Through the Side Door Pt. 04

Once again, the main processing floor at the Longhorn was very busy, with Saturday's merchandise displays/gradings almost finished and the first auction likely to start in 20 minutes. None of the inventory, whether permanent (slaves and indentured servants about to be auctioned) or temporary (mostly 18-year-olds coming to the end of their slave-grading, after which they would regain their clothing and their freedom) spared a second glance for Josephine and the two naked chattel she was leading. However, some of the wranglers, especially the part-timers who worked only weekends, knew me but hadn't witnessed my subjugation on the previous two days. They were appropriately stunned, but didn't miss the opportunity to inspect and even fondle my nude form as I passed them. Josephine ignored the whispering that seemed to spring up as soon as we passed these people. She led us back to one of the practice slave platform/blocks, where she ordered us into modified Expose position (modified, that is, because our hands were still cuffed and we therefore couldn't put them behind our necks.) She looked around and finally located Harold, the dayshift manager, who was just passing our little group.

"What are you doing here today?" he asked, in his usual distracted, bored tones. "I thought you had the day off, Jo."

"I was supposed to, Mr. Harold, but Mr. Jessie wanted me to kennel and train these two clowns. He asked me to bring them up to his office today about now, but I wanted to check in with you, first. Got to go through channels, you know."

Once he realized that no effort was expected on his part, Harold lost what little interest he'd had. "No, no—carry on. I hope you get this mess straightened out, because I need you and Willow [he stared unabashedly at my chest, where my traitorous nipples still insisted on being fully erect] back on the schedule Monday." I had a flashback to my nightmare when Harold was going to brand a huge Longhorn logo onto my buttock for an advertising campaign—I guess that my kennelling experience and my current appearance had moved me into the category of slut meat in his bored little mind. ANOTHER reason not to be a real slave—it was difficult enough to work around Harold with my clothes on, but the image of him using me as a sex object was enough to send a girl running for the toilet to blow chunks.

Jo replied, "Well, I'll be here—Willow's future is up to Mr. Jessie, though. See you Monday." Then to us: "Stand, sluts. Heel!"

*****

(Jack Murtha's viewpoint)

By now, being naked and helpless no longer troubled me as much as it had 40-some hours ago—you can get used to anything, I guess, and besides all the people wearing clothes were looking at Willow, not me. (Not that I blamed them!) I got the impression that, even though she enjoyed the illusion of being a slave, she had a more natural sense of embarrassment when on display in front of her co-workers rather than strangers. She certainly moved quickly, almost leading Josephine as we headed to the elevators.

When we got off at the executive suite, a young, well-built brunette was sitting at what looked like the receptionist's desk. She was dressed as a slave handler, in well-worn jeans and a Longhorn shirt whose nametag read "Shirley." Although I loved and lusted after Willow, I couldn't help noticing that this woman had prominent boobs but no bra (Hey, I'm a guy. Just because you're on a diet doesn't mean you can't look at the menu!) The "receptionist" smiled as soon as she caught sight of Josephine.

When she stood up, I was surprised to see that the woman was at least six inches shorter than any other wrangler I had seen—except for that rack, she looked like a little girl wearing her older sibling's uniform, and the short sleeves on her polo shirt reached almost to her elbows. Still, she was wearing a full equipment belt with a shock baton, cuffs, rubber strap, and walkie-talkie. In my current naked and restrained situation, I certainly wouldn't challenge her!

"How's my favorite wrangler?" the young woman asked Josephine in a friendly voice.

"I'll bet you say that to all the wranglers, or at least all of them who've spanked you and put you through slave block postures, which is a rather large group." Replied our captor, dryly.

"No, no," Shirley protested. "Just you and your sisters, honest!"

"Well, that shows your good taste, anyhow." Jo almost grunted. "So, how's Mr. Jessie doing today?"

"Not quite as grumpy as usual," the "receptionist" replied with a little smile. "A few rounds of sampling the merchandise [she hooked her fingers to suggest quotation marks] last night took the edge off."

