Through the Side Door Pt. 02

Having driven home the lesson about no physical contact, Jim finally decided to be merciful. Patting my on the head and telling me (in a voice one would use while training a puppy) that I gave great head, he gave me a tiny travel bottle of mouthwash, another optional decision for wranglers. I now truly understood that slaves would be very grateful for even tiny favors—I certainly didn't want to spend the night with the taste of his cum coating my mouth.

Jim addressed both of us. "Now listen up, slaves. No contact means no contact. If you can't keep your hands and mouths to yourselves, I'll be glad to tie you down for the night in the Slave 4s position on restraint platforms—which means the night shift will be free to come use you when they take their breaks. I'm sure these two guys would enjoy shafting 6944, and the women can practice their pegging technique on your asshole boyfriend—or should I say boyfriend's asshole? Think that will take care of your horniness?"

Then they were gone. Jack and I painfully straightened up and looked at the damage to each other's tushes.

I explained to Jack that Master Jim's threat was real. On occasion, usually for very serious disruptions OR when a slave requested use, the shift manager could authorize his subordinates to fuck or peg the inventory, but even then they had to move carefully and use lots of lube to avoid injury. Much more common was what had happened to me tonight, getting strapped and then forced to suck off one or more wranglers.

Jack looked embarrassed. "I'm sorry you had to do that, and I'm sure you were even more embarrassed that I witnessed it, not to mention having to fellate a co-worker. I hope you can forgive me, but I couldn't help wishing that you were using your mouth on me rather than on that clown."

"What a coincidence!" I smirked. "I was pretending it was you while I sucked on him!" We both laughed, and promised to revisit this the first time we were ever alone together.

We agreed that it would not be wise to sit down on our wounded posteriors for a while, so we had to stand, keeping several feet apart, talking quietly until the lights went out for the night. Even then, the blankets and bunks were too scratchy against our bruised behinds, so we tried to sleep on our sides, smiling quietly at each other in the low night lights.

*****

(Jack Murtha's perspective)

I guess Master Jim's threat about tying me down to be screwed had made an impression on my subconscious, because I found myself in a realistic dream about that.

My knees and wrists were strapped down to a weird metal framework, holding me about three feet off the concrete floor of a brightly-lit cage. Mo' and Josephine, the two dominant African-American slave handlers who had controlled me earlier that evening, came into view, each wearing a rather large strap-on over her jeans. Josephine picked up a large container of lube and disappeared towards my feet, obviously intent on exploring my rectum. I had no desire for anything like this, but decided that it was marginally preferable to be pegged by a kind woman than corn-holed by a guy. I felt fingers stuffing large amounts of lubricant into my defenseless ass. I gritted my teeth and closed my eyes, anticipating pain and injury.

When I reopened those eyes a few moments later, the scene had shifted. Instead of Mo', the handler from the slut wash, I seemed to be seeing Willow, who was once again fully dressed as a slave handler and buckling on a very large dildo. She was talking to me, as she always did, trying to get me to go along with her on some crazy idea. Only, this time the crazy idea was for her to fill both of my openings with a strap-on!

I tried to tell her I wasn't interested, that I really wanted to make love to her in a more conventional manner. But she continued to talk to me softly, saying something bizarre about how this was the only way that Mister Foster, the VP for Operations, would let us be intimate.

"Darling, I really want to hold you, kiss you, and make love with you." I finally conceded. "But if this is the only way we can be together, then OK. Just, please be gentle with me." She smiled and thanked me. Her counterfeit cock came closer and closer to my mouth . . .

And then I suddenly woke up. I was back on my bunk in a locked slave cage, while Willow was thrashing about on her cot, mumbling loudly in the midst of a nightmare. The noise she made was probably what awakened me. Without that interruption, I wouldn't have remembered the dream at all. I wanted to awaken Willow without bringing down the wrath of the wranglers on us, so I stood up, wearing my blanket over my shoulders like a cloak, and went to the far end of her bunk. Reaching out at arm's length, I gently shook her foot until she awoke.

