Through the Side Door Pt. 05

Next stop was the veterinary section, where Dr. Oliver recognized me as someone she had examined nine days earlier, when the Longhorn management had reduced me to naked helplessness under a kennel waiver. She made some joke about my getting frequent-flyer points, but still went through all the procedures of restraining, palpitating, and fluid sampling. Having to pee in a cup while restrained was as embarrassing as ever.

She used a measuring tape to take my dimensions, then asked me to confirm my bra size. I'd forgotten this step, but I mumbled "44DD." She insisted I repeat myself, louder. Oops—I could tell by his smile that Jack had heard her. For some reason, guys are fascinated with boob size, as if the size of my bras gave him bragging rights.

The veterinarian finished with a thorough physical examination, including both of my lower orifices. "Vulva slightly inflamed," she observed to herself as she made a notation, then smirked at me: "Have you been practicing to be a slut?" Without waiting for an answer, she released me from the GYN rack and discarded her gloves.

One of the steps I had dreaded most now came to pass: being on a practice platform with half a dozen other slaves, expected to perform again, going through slave block postures in front of half a dozen of my peers of both sexes. Barry released my cuffs and ordered me to join the other naked women, speeding me on the way with a brisk slap on my rump while Jack moved to join the "audience." Nine days earlier, I had enjoyed watching HIM abase himself on that platform, so it was my turn now.

A week ago, I had met the woman who was apparently in charge of our slave block practice, (aka slave yoga for citizen soccer moms.) Her nametag read "Shirley," and Jo had told me that this cute brunette, a few years older than me, was married to the Vice President for Operations, Jessie Foster. (She was also, reportedly, a Free In Name Only contract slave to Jessie, but that didn't matter in public.) I had come to think of Shirley—excuse me, today she was "Mistress Shirley"—as the "midget wrangler"—she wore the same type of boots, jeans, and polo shirt (the latter decorated with a Longhorn logo) as the others, the same type I had worn to work just yesterday. Yet, Mistress Shirley was seven or eight inches shorter, and probably 70 pounds lighter, than me or any other wrangler I'd ever seen. Still, I was naked except for a shock collar while she had a shock baton and rubber strap, so I would be wise to obey her, even without the threat of being sold at auction if I misbehaved.

Regardless of her height, Shirley was confident and compelling. She issued commands in a firm, loud voice that left no room for hesitation, ordering us slaves to twist and display our unclothed bodies while repeating the various obscene come-ons that we were expected to say on the auction block, things such as "all my holes belong to you, Mistress" and "Please fuck me with your monster cock, Master." But Shirley seemed to understand and care about her temporary charges, praising and calmly correcting us as we responded to her orders.

At one point Shirley called for a pause with us all on our knees. "OK, girls, I want each of you to show me how you get yourself off when you're alone in bed. Use one hand to play with your tits while the other rubs your clit and cunt the way you do at night when you're REALLY horny. Don't be shy about it—you may be embarrassed, but you need to take your fun when you can get it. Some of you know you're going to be auctioned today, while others expect to be slave-graded and released. [interesting phraseology, I noted—"expect to be" rather than "will be;" did that describe me?]

The midget wrangler went on. "For the moment, though, I want you to imagine that every one of you is going to the auction block. Bright lights, a huge audience, and a really big, muscular auctioneer—Master Antonne—cracking the whip on you. Got the image? Now, you're out there on the block, going through all your slave positions, flashing everything, begging the customers to buy you and fill all your holes. You're terrified and defenseless, naked, and (if we're honest) dripping between your thighs. In about two minutes somebody is going to OWN your ass and all the rest of you. It may be somebody you've never met before, or it might be that pimply-faced nerd you teased back in high school."

She continued speaking to us in an earnest, compelling voice. "Think about the present, though, and KEEP STROKING yourself. There you are, frightened out of your wits, humiliated, naked, about to be sold, and there's only one thing you need to do—you need to be the hottest, wettest pussy, the horniest little slave skank that's ever been auctioned off. Why? Two reasons. First of all, as I said, take your fun when you can get it. Normally, slaves must have permission to have an orgasm, right? But, the Longhorn WANTS you to have orgasms today, so you might as well enjoy the opportunity. Second, you're going to be sold no matter what you do. If you just sit there, petrified, you won't bring a very high price. You'll sell cheap and become a farm laborer who works all day in the hot sun and then gets butt-fucked by the overseer at night. Or you might be a whore chained to a bed in a slave brothel. You don't want THAT to happen, do you? I don't want that to happen to you either—I wouldn't wish it on anyone!"