"You're going to confuse our guests, here," Josephine replied, gesturing towards Willow and me. "to relieve your mind, folks, Mr. Jessie has never been one of those guys who got his jollies out of forcing himself upon our slaves—Shirley here is a qualified wrangler, an expert at performing slave block positions, and Mr. Jessie's wife. When she's not in graduate school, she keeps him happy so he doesn't take it out on the rest of us. Willow, I think you spent the evening in a slave cage with Shirley last month, didn't you?" Now that's confusing, I thought. Oh, well, not my concern as long as the guy who held my freedom was in a good mood. Willow flushed, apparently subdued by being a naked cunt while the woman she had known as a slave was in the superior position of wrangler.

"Is that Josephine?" I heard a welcoming voice coming from an inner office. "Will you ask her to bring the lovebirds in here?"

"Heel, sluts," our keeper ordered one more time. She led us into Jessie Foster's office and shifted us into modified Expose position, kneeling about three feet away from his desk where he could see every inch of our bodies. Quite naturally, Mr. Foster appeared much more interested in Willow's magnificent physique than mine!

The VP smiled, not unkindly, at Willow, and asked her, "So, tell me, what have you learned from the past two days?"

Her first response filled me with happiness. "Well, Master, the most important thing I learned is that Jack loves me!" (no s__t, Sherlock, mumbled Jo.) "But, I know that's not what you're asking. OK: First, I definitely don't want to be a slave for real. Second, you helped me live out a lot of my fantasies, as well as other situations I'd never even thought of. Do I still enjoy the idea of pretending to be a slave? Absolutely, but you've given me experiences that I hope will scratch that itch. Third, if I want to pretend that way again, this is the way to do it—kennelling myself under Longhorn control so that everyone is covered if something happens. Fourth, I really need to thank Mistress Josephine and her sisters for being so patient with me."

There was a brief pause while he stared at her, then asked the question: "So, I take it you'd rather NOT be enslaved, even though you handed us the evidence to do so?"

Up to this point, she had been controlled, but now she almost broke down. "No, I don't, Master. If you choose to enslave me, I deserve it, but PLEASE don't do that to Jack—it's all my fault, not his!"

He smiled more broadly, "I told you THAT two days ago—I had no intention of enslaving Mr. Murtha, and in fact I owe him an apology." He said, looking at me. "I thought she would behave better and learn more if you were with her, and according to Josephine, that's what happened. Thank you for your cooperation—I'm sure it wasn't easy for you to participate in our 'training.' Will you two stand up so Jo can remove the cuffs and collars?"

Ninety seconds later, we were released, seated on the sofa opposite his desk but still nude. I thought that this has to be the strangest business in the country, where a senior manager gives career counselling to his female subordinate while she sits in his office in full frontal nudity, with no overtones of sexual exploitation!

Mr. Foster continued. "You can have your job back, Willow—in fact, I'll pay you for the past two days as training time, because I think you developed some empathy with the inventory, right? But, I want you to consider doing something voluntarily—it's not a job requirement, just something I REALLY think would be good for you."

She must have still been in subspace because she didn't seem conscious of her nudity, and almost addressed him as "Master" even though she had been released from slave discipline. "What's that, Ma-Mister Foster?"

He walked around the desk carrying two envelopes, giving one of them to her and the other to me. "Your envelope, Willow, contains 250 dollars in cash, so that you can get yourself a full makeover—hair, nails, waxing, whatever—sometime this week, in order to look your best. That's not a criticism of your normal appearance, just a necessary preparation for the next step. Mr. Murtha has a paid receipt for a slave grading, with premium options, a week from today. What I'd like you to seriously consider, Willow, is that you go through slave grading next Saturday morning with Jack as your receipt holder. In fact, I'll let him accompany you as a free citizen during most of the process. Only this time, instead of sneaking in the employee entrance, you have to walk in the front door already bound and naked, just like any 18-year-old beauty queen getting graded."

For the first time, Willow showed embarrassment, not to mention doubt and disbelief.

"Before you say no," Foster continued, "let me tell you why I'm suggesting this. First, I noticed that you were never slave-graded as a teenager. Almost everyone else who works here did it sooner or later—even my wife, who grew up in upstate New York, for crying out loud. Just between us, when I came to work here after college I got my Dad to run me through slave-grading at the HCI Market, just to understand what it felt like. I think it's a useful experience to help you deal with the temporary inventory, many of whom only get graded to qualify for loans, and are just as reluctant as you seem to be."

