Through the Side Door Pt. 03

(This story is set in a world where legalized, non-hereditary slavery is common-place for serious crime, unredeemed debt, or voluntary self-indenture. Eighteen years of age is the minimum for anyone in this world to be enslaved or be involved in slave business operations. This is strictly a FANTASY—in reality, informed consent is ALWAYS mandatory.)

(Jack Murtha's viewpoint)

Guys, take it from me—no matter how much you love a woman, there are some things you should not do for her. High on that list, at least when she works as a wrangler in a slave market, is agreeing to pretend to be a naked slave under her control. No, she didn't trick me into slavery. Turns out Willow was what is called (I think—I'm no BDSM expert) a "switch"—someone who enjoys alternately taking or surrendering power with another person—being dominant some of the time and submissive at other times. She and her roommate had been pretending in the same way she wanted me to try, sneaking each other into the slave cages on the night shift at the Longhorn Slave Market in Houston. She thought I would enjoy the same kind of risky thrill, and sweetly nagged me into doing it. NOT enjoyable for me, but as I said, I loved her.

Only problem was, her bosses were wise to us. Turns out that they had plenty of video evidence that, without signing any waivers, we had addressed the staff as "Mistress" or "Master" so often while voluntarily wearing collars that we might be declared to have self-enslaved ourselves under the Beetlejuice rule. The Longhorn's Vice President for Operations, Jessie Foster, told us he wouldn't use that evidence in court PROVIDED that we surrendered our rights temporarily by signing a three-day "Kennelling Waiver," just as if we were puppies checked into a kennel under human supervision. He claimed he was trying to give Willow experiences to be a better slave handler, but it seemed as if he also wanted to discourage future games. Not only did Willow have to strip and join me in bondage (she was even more beautiful than I had imagined), but both of us got chastity belts because the Longhorn didn't permit boarded pets to "cover each other" without permission.

At least Mr. Foster finally convinced Willow, who had friend-zoned me for six years of school, that I must really love her since I put myself in such an embarrassing and dangerous situation at her request. (Comparing notes later, we realized that each of us had such a poor self-image that we didn't believe that the other would be physic ally attracted.) That evening, when we were locked in the same large cage, our long-delayed mutual longing prompted us to hug and kiss—which was against the rules. Both of us got our butts whacked with rubber straps, and Willow, who definitely should have known better, had to give one of her co-workers a sloppy blowjob. Turns out that both she and I had imagined that she was sucking me rather than the handler!

By late morning of the next day, though, we were kneeling, bound, gagged, and helpless, in wire dog cages in the back of a large Longhorn company pickup truck. Mr. Foster had apparently told Mistress Florence—one of three African-American sisters who worked as wranglers, each of them larger than Willow, which is saying something for a female—to kennel us at her house. I could not even scratch my nose, but it was almost worth my discomfort because of the guilty pleasure I got from seeing a naked Willow locked in a similar position in the adjoining cage. The container was almost too small for her 6-foot-plus body, and her magnificent mammaries were clearly visible above the sides of the truck. I really felt sorry for Willow; as Florence floored the truck up Interstate 45 in downtown Houston, we passed a number of 18-wheelers who blew their horns at the sight of a "big-titted slave cunt," naked in a cage. [My apologies to Willow and all other women, but that's the demeaning terminology used for female slaves, just as a male slave might be called a "micro-dicked asshole" and all slaves can be described as "sluts"].

That is, I felt sorry for Willow until I realized that she was actually ENJOYING her very public and helpless humiliation. With her hands restrained behind her back, she couldn't masturbate, but she certainly tried, rubbing her thighs together and thrusting her boobs against the wire mesh of the cage in order to stimulate her nipples, which were already fully alert. All this while rolling down the Interstate, slave naked, bound on her knees and gagged in a dog cage!

It was equally embarrassing when Florence turned off the highway. First, she parked the truck outside a drugstore and left us while she went inside for five minutes. Without the wind noise, I could hear Willow softly moaning while almost vibrating in her cage. Her need was so obvious that when two teen-aged girls walked past the truck, one of them pointed out the "bimbo slut who's so horny she's humping her cage." That comment and accompanying laughter apparently helped my love get off, for her face flushed as she suddenly went rigid and then slumped down.

