The Teamviewer Mature Files

She looked at me with a puzzled expression. "Is someone after you?"

I saw an opening: "The people who did this." I pointed to the nose ring. I looked around frantically, not having to hide my paranoia.

"Sex traffickers?"

I nodded. "Please help me. I'm afraid."

"I'll call the cops."

"No! They're in on it. I know they are. This organization is huge. I just need a job. Half of minimum wage is fine. You can pay me in tips. I can sleep anywhere. I'll clean up in the bathroom. I promise. Nobody will know."

"Just relax. Look, I'm Betty. You're...?"

I had to think about the name my foreign body was supposed to have attached to it, but with only a second delay I said the only word possible: "Nancita."

"Look, Nancita, I will help you if I can. Come in back. We'll speak to the boss." She was right. The diner was almost full, and four men were trying to check into the showers, meaning no help until she took care of me.

We went through the doors that swung back on their own, and through the kitchen, where a pair of elderly white woman stood sweating over a grill. The office was nicely larger than most for diners, and behind a desk sat a fat black man of maybe fifty. He had to weigh three hundred pounds, but on maybe six-three of a frame. His head was bald, stubble indicating some hair around the ears, should he let it grow out. The plaque on his desk read: John Sharpton, Owner.

"Oh my god. Look what the cat dragged in," he said, like it was the local mantra.

"She's hard on her luck, but I'm thinking we can sure make use of someone at the sink. Someone has had her...you know...in his house," she said, keeping it polite.

"No shit?" He seemed concerned. Then he looked up at me and asked, "You look Arab. You an Arab?"

"No Sir." I had to be from somewhere, apparently. "Hondorus."

"Hondorus?" He stood from his desk. What a big belly; the man was a surprising slob, to also be an owner. "Why the lisp and no Spanish accent?"

Surely he'd seen the tongue ring. If not, certainly the snout one, earrings and embarrassing tattoos. I hung my head. "Please. I'll do anything, even if it's temporary." Here I was, going on ninety pounds, standing in a dress that had zero fashion, about to starve to death while homeless.

"Got a Visa or anything?"

I hung my head even lower, and whispered, "You can pay me cash. I'll not ask for much."

"Jesus, Betty. This is going to take forever. What's going on with your customers? I'll take care of it from here."

"Sorry Sir." She rolled her eyes.

"You got to stop dragging in the strays," he told her as she departed and closed the door.

"Betty's a good waitress. She's worked this place for thirty years." Mr. Sharpton leaned back in his chair and studied me.

"She seems nice, Sir. I hope we can be like sisters, if I get the job." I knew I didn't have to do anything to pass as a woman, so why even mention that I'd been a man. Being a woman was ten times easier. It was who I'd become, mannerisms actually proceeding the sexecution part—at least the final part of it. The only parts I missed were a womb and vagina, and all of that was hidden. Even that assumed the gene therapy didn't have some slow-growing tricks still up the sleeve, twisting my prostate into a raisin. I hadn't even leaked semen in a month.

"Let me see your arm."

I held one out.

"The other one."

I held out the one with my Visa ID and the phone number on it.

He started dialing the number stamped on me. After a moment, he said, "Ah yes. My name's John Sharpton, owner of Johnny D's diner on 64 thirty miles this side of Tulsa. I believe I've got one of yours."

He paused to listen.

"Well, she looks like the cat dragged her in, but I can clearly see she'll clean up real nice." He paused then grabbed my arm. Just like that he read out my Visa ID number to whoever was on the other end of that phone. Obviously he was walking to the Mistress Linda people.

Fuck me!

"Seriously? Trying to move the inventory, you say? I heard about it. Sure. All over the news, now. Sometimes success can come up and bite you, if you over inventory. Been there myself. I own a truck stop. Why, I recall once having a pie sale. I had to hire two waitresses and sadly let them off the very next week, on account of—"

Apparently he got cut off, and so he listened. I squirmed, foot to foot, wanting to flee, wondering if I could make it out the door. What would he do, send out the cops? Shit, probably. Companies that big owned authority figures. Things were so wrong. This was like that human trafficking of prostitutes that people half believed was impossible, and yet always seemed to make the news regarding some brothel two blocks down the road.

