Swapping Positions

Darned if the same situation didn't come up again. Afternoon thunderstorms are almost daily occurrences in Texas, but storms that knock out power are fairly rare. Once again, the customers and even most of the store staff departed, while the slave sluts knelt listlessly, and the two owners began to discuss packing up early.

The lights flickered on and then off again several times. I suddenly had a wild, desperate hope that the same strange phenomenon would recur, and I would be restored to my rightful body. I know it's bad theology, but I began to silently promise God all kinds of reformed behavior, including freeing all my slaves, if He returned me to freedom. But nothing happened.

Then Brent, who had even fewer inhibitions than I had ever had as Jim, decided he wanted a blowjob. No, not from me (thank God)—from little red-haired Lacey. And lightning did strike twice, but for a different pair of people. Just as Brent began to face-fuck the poor girl with a prick that was much too large for her mouth, the lights came on at about half wattage, the strange buzzing returned, and both Brent and Lacey's bodies suddenly became rigid in the half-light. Kneeling next to Lacey, I was watching intently, and I realized that "Jim McNamara," the former Susan who now inhabited my body, was also curious as to what if anything happened. So was Annie.

It was almost a replay of events the previous week—Lacey spat out that huge cock and looked up in surprise and horror, just as Brent (or the body previously known as Brent) suddenly got wide eyes and looked down at the kneeling slut. "Jim McNamara" walked over with a smirk on his/her face and stared intently at the two faces. Finally, (s)he broke the tension by asking "Lacey?"—and Brent's head turned towards "his" partner.

"Son of a gun, Annie," said my owner, "I think it just happened again." He/she touched a shock baton to the kneeling slave's boob and fired about half a charge. Knocked on his/her back, the apparent slave Lacey unleashed a torrent of curses and then suddenly stopped, kicked into silence.

The owner sidled up to his/her apparent partner and whispered several sentences. "Brent" looked first at Lacey and then at me, a huge grin spreading on "his" face.

"Jim McNamara" took charge: "I think it's time to go home and have a long training session with both of us and Lacey. Annie, pack up the computer bags and references so we can get going. Would you care to take 'Lacey' to the pickup truck, 'Brent?' I'll get the other girls into my van, but I think Lacey needs a long ride in a poodle cage."

The apparent Brent detached the ankle chain from Lacey and hauled her to her feet. As he started to cuff her wrists tightly behind her back, the tiny slave girl began to say "But I'm not . . ." only to be cut off by a sharp slap on the face. "Shut the fuck up, bitch," boomed Brent's voice—"your ass is mine tonight, and I mean literally your ass." She began to wail but stopped when he lifted up on her bound hands, forcing her to bend forward while slapping a shock baton across her nipples. The last I saw of the two was the person-formally-known-as-Lacey, inside of Brent's body, marching a naked, chained slave (which contained the consciousness of Brent) out to a waiting cage in the back of his pickup. The only thing more uncomfortable than the wind-blown ride home would be the slave training session that followed. That is, if the newest owner didn't stop at a rest area along the way to sample Lacey.

Meanwhile, my owner marched his/her three cuffed slaves out to the van and wrapped our naked bodies with seatbelts, patting me gently as if to reassure me. Annie climbed into the shotgun seat beside him.

As we pulled out of the parking lot and headed for the highway, my owner grinned and said,

"Annie, when we get home I need you to order some extra-large butt plugs and John Holmes strap-ons for training Lacey. Rush delivery."

"Yes, Master," she gave him an answering smile.

Karma.