After Florence returned, she drove through the window at a fast-food restaurant, where the window attendants could not help but stare at our restrained nude bodies—one guy couldn't take his eyes off Willow's breasts. I didn't blame him as I had the same problem. I heard our temporary mistress order three "meals" and drinks. Having eaten nothing but tasteless slave kibble for the past 24 hours, I was salivating even at the smell of a fast-food burger.

A few minutes later, the truck came to a halt at the curb outside a large suburban home. Florence emerged from the cab, balancing a drink carrier and four bags, presumably her drugstore and burger purchases. She dropped the tailgate and deposited her burdens in a corner, then reversed the process by which she had caged us—placing a large wooden box on the ground, climbing up to unlock the two cages, and then coaxing first me and then Willow out of our cages, helping us climb down because our wrists were cuffed. Telling us to stand still, I saw her push two burger bags into Willow's hands (still cuffed behind her back) and tell her not to drop them. Then I felt two other bags placed into my hands. I think the bags were easier for Willow to hold than for me—her shelf-like ass supported the weight!

Florence had just grabbed both of our leashes and was about to pick up the cardboard drink carrier when a massive Black guy in his 20s, out for a run, slowed to a halt and addressed Florence.

"Hey, Flo," he began, cheerfully. "I see you brought your work home for the weekend."

She chuckled in a low but sexy voice, "Got that right. Boss asked me to kennel and train these two. Why aren't you at work auctioning off the slave meat, Antonne?"

He shrugged. "Jessie said I was wearing myself out, so he wanted me to take a day off. Trouble is, I love my work! I bet I could get two hundred thousand for this beauty—got a great body for both labor and sex!" He put his hand possessively on Willow's right breast, softly tweaking the nipple.

Florence shook her head. "I don't know if you'll get the chance—Willow's legally free, works on the dayshift, in fact. For some reason she and her boyfriend here wanted to be kennelled for a couple days. Still, you can see she's hot for the collar, so maybe she'll end up on the block. Anyway, are you going to be around this evening? Care to come to supper about 7:30 when Mo' gets home?"

"Sure," he replied, still stroking Willow. "Can I bring something for it?"

"How 'bout some chips? We've got everything else." Flo replied.

"You got it—see you then—and you, too, cutie." He gave Willow a squeeze on her breast and a solid slap on her ass, then took off running down the sidewalk. This unexpected intimacy and praise had turned my lady on even more—I noticed a trickle of fluid down her inner thighs.

(Willow McDonald's perspective)

I had often day-dreamed about being a slave in "poodle transport," but the reality exceeded my imagination. I was hot, itchy, and uncomfortable, but the sensations of being nude, bound, gagged, and helpless in public, while truckers and teenagers commented on me as a sex object, will live in my dirty mind forever (what's the female equivalent of a "spank bank?")

Part of me was alarmed because there was a chance that I was really being enslaved. The probability was rather small, of course. Mr. Foster didn't need to make up a story to get us into these cages if he had some evil plan. My foolish game had delivered poor Jack to them already gift-wrapped as a slave, and once the night manager, Josephine, took my shock baton and summoned other wranglers she could have easily stripped and enslaved me right there on the production floor. (Just the thought of suffering such a public humiliation gave me another twinge down below.) For the moment, therefore, I was fairly confident that my temporary servitude would come to an end when the kennelling waiver expired.

That confidence freed me to indulge my libido. Here I was, to all appearances a slave, and I really was a naked, helpless slut on public display. This was enough to exercise my horny mind for hours. As the truck roared up the interstate, my brain shifted rapidly through various fantasies, such as

-I was on my way to be chained in a slave brothel, rented out as a sex toy to 18-year-old college kids, one of whom (the richest and most handsome, of course) would fall in love with me and buy me to keep his bed warm. Eventually, Jack would make millions selling his computer start-up to Google, and come buy me as a slave for HIS bed . . .

-I had inadvertently offended the handsome head of some drug cartel, who wanted to personally subjugate me and use all three of my openings. He enjoyed himself so much that he kept me around in chains like a plus-sized version of Princess Leia, slave girl to Jabba the Hutt. Even my lurid imagination boggled at the idea of me in a bikini, however, so I switched to other fantasies.