"Fifteen thousand, you say? Damn, that's reasonable. Hell yeah I will. I'll go for the option to purchase, I suppose, at twenty-two per, over five years. Uh-huh, uh-huh. Oh sure, I will need the extra service, for sure. She's gonna start looking like shit with gorilla hair and sunken tits, if we don't keep up with the meds. Damn, that's a local clinic. I didn't know we had that kind of doctor in Tulsa."

Doctors? Meds? Was this really about me? I knew what they were talking about. My body was looking like a righteous bitch because of meds. The gene therapy would not be enough, without the usual female plumbing. Without male or female hormones, I wasn't even human. I'd look like a blob of puss in a couple years, without something coursing through my veins.

They chatted a while longer, and I had to pee. He motioned for me to take a seat, so I did that.

"No need to do payments. I'll take the payoff discount, and send a check for the ninety-seven thou, soon as your papers arrive. I got line of credit, and will write it off to my business." He read off his address and hung up. "There, all settled. You'd better be worth it. I just unloaded nearly a hundred thousand bucks on your ass."

"What?"

"I'll need to find someone to clean you up, and figure out where you'll be staying most nights."

"Um.... Are you hiring me, Sir?"

"More or less yeah. I bought your ass, lock, stock and barrel. They're sending me the papers and a couple books on maintenance, as I speak. Sure as shit you're working for me, bitch." He smiled, and that face was pretty ugly. "What the hell. Things are running smooth enough, as of the moment. I'll take you to my place and clean you up, myself."

"Uhhh!" I felt faint.

"What's your name? Ah, fuck it. I'll name you, myself. I get the prerogative, I figure, just like back in the day when my folks came off the ships and them white fools started naming people. I read about that in black history, and it pissed me off. Now...."

I started to speak—

"Now, don't go telling me what your name used to be. I know about that Nancita shit from Hondorus, but I need something spicy. How about, Sugar Tits. We can put Sugar on your name tag, for when you're waitressing. Now, Sugar Tits, do you have a real pussy? Hell, I should have asked on the phone."

I fell off the chair, trying to get away, while feeling like I couldn't really run.

He came around the desk and helped me up, then calm as day, reached under my hem, up my leg, peeled down my panties, and ran his finger up where I used to have testicles. I was still pretty sore, down there, and I squirmed.

"Shit! No vagina. Oh, what the hell. Maybe I can have something done, though. They said they had a clinic real close." He laughed. "I can get the vet to fix you with a hole."

"A hole?" Fuck me!

He pushed me to my knees and undid his fly. The next thing I knew, his fat, wrinkly, bent-over cock was in his hands, roughly pointed at my face.

"Come on, bitch. Suck it. That dick owns your ass; ain't you been paying attention?"

It came closer, and closer, and when he grabbed the back of my hair, jamming the penis into my mouth. Pubic hair planted itself on both cheeks. I felt that cock sliding over my tongue and seeking my throat, running across the new ring. Oh God, I have a cock in my mouth! There hadn't even been an intro with licking or teasing, just in one second, eight inches deep the next.

"Damn! I ain't never been blown by a ringed tongue before. I'm almost ready to blow already." He glared down into my terrified eyes and said, "Are you sure you're not really a bitch, and they just sewed up your snatch? There is no fucking way you used to be a man."

He left off with all the talking, and yanked me more firmly onto my knees, then he started the old in and out.

"Tighter. Didn't they teach you nothing'? You're hungry, ain't you. You looked starving when you came in. Well, I've got me lots of protein, right where you need it."

I tightened my lips, like I'd been taught to do on a hundred different occasions with the dildos in the basement of my house. My house? God, they'd taken my house, my possessions, my car, my business, my body, my identity, my prospects, my freedom, and not the man was groaning, pumping his seed down my throat, feeding me his sperm.

"Shit!"

Squirt, squirt, squirt! Squirt, squirt, squirt!

"Ahhhh!"

Squirt, squirt, squirt!

My mouth filled up, sticky and slimy and raw. He kept pumping, like he might be easing off then maybe hoping to get hard again.

After a few minutes, he just left his shrinking dick in me and said, "Shit, that was nice. You have me so bound up, I blew way too fast. Damn! I'm getting you a pussy, for sure."

He pulled out, stood and zipped up. Then he went back to his desk, collecting his things. On the way out the door, he reached up my skirt, past my waist and clear up my blouse. With all my clothing stretched up, he finally latched a finger into one of my nipple rings. We walked out the door like that, with my skirt and blouse both hiked up clear to my elbows, and his hand inside my blouse, like to pull my nipple off.