*****

(Willow McDonald's perspective)

Jack and I compared recollections later, so I know that my dream at least started in the same environment that Master Jim's final comments had suggested to our minds—with me strapped down in the Slave 4's position, face down on one of the equipment frames intended to immobilize a slave so that any of his or her openings were available for penetration.

(At first, I though my fellow-wrangler and temporary Master, Jim, had made good on his threat to tie me down so that the night shift could pull a train on me. When my eyes focused, however, I was surprised to see that the guy standing in front of me was Jack, wearing the boots, jeans, polo shirt, and loaded equipment belt of a wrangler! Even though he lacked the muscles of most of the other wranglers (of either gender), Jack still looked handsome to me—wonder if he could get a job at the Longhorn?

When I focused on what he was saying, I found it confusing, because somehow we had exchanged roles. When I first persuaded him to sneak into the Longhorn, he had stripped naked and let me collar and cuff him while I, dressed in my usual wrangler garb, led him around the place like a puppy on a leash. Now, however, I was the naked slave meat and he was the wrangler. He was trying to explain something about how the Longhorn management had decided that I was more suited to be at the other end of a leash, so that the only way Jessie Foster would let us make love was if Jack became a wrangler and screwed my slave brains out.

I told him it didn't make sense to me, but if it meant that he was going to fuck me, I was all for it. He promptly presented a massive hard-on that I eagerly kissed, tongued, and swallowed. I began to think he was nearing his climax when he suddenly pulled out and told me that he was going to screw my slave pussy. He disappeared out of my line of sight, but a few seconds later I felt hands spreading my thighs, followed by a large shaft working rapidly into my moist passageway. His cock felt as if it had been crafted to possess me—it filled and stretched me without hurting. The sensation was so marvelous that I clamped down on him, causing us to both moan. He quickly worked up to ramming speed, pistoning in and out while bending over so that he could reach around to my nipples and clit. He felt so good that I had a slavegasm and passed out.

When I recovered consciousness, I was in a different room, where the air was so heated I was sweating. I was again restrained on some kind of a platform device, but now it felt as if my ass were much higher than my head. To my left front, I saw the source of all this heat—a gas-driven furnace or forge with several long metal rods sticking out. I realized that I had been here once before, during my initial tour of the Longhorn. This was the branding room! I'd been told that the Longhorn rarely used it unless a purchaser had a particular brand that he or she wanted to burn into a slave. The Texas court system usually branded criminal slaves with a circle-star before they came to us. There had been a fad, while I was still in high school, where the beauty queens would get decorative brands either on their buttocks or as a tramp stamp on the lower back. Some of these were really crude, more intended for boyfriends than for the women themselves, such as crossed cocks or the motto "Likker in front, poker in rear." The reality of such brands proved to be so painful (not to mention so permanent!) that the fad died out. Yet, here I was, apparently strapped down with my butt elevated very high and about to be marked permanently—but why and for whom?

At first, I had thought that the thin wrangler working the furnace was Jack in his new Longhorn garb, but when I called out the person turned, and I recognized him as Harold, the lazy dayshift manager for whom I usually had to work. "What am I doing here?" I croaked.

"Ah, you're awake, 6944. Good—I wouldn't want you to miss this. The Longhorn Corporation has determined that you have greater value as a labor slave than as a wrangler. Not my decision! Jessie Foster petitioned the court to declare you self-enslaved. Then he decided to use you for the new marketing campaign."

He continued. "As for why are you in this room? It's for the marketing campaign, as I said. Let's face it, bitch. When you worked for me you hated my guts—I overheard you tell that skank Gwen that I was 'a pain in the ass.' So, now Jessie has assigned me to give you a real pain in the ass!"

Harold donned heavy gloves and pulled one of the rods out of the furnace, turning around to display it less than a foot from my eyes. I tried to pull back, but the frame held me immobile. The metallic outline of the branding head was in the shape of a longhorn—an isosceles triangle of a skull, with two long, hooked horns reaching out horizontally. The whole thing must have been six inches wide!