"On the other hand, if you perform superbly, if you make the customers lust after your dripping slave snatch, you'll bring a much higher price. And we all know that people take better care of things that cost them a lot of money. So, your best chance for happiness is to lather yourself up and convince everyone in the audience that they need to own your juicy little cunt, no matter what the cost, and keep you as their beloved sex toy. That's the best possible outcome to your auction, and you need to work for it."

"How do you convince them?" she pursued. "Well, most of the buyers are men, and the female buyers are smart enough to look at you from the male perspective. And we all know that men can only think with one head at a time, right?" There was a ripple of surprised giggles from her audience. "So, you want to make their dicks hard! You may think you're not pretty enough, but forget that! What matters here is how sexy, how horny you are, which is not just a matter of a pretty face or big boobs. Use your face, your voice, your body, your every move to convince them that you can't WAIT to have them ram themselves into you. From now until the moment you're sold, any time your hands are free you need to stroke yourself as much as possible and think about how much you're going to ENJOY being somebody's slut, so you can really sell the idea. That's how you get the best price and the best outcome for you. Got it?"

What Shirley was saying was all true, although she neglected to mention that the higher the price at auction, the higher the profit for the Longhorn and the slave owners. Didn't matter, really—she was painting a fantasy to warm the horny heart of any woman with even a tinge of submissiveness in her personality. Shirley must have been quite submissive herself, not to mention imaginative, to describe a lurid image like that.

Out of the corners of my eyes, I could see the women on either side of me were lost in this image of being sold as sex slaves, even though both of them, like me, wore shock collars with a purple band on them, indicating they were free women under Longhorn control only to get a slave grade. They were probably smart enough to realize that following Shirley's instructions, imagining that they were real, juicy slaves, would earn them a higher grade. Whether they knew that consciously or not, their vacant stares, parted moist lips, erect nipples, and rapidly-moving hands reflected their arousal.

After one more series of revealing slave poses and dirty slave mantras, Mistress Shirley released her crack—pun intended—team of slave gymnasts back to their handlers. Trailed by Jack, Barry marched me over to a station where he could photograph me for my registry records—known as the "pinks" because of how much pink-skinned genetalia the slave showed in her photos. First, he imaged me in the "Present" position, hands behind my neck, feet slightly apart, in full frontal nudity. Next, I was down on my knees, one hand cupping a breast while the other held open my labia. And finally, I had to face away from him and plant my forehead on the concrete floor while my hands held my upraised buttocks wide apart, giving a perfect shot of both my lower holes. Thanks to Shirley (and to the threat of being sold), I was incredibly aroused and dripping—I'm sure the photos showed me "slave hot."

While Barry took these official photographs, Jack was using his cell phone to capture the same images. Before we'd come down here, I warned him not to do any such thing. With the threat of that power of attorney, however, he was in charge, not me, so I dared not protest. He knew what I was thinking, though—he winked at me when I looked back between my legs as two cameras recorded me in the most abject submissive posture any person could assume, as if I were inviting the camera to penetrate my openings.

Once the photo session was done, I waited on my knees, hands re-cuffed behind me, while Barry entered all the data into the National Slave Registry and uploaded the digital photos that recorded my juicy subjugation. He did me the courtesy of showing me the resulting entry, which was annotated to reflect "for slave grading only." Despite that reassurance, two words from Jack and about 15 keystrokes from Barry and I would be on my way to be auctioned on Antonne's block. That thought still terrified me, but it also sustained my arousal.

After this indignity, Barry told Jack that he would have to go back to the front and get a ticket to see me when I was on slave display. After five minutes while the cosmetologist straightened my hair, my fellow wrangler sprayed Devox down my throat, so I had yet another sensation of helplessness, unable to even speak. Fortunately, I didn't have to wait for the next step in my ordeal. Before I knew it, my hands were re-bound in front of me and then strung up over my head, after which Barry casually kicked my legs about 30 inches apart and restrained my ankles in that position using loops secured to the floor. As a wrangler, I had done the same thing to perhaps 100 people over the past two months, but MAN did I feel a rush of erotic helplessness when he did it to me!

