Through the Side Door Pt. 01

Jack whispered, "What the heck was that, 'Mistress'?" "Don't worry," I replied, "I'll just dummy up a kennelling form and pay the charge." Sheesh, this little game was going to cost me $100 for the night.

I decided that the best way to hide Jack was to mix him in with the rest of the inventory. A half-dozen wranglers were gathering around one of the practice platforms to put their (female) charges through slave block positions and mantras, so I just added Jack to the back row. Once he got over his initial nervousness, he performed very well. He even seemed to be enjoying himself, with half a hard on as he cavorted and repeated those degrading come-ons. Of course, the sight of him doing this only made me hornier, especially when he begged to be used by a Mistress, so I finally started filming him with my smart phone. I could tell he didn't like that, but was unable to object without bringing down trouble on himself.

By this time, it was close to 5 p.m., and I began to think about getting Jack out of there before shift change. The other wranglers collected their slaves, by now aroused from the block positions, and began to run them through photographs and data entry into the National Slave Registry. To give them time to disperse, I ordered Jack to kneel, which he dutifully did. I was proud of his cooperation; to me he made a convincing slave. I asked him if he was OK, and he replied, as any slave should, "Yes, Mistress."

A low, slightly-mocking voice came from behind me. "Mistress, huh? That's funny, he's not on the day's schedule of slaves to be kennelled or auctioned." Damn. I knew instantly that we'd attracted the attention of Josephine, the night shift manager, who as usual had arrived early to see what was going on. Unlike Harold, Josephine did things by the book and would never overlook irregularities. She intimidated not only the inventory but most of the wranglers, including me.

She continued, speaking in her normal booming voice. "I mean, come on, there's no 4559 on the schedule—in fact, that's a training number, isn't it?" She reached past me, peeled down Jack's lower lip, and found—nothing. Jack, like me, had never been slave-graded, so he had no registry number.

"Who's this, then, Mizz McDonald? Your boyfriend?"

No sense trying to fool her, so I threw myself on her mercy. "No, ma'am. Jack's just a friend of mine that I wanted to show the operation to. It was all my idea, please don't blame him."

Josephine's face reflected regret, but determination. "I'm sure it was your idea, Willow—you've been playing too many tricks like this lately." Her already loud voice suddenly doubled in volume. "Bob, Phil, can I borrow you two for a few minutes?"

The two wranglers turned to see what she wanted.

"Hand me your shock baton, Willow." I did so, after which she pulled out her smart phone and hit a number on speed dial.

"Mr. Jessie?" Crap—now I was in for it. Jessie Foster was the head manager, vice president for operations. "It's Jo. Sorry to bother you, but Willow's up to her usual tricks, only this time she brought in an outsider to play." I heard a curse word on the other end. "Yeah, I'm sorry too. Do you have time to see them now? Yessir."

"OK, folks," she resumed, "The five of us are going up to see Mister Jessie. Don't panic, Willow—he's a good man, and he's played a few tricks of his own in his time. Let's just see what he says. Come along, folks."

Philip took charge of my helpless friend and we all went, via elevator, to the management suite. This was bad, but I didn't yet know HOW bad it could get.

When we got to his office, Mr. Foster reduced my fears by gesturing to us all to take seats—he told Phil to release Jack's hands so my friend ended up sitting next to me on a sofa, only he was nude while everyone else was clothed.

Mr. Foster listened first to Josephine and then to me. I again took the entire blame, trying to excuse Jack from whatever consequences there would be.

Jessie Foster sighed, then turned in his chair and called up a file on his computer.

"Let's see, Willow. In the past month you and Gwen have, between you, pretended to be slaves a total of 5 times. At no time were you covered by any waiver such as the slave-grading agreement, which means your repeated use of the terms "Master" and "Mistress" to the night shift staff could be considered declarations that you wanted to be slaves. That makes you liable to enslavement under the Beetlejuice rule." Oh, boy, things just got a lot worse. Under the Beetlejuice rule, a free person who repeatedly identified herself as a slave could be enslaved for real.

He continued, "I also have a sworn statement that on the night of July 22 you told a cage-mate that you enjoyed the thrill of being quote a helpless, collared slut unquote."