I had no option other than to follow tight to his side, scampering along to keep my balance, whimpering down the hall to a side door, breath smelling of cum. All I could do was cry. Speaking was worthless, and beside, my mouth was gammy with the only meal I'd had in a long time. I already spoke with a lisp, and now I smelled like the inside of a condom.

Teamviewer Femdom File

By jo199

Chapter Twenty.

The clinic had, in fact, been a veterinarian business before the company had taken it over. Maybe even the old white surgeon had been one. I had the sneaky suspicion that the doctor was a slave, too, given the way he cowered to his black nurse.

Still, the man had plenty of clients in the office, the day I'd been taken from my cell in my owner's basement, to get fixed like a stray dog. I had to nervously sit there for an hour, nobody but Betty to watch over me. She'd been drafted because my owner was busy. Small talk and all. We'd become good friends, in fact, though she was a free woman and I was a slave. It amazed me how quickly everyone at the diner had gotten over the newness of the owner owning an actual slave girl. Ten employees and one slave. So what? Onward things progressed. Even the talk of bringing on another slave, only had a couple of them worried about maybe losing their jobs if it kept up. Not about the slave, but about the labor situation. Otherwise, no big deal.

Except for me. I was a fucking slave, and that meant everything. In particular, I couldn't even imagine a decision anymore! Master Johnny owned me, and it was like my brain had been locked up, too. Everything I earned went to him. Everything I did was because he wanted it done. I was his property, and he had the same thing as a deed, legal now in the land of the free. Before I'd imagined options. Now...!

Well, not so free, now. Whites were becoming slaves, and laws were changing to make it legal, under what they called 'voluntary' conditions, for whites. Fucking voluntary, my ass. Best I could tell, by eavesdropping on my owner's television, whenever I wasn't working outside his house, upwards of thirty percent of the white men in America were already compromised, and that number was growing.

So I'd sat there on the bench, in the clinic, an IV in my arm and getting drowsy, going down for the count. Maybe when I got old or diseased, I'd be back to the vets, sitting on the same bench, maybe to be euthanized in place of some too-expensive operation. More than likely that was either legal, too, or they'd lose any record of my existence anyway.

Oh, sure, I was already fixed in almost every way, and they'd even taken my scrotum, so making a workable pussy was not that favorable without skin grafts, but they'd left plenty of my foreskin to alter, all wrinkled up around my dick head, and maybe that had been all the man needed to invert and combine with other material to make my pussy. He didn't really care all that much about making it so I enjoyed it. It just had to look right around my pussy lips and feel right to a dick, under the influence of a dab of lube. Then, it was going to be bang, bang, bang bang, bang, bang bang, bang, bang bang, bang, bang bang, bang, bang bang, bang, bang bang, bang, bang bang, bang, bang bang, bang, bang bang, bang, bang bang, bang, bang bang, bang, bang.

A hole. I was going to get yet another hole, so real men could fuck me in one more place. Yes, then I'd be a hole, and nothing more.

###

In fact, I woke from the anesthesia with another hole, no doubt, and more pain.

The odd thing about it was I still had the head of my dick in the same place. He'd diverted the urethra to further inside, meaning I pissed more like a girl and even the feeling of piss out my dick no longer applied. So, the dick head of a sissy remained, invisibly deep, largely unfeeling, though the most sensation I got anywhere in the sex department. Hell, clits were longer, though not as wide. Who was I fooling, if I thought I still had a penis at all?

My cocklett head had receded to the point of being impossible to find without digging, but dig the surgeon had, removing my prostate and making lots of depth to my new fuck hole (twelve full inches deep, they said). One needed space for the real men's dicks to saw in and out, 'Once I healed enough,' they often said with smiles.

And I had healed, while working as a waitress and cashier six ten-hour shifts a week, and while Johnny had a team constructing a 'special-fees' room next to the truck stop shower stalls. At least for a while the only suffering I endured was working in heels and healing, and hadn't been asked to go in there. Sex was off limits, though even the truckers leered, seeming to know it wouldn't last.

A couple months later, however, the vet gave me a pat on the ass and the comment, "Good to go. No more risk of infection."

Johnny led me out the clinic, into his car, home to be changed, and then on my nose leash to the back where the truckers went. My shift as a waitress seven to six was over, and a new one soon to be in place. It was maybe ten o'clock at the time of my first arrival at the room.

