslavement and (I'll bet) Brent's abrupt introduction to their new status. (Confession time: I'm not proud of it, but my first thought upon seeing these new captives was that my butt would be safe for the next few days while Brent "trained" them in his favorite way.)

Inside the largest department store in the city, all the slaves except Annie were lined up, kneeling on exercise pads set on a low platform for easy viewing. Periodically, Master Jim or Master Brent would put us through a few slave yoga positions, causing our hair, breasts, and buttocks to sway seductively. Otherwise, whenever a potential customer came by, each of us in turn would assume the "present" position, offering the visitor a chance to look and feel us all over. Following instructions, I tried to breathe heavily so that my boobs rose and fell and my labia showed a little moisture. Getting felt up soon seemed natural, but I worried about being sold and losing my last contact with anyone who knew who I was. I was glad when Cheryl and Sylvia, the other two fully-trained slaves, got purchased, in each case by a married couple which held out at least some chance of decent treatment. Even one of the new girls was sold, for what my slave merchant mind said was a good price. I congratulated myself that the firm had a fine profit for the day, but then realized that the profit no longer belonged to me. Those three sales left me ("Susan"), the diminutive Lacey, and two new girls on our knees, one ankle of each chained to the platform.

After that flurry of business, everything slacked off and customers drifted away. If constantly standing, displaying, and kneeling was stressful, just kneeling there for hours was boring and uncomfortable.