The only thing that surprised me about the next hour was that the first group of spectators, 18-year-old kids who paid a dollar so they could fondle naked sluts, seemed fascinated with my body. The other girls strung up with me were conventionally pretty, perhaps high school seniors getting slave graded on a dare, and yet the horny males seemed to spend an undue amount of time with their hands on my boobs and butt, not to mention up my cunt and even (when they could reach it) my rectum. No one wants to be helpless in the face of such an intimate invasion, so I'm not going to pretend I enjoyed this. Yet, in a crude way it was flattering that they found my body so attractive when they could have been groping some high school cheerleader next to me. Two of these clowns even sucked on my nipples.

That attention kept me at a low simmer, which came almost to a boil when Jack walked in. Ignoring all the other cunts on display, he made a beeline for me and felt me up thoroughly. Devoxed, I couldn't say anything, but I hope my welcoming smile conveyed my love to him, despite the worry lines around my eyes. Jack whispered in my ear, "behave yourself and I won't sell you, but you may have to earn your clothes back when we finish, got it?"

I nodded and mouthed the words "Yes, Master," and he was gone. The thought of "earning my clothes" was almost as thrilling as the fantasy of being sold—and a lot less frightening.

There were seven or eight licensed slave merchants, identifiable by their ID badges, who came through at the end of the display period. Since they were the ones who actually determined my slave grade, I was glad that they found me still aroused and dripping after Jack teased me.

And then the display period was over. Very slowly, the handlers released us from our bondage, only to cuff our hands behind our backs and march us back to the cages. Ordinarily, I knew, all the purple collar, slave-grading-only women would have been placed in the same cage to be given the antidote for Devox while waiting for their grades to be calculated. After that, they would be returned to their ticket holders or temporary "owners" for the final embarrassing walk out the front door. So I was a little alarmed when Barry took me to a remote cage that I had never visited before, where I found Jack waiting for us. Barry released my wrists, gave me the Devox antidote and a bottle of water, and told Jack that he would be back "later."

*****

(Jack Murtha's viewpoint)

I had no intention of ever selling my darling Willow into slavery—it may sound corny, but what good would all that money do without her there to share my life? Still, since she gave me that damned power of attorney because she wanted to feel like a real slave, I decided to play along for a while to give her what she dreamed of. I just couldn't bear to leave her so obviously worried when she was on display, which is why I reassured her. Hope I didn't ruin her fantasy.

I have to admit that it turned me on to see my beautiful friend, who could easily beat me in any physical contest, willingly submitting herself like that. I have never been an Alpha dominant male, and I would never dream of telling her what to do with her life, but if she wanted to play submissive in the bedroom, why should I resist the opportunity?

There were a few more steps in the ideal slave grading that she had described to me, and one of these steps was ensuring that she was well-used before being released from the Longhorn. That's why I had Barry leave her in a remote cage, and why I'd asked Roscoe to come by that cage 20 minutes later, when her throat had begun to recover from Devox.

Roscoe was a "Trusty" in the old prison sense. Talking to Josephine, I had learned that one of Mr. Foster's innovations at the Longhorn was to set up a sort of half-way house for recovering slaves. The transition from slave to free was even worse than the transition in the other direction, and there was nothing but a few volunteer groups to help the recently freed. Imagine having no free will, doing nothing except on direct instructions, for years. How would you ever survive, let alone recover, when your freedom was restored? Hence Mr. Foster's idea. He offered newly-released slaves a basic existence, beginning with their first clothing: three sets of coveralls, five sets of underwear, and a pair of trainers. For up to six months, the "recovering slave" could work for the Longhorn as a janitor or odd-job man/woman, paid about six dollars per hour more than the minimum wage and given three free meals a day in the cafeteria, plus a mattress on which to crash. The HR folks would help the trustee get a copy of his or her birth certificate and educational records as well as a state ID or driver's license, plus a bank account to cash pay checks. If the ex-slave seemed to fit in at the Longhorn, he or she might be offered a full-time job, but otherwise HR helped him or her look for other positions. Meanwhile, everyone was instructed to always address the newly-freed person politely by given name, and to gently correct any slips such as the trusty calling another person "Master." The program had only existed for a year, but had already yielded two useful slave handlers and a couple of clerks.