I was so startled that I blurted out, "How did you know that? Sir?"

He smiled, not unkindly. "Do you remember Slave 4987, with whom you spent three hours in a cage that night? Cute little brown-haired cunt with a great figure who called herself Shirley? That's my wife; Jo asked me to put her undercover that evening, since Josephine had the night off and Gwen had mysteriously signed up for an extra shift."

"We could overlook all that, but now you've brought in an outsider who's apparently not in the national slave registry. We don't have a waiver—either kennel or slave-grading—to cover him, which means two things. First, that's a massive liability risk for the company. What happens if he gets injured? What happens if he knocks up some young woman in here to get slave-graded? Second, like you, he's on our property, collared and cuffed, and repeatedly addressing you and other wranglers as if he were a slave. See where this is going?"

I gulped. "Oh, Lord, Mr. Foster—please let him go. He only did this because I nagged him into it."

"I believe you," he replied, softly. "He's surely not the first guy who did something dumb just because he loved the woman who asked him to do it."

I tried to deny any love, but Josephine snorted. "Be serious, child—love is the only reason why a guy would voluntarily strip naked and let you parade him around here as a slave, when he's obviously terrified and embarrassed about the whole deal."

I looked at Jack's face, and saw the truth in his eyes. Well, Gwen had been right about him, but what a cost to find out!

"Anyway," resumed Mr. Foster. "I could easily convince the state of Texas that you're both slaves, but he's an innocent bystander and I think you have the potential to be a good wrangler. So, I'll leave it up to you—do you want to go to court and risk being collared, or will you each sign a kennel waiver for the next three days, while we 'retrain' [he hooked his fingers in the air to indicate quotation marks] you?"

I quickly explained to Jack that a kennel waiver was just that—we waived liability to the company and agreed to submit to normal slave rules for the duration of the time period, whether on or off the premises of the slave market. We had no real choice, of course.

"Let me set your minds at rest," the boss continued. "This is not a trick to enslave you. If I wanted to do that, you'd both be kneeling in dog cages, on your way to the courthouse for enslavement hearings. Instead, since you're so fascinated by slavery, I want to give you a controlled experience of what it's really like. This will make you a better wrangler. As for Mr. Murtha, I think you're more likely to cooperate to minimize his discomfort, so I hope he'll forgive me for pressing him into service. Besides, since you led him around naked and bound, isn't it fair that he gets to see you in the same condition?"

"By the way, Willow, do you have his glasses? He needs to be able to read this waiver before he signs it."

"How did you . . .?" I began to ask.

"There are lots of cameras around here besides those in the control room. He was wearing glasses when he went through the side door but not when he showed up on the production floor."

We both signed the releases, after which Josephine re-cuffed Jack's wrists.

The boss summed things up, still speaking calmly, almost kindly to me. "The next time you want to play slave games, this is the way to do it—if you signed up your boyfriend we could give you a staff discount on kennelling. For that matter if you want to play slave again yourself, sometimes we need to put someone under cover like Shirley, so I might even be able to pay you. We just can't have you free-lancing like this, got it?" He paused. "OK, Jo—will you take care of these two? Run them through veterinary and slut wash, have them bedded down for the night, and don't forget to put belts on them—I can feel the heat between them from here. We'll see about training tomorrow."

We left his office, and Jo told the other two wranglers to go back to work. Then she led Jack and me back to the women's locker room, where she turned and said, "You know what happens next, right?"

"Yes, ma'am." I replied.

"For the next three days, that's 'Yes, Mistress.' Now strip—you're lucky that Mr. Jessie didn't have you do that in his office in front of Phil and Bob, or even out on the floor. But then, Jessie always was a gentleman. Put your clothes in your locker and give me the key."

I unbuckled my equipment belt, but was distracted by the image Josephine had offered me. For a woman who enjoys being humiliated and objectified, I was transfixed by the idea of being reduced from wrangler to slave on the production floor, in front of dozens of people who until then had been my peers. Talk about a power and role reversal! On second thought, I decided that experience would have put me in overload, so I'd better obey her in the locker room.