"Second, I suspect that one reason you didn't have yourself slave-graded before now is that, for some reason, you don't have a very high opinion of your appearance. At least, that's the impression that you've given to all the wranglers who took care of you the past two days. All of us are self-conscious about how we look, but you seem to be way beyond that. I'm guessing that, if you indulged your fantasies a little, you'd be slave hot with a much higher grade than you think. Again, this is not a trick—if I wanted to put you on the block you'd already be sold, branded, and shipped in a dog cage. Call me a male chauvinist pig—I just think that you'd be happier if we could get rid of this self-doubt about your appearance."

"Finally, this whole thing started because you knew that Mr. Murtha would never say no to you, so you got him to strip naked and then led him around the market on a leash. In any other slave market, that would have gotten him enslaved for life. In fairness, don't you need to face the same embarrassment, let him spend time with you slave naked at the market? Please, just think about the idea, OK?"

Mr. Foster shifted his gaze to me. "Speaking of Mr. Murtha—may I call you Jack?" I nodded, still trying to digest the image of having my love on a leash. "Jo tells me that you're a whiz with computers. The Longhorn can always use a good IT person, and I bet I can beat your current salary. Of course, everyone who works here must undergo three months of training and experience at slave handling, just so they understand the business and fill in during emergencies, but you already have a leg up in terms of understanding how this place works. Once you've worked here a year, we offer tuition assistance and paid time off to take more college courses. Are you interested in the job?"

In all the possible outcomes to this kennelling, I had never considered getting a job offer! And it would be fun to work with Willow—if nothing else, we could carpool and eat lunch together. But, I had to tell him no.

"I appreciate the offer, sir, but I've only been at my current job for two months. It wouldn't be fair to stiff my boss after he took a chance on hiring me straight out of school."

He smiled, "I like a guy who has a sense of ethics and loyalty! Seriously, though, think about it sometime down the road, maybe a year or two from now. Here, take my card."

I mumbled a thank you as he shifted his focus towards the open door and raised his voice.

"Do we have those robes, Shirl?"

"I live to serve you, Master," came a gay, teasing voice from the doorway. Shirley, the diminutive wrangler who had been sitting at the receptionist desk, walked in, smiling, with two long bathrobes, which she handed to Willow and me. It felt odd to be wearing even minimal clothing after two days of slave nudity.

Josephine produced my missing glasses as well as the key to Willow's locker, then escorted us back down to the locker room where she had made my darling strip and submit two days earlier.

"By the way," remarked Jo. "!n case you're wondering about Shirley calling Mr. Jessie 'Master,' I guess I should explain that she's on a 5-year personal services contract to him. You've heard of Texas FINO, Free In Name Only, right? So, when she's not in graduate school she sometimes acts as a FINO slave to her husband, and the contract protects her from self-enslaving under the Beetlejuice rule. In other words, she's safe kidding around like that, but you're not. Unless, that is, you want a permanent collar?" She said.

"Anyway, it's been fun, guys, but next time you come to visit me, keep your pants on, OK?" With a half-smile, she exited the locker room. A moment later I heard the side door slam shut—apparently she had gone to pick up her car and return home.

*****

(Jack Murtha's perspective)

Willow and I looked at each other blankly, then grabbed each other and kissed for a long time. Even with the faint remaining taste of female wrangler fluids on both our lips, it felt glorious to be free in each other's arms.

"Much as I love holding you," she murmured, "Let's get dressed and get out of here." We broke the clinch and hastily dressed. I still enjoyed getting one last glimpse of her body when she shed her robe; I couldn't resist making a comment about finally getting the full effect of her beauty now that I had my glasses on.

We slipped out of the same side door, agreeing to meet up for a late lunch. At the restaurant, I kept touching her hand every time I got a chance. When we finished eating, I hesitantly asked, "Can we get together again this weekend?"