Knowing all this, I had asked Josephine to introduce me to Roscoe, who was recovering from twelve years in a collar for bankruptcy. He and I agreed on the outlines of a little script that we now played out for Willow's benefit. It began when he appeared at the cage in which I stood, sweeping the floors. I offered him a can of soda, which he gratefully accepted as we talked. I put Willow into Expose position, hands behind her head and legs apart. That meant she could only answer direct questions, but I knew she would hear every word we said.

"So," I began with Roscoe. "Are you treated pretty well around here?"

"Oh, yeah," he agreed. "The handlers are a lot nicer to me now than they were when I went through here twelve years ago. Man, they shocked and whacked me for the least little thing then."

"I imagine that really bugged you," I said, sympathetically. "Did you ever want to reverse the situation, to have the same kind of control over a handler that he or she did over you?"

"Of course," he nodded. "I don't hold a grudge, but I did think they were unreasonable and needed to see what it's like to be a slave."

"I'll tell you a little secret, then." I confided, gesturing at Willow. "Do you recognize this slut?"

"She looks vaguely familiar," he allowed, playing his role perfectly.

"She's really a wrangler here," I said, showing him Willow's ID badge. Her eyes got wide and her breathing speeded up, as she could already see the direction this was going. "So, here's your chance to put a wrangler in her place AND get laid, which I imagine didn't happen very often when you wore a collar."

"Got that right!" He affirmed. "Are you serious, though? It's OK to fuck her?"

"Absolutely," I assured him, pulling the folded power of attorney out of my pocket. "See, she gave me power of attorney that among other things allows me to have anyone screw her anyway I please. How about we spit roast her?"

Not much more needed to be said. I handed him a condom and bent Willow over a bench, telling her to swallow my cock. Roscoe put the glove on and paused only long enough to fondle her upthrust buttocks before slotting himself into her cunt, fully mounted in only two thrusts.

"Gawd; she's like a swamp down here. If you hadn't shown me that ID, I would have never believed she was a wrangler. She's so turned on she must have been born for a collar—and I ought to know what that means!" He leaned forward across her back, reached around her chest to grab two handfuls of tit, and began frantically pumping into her body. Despite being gagged by my shaft in her mouth, Willow moaned in pleasure.

After years of being denied sexual release, Roscoe couldn't hold out very long—he climaxed in less than four minutes, I think. I actually felt sorry that he hadn't gotten more use out of the opportunity. Still, I had expected something like this, so I pulled out of her mouth and offered him the opportunity to have a slave wrangler lick his dick back to life while her hands caressed his balls and shaft. I, of course, took the opportunity to continue the shafting, putting on a condom and sliding into her channel. Roscoe had been right—she was so excited and lubricated that I got only limited friction. "Sloppy seconds," indeed.

Despite this, all three participants were obviously enjoying ourselves—it didn't take too long before I collapsed onto my temporary slave's back, shooting what felt (to me) like a huge load inside her (OK, inside the condom; have to take care of her). Minutes later, the long-deprived trusty delivered his second discharge down her throat. Like a true submissive, Willow swallowed every drop, then licked him clean while continuing to caress him with her hands. When she finally released his shaft, she smiled up at Roscoe and said, "Thank you, Master" in a voice that sounded sincerely grateful.

The whole encounter took less than 15 minutes, but at the end of it, Roscoe the trusty seemed rejuvenated. His back was straighter, his face shone, he exuded confidence and pride. I almost apologized for handing him the plastic bag into which I had deposited the used condoms. I hoped that I had fulfilled another one of my girlfriend's submissive fantasies, but I was CERTAIN that I had given Roscoe a new lease on life. Maybe I should suggest this to Mr. Foster as part of his trusty transition program? Then I remembered—the odds were that Willow's debasement has been captured on surveillance cameras, so I didn't need to say anything! I imagined the more juvenile male employees around here bootlegging copies of that film, and wondered if Willow had thought about that when she asked me to arrange such a sexual encounter? Best not to ask. Anyway, I handed Willow a travel bottle of mouthwash to take care of the taste.