If I thought stripping down and submitting to my roommate was sexy, this was off the chart. I didn't know whether to blush at exposing myself to a shift manager and Jack, or shout with joy at the chance to play sex object, especially in front of my best friend who had just shown conclusively how much he loved me. By the time I pulled down my jeans and panties, the latter were already damp.

*****

(Jack Murtha's perspective)

I had said I would kill to see Willow naked, but not like this, where she was humiliating herself to keep my freedom. I tried to look away as she undressed, but Mistress Josephine demanded that I watch.

"Hell, boy, it's nice to be a gentleman, but she's already seen you naked and the two of you are going to see every inch of each other over the next few days."

Silently thanking her, I feasted on the view. Most people, like me, need clothes to cover up their imperfections, but as far as I was concerned Willow HAD no imperfections. Not an ounce of fat on her tall body, which, except for a slight tan on her forearms and around her neck, was a pristine pink that was almost white, suitable for a Goth princess. OK, there were a few freckles, but that's to be expected on a ginger. Her skin was flawless, yet stretched tight over muscles everywhere I looked. Her boobs were even bigger than I had imagined, and except for a slight sag caused by gravity they had a perfect shape. I don't know whether she was frightened or aroused, but her nipples were on alert or "high beam." If I had to guess, she must have measured something like 44D-32-38, but I wasn't thinking in such crass terms—I loved every inch of her. I could go on and on, but suffice it to say that both women immediately noticed my physical reaction to her nudity.

"Damn, girl," commented Jo. "I told you this guy loved you, and he just proved how sexy you are to him in a way that's hard to fake."

Both of us blushed again, but still our eyes found each other's and we grinned.

As soon as Willow handed her key to Jo, it was like an instant replay of what had happened in this room 2-plus hours earlier. Only this time, the newly-minted "slave" was as graceful as I had been clumsy. On order, she dropped to her knees and presented her neck to be collared, then crossed her wrists and submitted to being cuffed and leashed.

"Up, bitch." Josephine said, without emotion, as she gathered our two leashes, then ordered "Both of you sluts, heel."

*****

(Willow McDonald's perspective)

As we dutifully followed our new Mistress down the hallway, my sexual high got killed like a heroin addict who gets a dollar can of NARCAN in the Emergency Room. Being a helpless naked sex object was a nice daydream for masturbation, but now I was about to be a slave in the same place (and in front of the same co-workers) where I was usually in charge. Not in the dimly-lit evening environment, but in the full glare of the processing floor at shift-change, with dozens of wranglers seeing every inch of me. The reflection in the mirror, with Josephine leading not only my best friend but also a helpless, six-foot tall woman (me), brought home the reality of the situation. My hands restrained behind my back meant that my boobs were thrust forward so I looked like the biggest submissive bimbo in the world, and to top it all my nipples were taut from the excitement. Oh, well—I couldn't avoid it, so perhaps this really would help me be a better wrangler—assuming I still had a job!

The moment we emerged onto the floor, the usual hubbub of talk and movement slowed almost to a halt. Josephine ignored this response, but summoned one of her shift's wranglers, Jim, over and gave him instructions.

"These two sluts are being kennelled for the next three days. I need you to take them to veterinary, including installing belts. After that, please run them through the slut wash, feed them, and bed them down in the same cage—" she consulted her tablet, "K-19. Mr. Jessie wants them processed together the whole time. Questions?"

"You're the boss," Jim replied, obviously dubious. "But, what's Willow doing like this?"

Jo gave him an impish grin. "For the next 3 days, she's Cunt 6944, not Willow. If you're wondering, yes, she voluntarily signed the kennel waiver and let me collar her. Treat her just like any other slave boarded here—control her, take care of her, but don't coddle her. If either of these sluts needs discipline, don't hesitate."

"OK, Jo," he replied, still skeptical. Like a good wrangler, though, he immediately took firm control of the livestock, gathering our leashes. "Heel, sluts." Just as any other slave in the Longhorn, I had no choice but to follow—unless, of course, I wanted to be shocked and whipped! It's one thing to be an assertive, confident woman when you're wearing jeans and boots and carrying all manner of weapons and restraints, but now I had suddenly plummeted from that advantageous position to being just another piece of inventory, nude slave meat with cuffed hands and a shock collar—and three openings to be used if anyone got horny. Jim, with whom I had worked for two months, held all the cards. For the first time, I truly felt the vulnerability of being a slave—so, why did that vulnerability turn me on so much? My main concern, in fact, was that I had exposed poor Jack to this mess. I had to make this up to him, somehow.