"You're not going to brand ME with that!" I exclaimed, terrified.

"But of course, slut. Mr. Foster decided that, with this outline in black on your pure white left buttock, we'd have a beautiful white-face longhorn. He's going to have a photographer capture the imagine in enough detail that anyone can recognize it as a woman's branded ass, then use that as the centerpiece for our new marketing campaign. Your branded butt will be featured on our website. By rights, there should be a matching 'USDA-Prime' brand on the other cheek, but since you're too big and ugly to ever be graded 'Prime,' we'll have to find some other woman for that brand."

He looked at the branding head, but announced that it was not hot enough yet, so he thrust it back into the furnace.

"No, no, Master Harold," I babbled, "There must be some mistake. Please, please don't do this."

"Why not?" He replied. "I'm just doing my job, and you're just making noise."

The next move was predictable—my protests ended abruptly as he sprayed Devox down my throat.

"Peace at last," Harold commented. "You always were a yammerer. Now, while we're waiting for the furnace to heat up so I can give you a big pain in the ass, let's start with a slightly smaller pain." So saying, he picked up a bottle of lube and walked around behind me, out of sight. I felt a flow of lubricant between my cheeks, then a sharp pressure on my anus,

And then I woke up back in the cage, with Jack vigorously shaking my foot. "Wake up. You're having a nightmare, Sweetheart. Wake up!"

"Oh boy. I'm so glad to see you, I had the worst dreams—it started out OK, with you about to make love to me, but then I was enslaved and branded, and . . ."

He stood over my bunk, looking distressed. "I'd like nothing better than to hold you and help you calm down, but we don't need another visit from the slave wrangler Gestapo. It will have to wait until we get out of here. Are you going to be OK?"

"Yeah, let me catch my breath." We sat on opposite bunks until my heart and breathing calmed down, then we tried to go back to sleep.

*****

(Jack Murtha's perspective)

Between our bruises and Willow's nightmare, I don't think either of us got much rest that night. All too soon, the lights came on and a buzzer sounded, presumably announcing morning. Following instructions, we folded our blankets and knelt in the humbling Expose position until a wrangler appeared.

"Morning, Willow," he said in a casual, friendly tone, as if he saw her naked, kneeling, and collared every day. "Let's get you two to the toilets." He must have been briefed on us—he followed all the protocols, cuffing us and cupping our butts to direct our steps, but all the time keeping up a flow of inconsequential chit-chat as if we were at a cocktail party and everything was normal. Toilet, face wash, quick enemas (and for Willow, a douche), and then he returned us to our cage, leaving us unbound with bottles of water and baggies of slave kibble. He came back half an hour later, cuffed us again, and used the familiar hand-on-buttock/butt crack technique to guide us out to a practice auction block platform.

The dayshift manager, Master Harold, appeared to be in charge but didn't seem in any hurry to do something. I think I heard him tell Gwen Martin, Willow's roommate, to supervise block positions (aka Slave Yoga) for all the slaves (permanent and temporary) standing around. Just as she turned to order the slaves into position, she caught sight of her naked roommate, as well as me, being released from cuffs and urged onto the platform. Gwen froze with her mouth open.

"Something bothering you, Mizz Martin?" came the soft but penetrating voice of the VP Operations, Mr. Foster.

"Sir," she began, obviously shook up, "May I please speak to you privately?"

"If you must," Foster replied. "Care to join us, Harold?"

The other handlers backed away out of courtesy, but the three were talking in low voices right in front of me as I stood at the Present position.

Gwen: "Mr. Foster, I've been worried sick because my roommate, Willow, never came home last night. Why is she wearing a collar?"

Jessie Foster: "I would think the explanation was obvious. We have sufficient videos of all three of you, dressed as slaves and addressing my staff as Master or Mistress. So, I gave Mr. Murtha and Mizz McDonald a choice: go to court and be declared to have self-enslaved themselves, or sign into the market on kennel waivers for the next three days. The only reason I didn't do the same to you was that I had hoped you learned your lesson, after having your bottom strapped and being forced to fellate three of my wranglers two weeks ago. Of course, I should tell you that these two were also disciplined last night, and Willow got a mouthful of wrangler cum. Have you learned your lesson? If not, I'm sure Harold can find another collar for you to join the group on the stage."