-Jack and I were world-famous slave actors, being shipped to film another porn movie where Jack would ravage my body over and over because the director was a perfectionist who filmed 15 takes of every filthy scene. Our owners were making millions by renting my body out, not to mention the sale of my posters, in suitably scandalous poses like my current poodle cage, to teenaged boys. But we were still slaves, kept under full discipline. To maintain our arousal, we were both dosed with aphrodisiacs that made us constantly horny, which is why we had to travel in separate cages with hands bound behind us. No sense letting us cum when the cameras weren't rolling . . .

-Earth's secret galactic overlords were all power-lifters who were 8 feet tall, with genitalia in proportion to their height, so that beauty queens and swimsuit models were too tiny and fragile for them to screw. The aliens had levied Earth to provide full-sized women like me (and perhaps Josephine!) to be their concubines. Because they weren't sure that the two species could really produce children together, however, they were taking Jack along as a potential mate; I would spend the rest of my life alternating between birthing children (whom Jack would father and raise) and serving as a high-class courtesan for the alien leader.

(I was immersed in that last fantasy when the teenagers jeered at me; they immediately assumed the role of alien children gawking at me as I arrived on their home planet.)

I was also surprised and pleased when Antonne not only felt me up—which any slave market employee does, almost automatically, so that the merchandise stays "hot and juicy" like pizza—but seemed to think the auction bidders would want me for more than just labor. When Florence commented that I was "hot for the collar," I realized that everyone could smell the fact that I was in heat (I wonder how that happened? Oh, well, if you collar and cage a woman like a bitch, what do you expect?) Flo addressed that issue as soon as she hustled us barefoot up the hot front steps, into her cool house, and over to a breakfast table in the country kitchen. She retrieved the bags from our hands, uncuffed us, and untied the gags.

"When it's just the three of us, we can relax the rules a little bit. Have a seat, Jack—is that your name, honey?—and pick a burger, fries, and coke. YOU, however," she said, turning to me and assuming a parental tone, "Need to take a shower before lunch. I'm glad you enjoyed your dog cage ride, sweetie, and you almost exploded when Antonne teased you, but I don't want you dripping on the furniture, OK? Remember, slaves can't come without permission, and that includes jilling off, which is one reason for your belt. Shower is second door on the right down that hall; first door is the linen closet, so grab a towel. Be quick before the food gets cold."

I hurried through a shower, but when I emerged I heard Jack's voice coming from farther down the corridor. I found them in a bedroom, sitting in front of a computer, him laughing at something Florence said. Evidently, he had just fixed some minor software problem for her. I was relieved that she was treating him—the innocent victim of my silly plans—so well. Mistress Flo took us back to the kitchen. Ravenously hungry, I bolted down my lunch and then gathered and disposed of the wrappers. Jack and I both thanked her for the food.

"OK, kids—remember that you're still under slave discipline, but we need to talk. Mr. Jessie wants me to assess what you, and especially Willow, have learned from this experience." Florence looked at me and asked, "So, tell me, you were obviously turned on by the ride in a cage, not to mention by Antonne checking you out—how do you like being a slave?"

I paused to choose my words carefully. "The ride turned me on, but being locked up with no control over anything really sucks."

The Black handler chuckled, "Duhh! Everything about being a slave sucks, and then you have to swallow! Old joke, never mind. So, despite what I told Antonne, you would rather NOT join the permanent inventory? OK, then—my sister Jo told me how you got into this mess. In most slave markets, if you're dumb enough to walk around naked, wearing a collar and addressing everyone as Master or Mistress, you're headed straight for the auction block and will never be heard of again. You're lucky that Mr. Jesse and my sister thought you were worth a second chance. From what I hear, this was your idea, not Jack's, right?" I nodded, and mumbled my regret about involving him, looking apologetically at him.

Flo leaned back in her chair and continued. "We both know that there are some people—mostly women, and I'm not trying to be sexist—some women who are fascinated by the FANTASY of abasing themselves as slaves but are smart enough not to really live that existence. I mean, almost all of us have walked across a tall bridge and thought about jumping off, but we don't obsess about jumping and we sure as heck don't go close to the edge, do we? So the question is, why were you walking so close to the edge? When you went through orientation as a wrangler, I know they had you read Psychological Impact of Slavery." She gestured at a well-worn copy of the Walker and Sheldon text, sitting on a shelf in a jumble of other books.