*****

(Jack Murtha's perspective)

Pretending to be a slave with Willow leading me around had been embarrassing, and watching her reduced to the same level was erotic, but now I was uncertain about everything. The people controlling us seemed to be rational, neither sadistic nor plotting to enslave us, but I didn't know them from Adam. I had trusted Willow to get me into this situation, and now I had to hang on and hope we got out of it free and intact. It particularly worried me that, if any of the urban legends about slave markets proved to be true, I would be unable to even make a gesture to defend the woman I loved.

Master Jim led us over to a slave veterinarian (human physician) wearing a white coat, but this veterinarian was a woman—a pretty, blond one who appeared to be in her early 30s. "Dr. Janice Oliver" the nametag said. Jim ordered us into two strange devices, sort of like gynecology tables with the usual stirrups, only these tables had a recess in the middle to accommodate bound wrists behind my back, plus Velcro straps everywhere to immobilize the "patient." The two tables were facing each other, so as I looked between my widespread legs I saw Willow similarly restrained and exposed, giving me a view of her genitals I had never expected to see.

The veterinarian was professional but empathetic, especially addressing Willow, whom she obviously knew. "Well, you seem to be in a difficult position, 6944."

Gallant to the last, although obviously embarrassed to be flashing her colleagues like this, Willow replied, "this position is difficult for any woman, Mistress." After that, neither of us said much except startled "eeps" when Doctor Janice firmly felt us in various intimate locations. I got the usual prostrate exam, but her gloved fingers lingered inside of me, feeling around everywhere before she withdrew, stripped off the gloves, and muttered "anus, virginal" as she made a notation on her tablet. I could tell by her squirming that Willow suffered a similar invasion of both of her lower openings, but again the veterinarian commented only something about being "almost virginal." The physician felt up my genitals and her breasts thoroughly. She also took various blood and fluid samples. Willow's face showed the same embarrassment I felt at being forced to pee into a cup while restrained so that we couldn't even aim the stream!

Then things varied even farther from a normal physical. With help from Jim, Doctor Janice installed a strange form of thong on Willow—only this one was very tight, with a semi-transparent screen over her vagina. Next, the vet reached into a little refrigerator to come out with a bag full of ice. Murmuring, "sorry about this," she suddenly applied the bag to my cock and balls. Up until that time, I had been semi-erect, but suddenly my genitals shrank to the size of a 10-year-old boy. Damn, that burned. Upon removing the bag, she threaded my shrunken penis into a metallic mesh bag, then locked it firmly around the base of my scrotum. I guess that's what the bosses meant when they said "including belts." Of course, the vice president HAD said that the Longhorn would be responsible if I impregnated another member of the temporary inventory, but I was still a virgin with no aggressive intentions. If I had to wear this thing for the next three days while I was constantly in the presence of a naked Willow, I was going to have the world's worst case of blue balls, not to mention a permanent kink in my prick! I don't think that was what the advertisements meant when they discussed "Peyronie's Disease."

Janice and Jim released us from these strange racks, but we were still cuffed. The veterinarian used a twist tie to connect something metallic to each of our handcuff chains—looking at Willow's hands (and, I must admit, her fantastic rear end!), I realized that the key to each of our chastity devices was dangling, tantalizingly, just above our hands. Standing between us, Master Jim guided us, one hand on each of our butt cheeks (with his fingers disconcertingly protruding into my crevice), towards the sound of splashing water, presumably the "slut wash" the vice president had directed.

There were a number of figures in rubberized rain suits, two of whom were ministering to a distressed young woman who was strung up in an inverted "Y", legs wide apart while the "slut wash attendants" vigorously scrubbed her all over and in the process fondled her thoroughly.

Another such attendant, this one a towering individual with a Black face, moved towards us as we approached the washing area. The shape of the chest on this individual indicated a very well-endowed woman, and I suspected that I was encountering a relative of Mistress Josephine, the woman who had caught us.