She looked at me hard. "Are you crazy? Of course! Since I have a roommate and you live alone, let me just run home and grab some clothes, including a clean uniform for Monday, and I'll be at your apartment in half an hour. After that, Mister, you're mine for the rest of the weekend. You can't go anywhere other than the bathroom without me, got it?"

"Yes, ma'am." Thank god!

It was a great weekend. No, we didn't fuck ALL the time, but we certainly bumped hips and buttocks frequently and enthusiastically. In between, there was a lot of kissing and cuddling and giggling and even a long walk. I had a lot of work to catch up on Monday, but for the rest of the week we spent our evenings together.

Wednesday evening, after a long, sweet round of love-making, I finally brought up the question of her slave-grading. She surprised me by immediately agreeing to do it.

"Only," she hesitated, "Being slave-graded is my last chance to live out my fantasies. I want to do it in a particular manner, and I need your help."

"Anything, Darling, you know that." I replied, promptly.

She sighed, then visibly plunged ahead. "Jessie Foster wanted me to channel my inner slut to get a good slave grade, and he's right—the women who score highest are not the prettiest but rather those who get turned on by the situation, so they come off as cock-hungry sluts. By now, you know enough about me to realize that I get excited by feeling like a helpless sex object. In order to make the whole thing real for me, I want—no, I NEED, to give you a full power of attorney over me when we go back to the Longhorn."

"Jeese, Sweetheart," I replied, surprised. I remembered our high school introductory course on slavery. "You do realize that a full power of attorney would permit me to sell you at auction as a slave? Or make you have sex with anyone I chose? I mean, I have no intention of doing that, I love you too much, but just creating such a document seems like a helluva risk."

"You're right, there is a tiny risk, but that's what turns me on. Being naked and helpless in public is a turn-on, but I thought about it, and I need a higher degree of vulnerability." She replied, smiling with a faraway look in her eyes. "It has to be real—I have to feel like a helpless slave girl whose future is in your hands, a woman who might really be auctioned, branded, and enslaved at the Longhorn. I know it's weird, but to exorcize my submissive demons I want you to be my master for real, at least for a day."

"I know I'm topping from below, so I won't say anything when we really do this. But, let me say now that I want you to be as tough on me as possible, to treat me like a real slut who's about to get sold into slavery. I'll be just a skanky slave pussy completely under your control. When we go to the Longhorn, I imagine being naked for the entire drive across town. When we get there, you park out front, but at the far side of the parking lot so you can lead me on a leash all the way to the front door, with everybody watching. During that walk, it would thrill me if someone wanted to talk to you or examine me as merchandise. I will forgive you in advance if you call me all the demeaning names you can imagine, and encourage the slave handlers to punish me for the least offense. When I'm finally released, you get to slow walk me back to the car, and if you want me to kneel down and blow you to earn my clothes back, so be it—I'll be your slut, your cunt, your slave in public, and the idea that other people see me that way just increases the turn-on."

"Of course, I'd REALLY like it if you let some wrangler have his way with me, or better yet helped one of them spit-roast me. It's an open secret that this can happen at the Longhorn, but Mr. Jessie insists that the wranglers can ONLY use a person being slave-graded if the woman either freely agrees to it ahead of time, or gives up her rights with a power of attorney."

She paused again. "That's what I'd like to happen, but ONLY if it's OK with you. This may be my last chance to live out my fantasies, but if you can't stand the idea of someone else plowing your girlfriend while you watch, say so—you're far more important that satisfying my twisted dreams."

"For you, babe, anything." I replied. "I guess I'm as twisted as you are because the thought of seeing you submit like a naked bitch to another guy gives me an instant hard-on. I can't promise everything you said, but I'll try to make it memorable."

I spent parts of Thursday and Friday on the phone with Josephine and even, once, with Mr. Foster, trying to arrange things to make her ideas come to life. Friday, Willow spent the day at a beauty parlor. I didn't get to see her after the makeover, because she said she needed a good night's sleep. So, I promised to pick her up at her apartment at 6 a.m. I was willing to make it earlier, but she insisted that, if we got to the Longhorn too early, there would be no audience for her walk of shame. Talk about a glutton for punishment!

(To be continued)