"I think Dr. Nikki even spoke to your orientation class, right? So, do you remember the reasons why some people are fascinated with imagining themselves as slaves?"

I'd been a psych major, so I loved the book, and quickly listed the possible explanations: fascination with danger or risk, being naturally submissive or masochistic, and a subconscious belief that you would be more attractive sexually as a collared slut than as a free person.

My temporary mistress went right for the jugular: "Which one of those explanations describes you? Why did you risk your freedom and Jack's just to play slave for a few hours?"

The discussion went on for an hour—she would have been a good police interrogator or shrink herself. When I finally mentioned Tank, the guy who had used and dumped me in community college, Jack rolled his eyes and Flo pounced. "Don't tell me, he's one of those little boys in adult bodies who feels threatened by a smart, strong, assertive woman. So he said you were ugly, right? My little sister Maureen is just getting over a guy like that. Morons like that otta be shot. Now you've convinced yourself that he's right, that nobody wants you as a woman. Horse manure. Don't you think that real men, like Jack here or Antonne, appreciate what you have to offer?"

I won't pretend that she solved all my self-esteem problems, but I realized that she had a point, at least about Jack's devotion, so we came to a halt.

Flo decided that we'd gone about as far as we could for one session, then abruptly changed the subject. "Next topic: you're still in slave status, and you know that the Longhorn wants all its sluts to be clean-shaven. I'd rather not have to spend the rest of my afternoon tying you down and shaving you, so can I trust you to groom each other? Here's some disposable razors and hair remover, and here's the keys to your belts. Both of you need to lose all your hair below your eyebrows, and don't forget to clean the shower drain afterwards. To do this right, you're going to have to put your face into each other's business, but remember, No orgasms, no sex! If you behave yourself for the rest of the day, I MAY let you have a little treat at night. But if you fuck or even jerk off without permission, Mr. Jessie will have my job, and maybe your freedom, tomorrow. Can I trust you?" She stared hard, first at me and then at Jack, as we replied "Yes, Mistress." At least we would finally be touching each other!

The next two hours or so were like my previous experience in kennel status—uncomfortable, embarrassing, frustrating, but still fun. Jack and I did steal a few kisses, but kept reminding each other to behave—he said we sounded like an Austin Powers movie. He was obviously aroused, which made it easier to remove the hair around his cock and balls, but he had to tell me to stop handling him down there, for fear he would shoot off and Florence would think we'd been screwing. I reluctantly agreed with him, since fondling my new boyfriend's shaft only revived some of my own arousal. Of course, Jack shaving inside my butt crack and (unnecessarily) examining my breasts didn't reduce the tension for either of us.

After much giggling and one last kiss, we cleaned up the bathroom and went to find Florence, who was in the kitchen mixing up a meatloaf. Her eyes immediately went to our groins. "No hair and the erection is still there—good job! Now, show respect to Mistress Josephine."

The woman who had originally caught our deception, Josephine, was drinking coffee, apparently having just woken up for another nightshift as manager. She contemplated us kneeling in front of her, then asked her sister, "What are they doing out of their chastity belts?" Florence explained that she had to remove the belts for us to shave, mollifying her. Soon thereafter, the oldest sister departed for work.

Florence then told us to assume the Expose position, kneeling in the living room while she finished dinner preparations. She emerged from the kitchen with a strap-on already in place over her jeans!

"Mr. Jessie signed you up, free of charge, for one of the options that the Longhorn is pushing for temporary inventory who are kennelled or awaiting slave grading—oral training. Ordinarily, each of you would have to use your mouths on multiple staff members—there's a nice pun—of both genders, so don't be surprised if some of that happens this evening when my sister and Antonne are here. Don't worry, Jack, I don't intend to have you suck off Antonne—I doubt he'd be interested in a blowjob from you when he could have Willow anyway, and the main focus of this training is on her. However, I expect both of you to follow slave rules and be good students. Got it? We're going to start really easy, with each of you practicing how to polish a plastic penis."