The rings through my nipples had jingly bells on them, now. He'd bought me one of those bras that are wide open, so it was just all the straps, but no cups. That way my size-C breasts pointed out and I jingled as I walked.

"It's like your birthday, bitch!" he bellowed with a roar of laughter.

My walk included the much-required palms to the floor, pinky fingers pointing up, swaying hips on high heels. Pursed lips, of course, or I'd get smacked.

My heels clicked on the floor. Garters rubbed my thighs, holding up the nude, but seamed stockings.

He'd taken off the short petticoat, leaving my in a plain, grey knee-length skirt and no top. I was very much on display as we walked past a couple men entering the shower room, them smelling of road sweat.

I moaned and whimpered, trying to signal my dislike without actually speaking, which would get me cuffed for sure. Johnny didn't take my nonsense, not even the hint of it.

Soon we came to the new room, which looked just like a utility closet from the hallway. It had a sign on it: Check in for a time ticket at the checkout counter. Doris and the others at the checkout counter did gas, food checkout, other items purchased, shower and birth chits and now this, whatever it was.

Everyone I work with would know!

They had a room that looked just like a changing room in a clothing store. Little hooks on the wall, a mirror and bench. Over on one wall was a sink, however, for washing hands, I imagined. Then I realized there was a second door beyond the entry room. Over that it read, Pleasure Room.

Master Johnny led me to that door. "This way, Sugar Tits. You're gonna make me rich." He pulled me so I was right up to his face, where I kept my eyes down, like was proper. "And as my slave, not one dime will have to weigh down your pocket, hear! If I hear you kept back some tip, I'm going to be pissed. You don't need both eyes, both ears, all ten fingers. You catch my drift, bitch?"

"Yeth, Thir," I lisped, like was now required, as if I could overcome the conditioning. He insisted. High C. Lisp. Sweet. Demure. Deferential. Dropping the last syllable. Tits up. Eyes down. Female more than most women, even while serving tables. Nobody ever guessed I'd been a man, a college grad, or even a full-bred white person, ever since my arrival. How would they even guess the first thing about my life?

"You do this right, and I'll be nice. Shoot, I like you with all your white gurl body parts, so I'm just saying, behave!"

"Yeth thir." I curtsied.

"Now, for every cock my slave bitch sucks, twenty-five bucks in my pocket. On special occasions, or if you don't bring enough dick sucking dollars in, fifty bucks for your pussy. And, if you disappoint me there, your sweet ass is up for purchase. Hell, I bought it lock stock and barrel. That'd be a hundred bucks in my pocket. See how nice I am with pricing policy? More than likely your ass is safe from too much abuse, the way I have it worked out, because you're going to want to be the best cock sucker you can be, and spare that. Ass fucking ain't what it's cracked up to be anyway, particularly now that you got a nice, warm pussy and are going to be the best cocksucker possible."

"Yeth thir." I think I whimpered. I couldn't help it. I figured I had five times the hormones rushing through my genetically altered veins than a normal woman might have.

So that was it. I either sucked dick super well, or my pussy was forfeit.

"I don't actually want them ruining your pussy and ass, so I might raise that price if people go for it, so you'll only have to do that once in a while, other than with me. I have to pay the vet, if you get hurt and ripped up. I even have the clients take a monthly quick test for VD. Got them at the checkout for ten bucks...piss in the cup. See how I take care of my things, Sugar Tits?"

I whimpered.

"Doesn't that make you happy, seeing how concerned I am for keeping my property maintained? Don't you want me to make a wad off your blowjob skills, Sugar Tits?"

"Yeth, thir."

"Wiggle that sexy butt, so I can get a hard on thinking about my cash cow on her knees, sucking half the town."

I did. I had no choice, and with all the conditioning, it kind of happened anyway, every time I moved.

My tits jingled with the little bells. As for hard ons, if I had something to get hard, one look at me in the mirror would make me hard, too. As it stood, I was sexless inside, other than the raging female hormones in my body that had been altered to have gene coding that they said was mostly the same as that found in gay men. Did that mean I liked men, now? Constantly? Who liked anything, constantly? Of course, when I could cum, it was likely some fake thing of the mind vaguely stimulated by rubbing up against where my prostate used to be. The fact is, my body had nothing left that was male, so basically, from my position in space, I was a drone; a living sex doll.