Gwen, still in shock. "No, I mean yes, sir. It won't happen again."

Harold, in a very tired voice, "Would you PLEASE get on with the block positions practice, Gwen?"

Gwen got it together and proceeded to conduct the same kind of demanding practice she had put me through when I first visited their apartment. For the next 45 minutes, we pranced and cavorted about, loudly repeating "slave mantras" that begged our audience to buy us as slaves and ravage our bodies. A few of the young sluts wearing purple-bordered collars (which meant they were free women only there for slave-grading) appeared shocked at some of the filth they were expected to say, but the wranglers pressured (and in one case actually shocked) them into cooperating. I would have been fine, except that a naked Willow was beside me, distracting me constantly. I got several mild shocks and whacks before I focused on business.

By the time the practice was finished, all of us were aroused; I was in considerable pain because the $%&@ chastity belt prevented any erection. Most of the wranglers gathered up their charges and marched them off for either slave registration photos or display for grading (and in some cases auction.) Jim re-cuffed Willow and me, but just as he finished doing so, a towering Black woman appeared to take custody of us. At first, I thought she was Josephine, the night shift leader who had caught me playing slave yesterday, but why would she be here in the middle of the morning? The answer came when Master Jim addressed her as Florence. I gathered that there were three sisters all working as slave wranglers.

Not that I had any say in what happened. Mistress Florence attached leashes to our collars, ordered "Heel, sluts," and set off at a brisk pace. Willy nilly, we had to follow, but I was startled, and even Willow slowed up, when Florence banged open the side door through which I had entered yesterday. Holding the door open, she glared at us.

"Am I going to have to shock you two?" She asked. "In case you've forgotten, you signed Kennel waivers that placed you under Longhorn slave discipline both ON AND OFF the premises until you're released."

"Since I'm such a nice person, I'll explain it so your sex-crazed little slave minds can comprehend." Despite the belittling terms, Florence actually did sound very patient and even friendly. "Mr. Jessie has directed me to take charge of you and continue your training and kennelling at my home—or rather, the house I share with my sisters. You could stay here, eating slave kibble and sleeping on cots, but the food and accommodations will be better at my place. NOW are you satisfied?"

Standing in the hot sun, butt naked and defenseless, we didn't really have a choice, so we dutifully responded "Yes, Mistress."

She resumed her brisk walk over to a row of large shiny vehicles, all of them adorned with the logo of the Longhorn Slave Market. She stopped behind a huge Chevy pickup truck, where she dropped the back gate and extracted a large wooden box, placing it on the ground as a step. Even with the box and her holding our elbows, it was rather difficult to mount the truck gate with our hands behind our backs. We ended up kneeling in the truck bed. Being clothed and unbound, Florence easily bounded into the back, between us, and banged open the gates on two large dog cages. I had heard about "poodle transport," the humiliating practice of shipping bound slaves in such cages—now I was apparently going to experience it.

"One last thing," Florence said. "Open wide." She shoved a tight canvas gag between my teeth and tied it behind my head, then did the same thing to Willow. The pressure of the gag pulled the corners of Willow's mouth backward into what was called a "slave grin."

"OK, sluts, time to get poodle-caged—crawl BACKWARDS into your cage, butt first." Kneeling and bound, that was easier said than done, but I managed to shuffle onto the hard tray at the bottom of the cage. Florence did the usual police move, pressing my head down so I didn't bang it when it passed through the gate. Then she slammed the cage door shut and secured it with a tiny padlock, the kind sometimes seen on luggage. Ordinarily, I could have easily broken loose, but with my hands cuffed I was as helpless as a real poodle. A moment later, Florence secured Willow in her cage in the same manner. I was hot, helpless, and uncertain, but I couldn't help admiring the view of my fantastically-endowed friend in the next cage.