Trying on a Collar Pt. 02

*****

Friday evening about 10:00 p.m., after I'd spent most of the meal talking about how much I liked Boston baked beans (not really—try to keep up!), I found myself alone with Jessie in his hotel room, each of us trying to suck the other's face off. Our hands were running all over each other's body, and I was both glad and startled when I encountered a very substantial erection in his pants.

I eagerly helped him remove my blouse and bra, but then stopped his hands at my waistline. Smiling broadly, I backed him into the same chair he had sat on three nights before, and told him I had some unfinished business to attend to. Shucking my black skirt and pink thong off as fast as I could, I sank down into the "kneel" position and looked up, smiling, at him. I had planned to be cool about the whole thing, but lost my nerve and stuttered out the phrase, "I beg you to f-fuck my face with your monster cock, M-master."

He grinned lasciviously, but I couldn't look him in the eye any longer. Looking down, I confessed, "I really want to do this for you, Jessie, but I don't know how—I've never given a blow job before, and I can't compete with the slaves you train."

His hand gently turned my head up until our eyes met. "Sweetheart—no guy would ever turn down an offer like that from a beautiful woman like you. Luckily," he joked, "I'm an expert at teaching women how to fellate guys. The first rule is, always look the guy in the eye and smile so he knows you really want to do this."

I grinned, "Well, I really do want to—more than anything! Now what?"

Jessie unzipped his jeans, then led my hands up so I could extract his package. I had only one other guy with which to compare him, and at close range his shaft looked huge. He continued, still smiling and loving: "Rule 2: no teeth. I mean, if the guy is wearing a thick condom you can crunch down a little bit, but otherwise keep your lips wrapped around your teeth. From there, try different things. Kiss it, lick it, take the head in your mouth and run your tongue around it—just don't choke yourself by trying to swallow everything at once, OK? It's not going anywhere."

For the next few minutes, I tried to please him. It was fun, and he kept praising me while fondling my nipples gently. I had been afraid I would be disgusted, but he was clean and fresh-smelling, even tasty. I was in a very submissive position, but I got a sense of power out of mouthing his cock, especially when I felt it grow longer and harder in response to my lips and mouth.

Suddenly, he pulled out of my mouth, although I tried to follow and keep sucking on him. My face must have shown my sense of failure, because he reassured me, hastily.

"Sorry! You're absolutely fantastic with your mouth—if I don't stop now, you'll get a mouthful of cum and then we'd have to wait for some of the other things I want to try with you."

My new lover drew me up and helped me finish disrobing until I was standing, wearing only a garter belt and stockings (thanks, Pam!) He frantically discarded his own clothes, then took me in his strong arms and kissed me gently but thoroughly. Jessie led me to his bed, asking me to sit down. I started to lie back, but he asked me to stay upright. To my astonishment, he knelt down between my legs and began tiny little licks and kisses all over my thighs and labia. Even more surprising, he was pretty good at it! My fingers clutched at his short hair while he worked me higher and higher.

Finally, with me begging him to shaft me, he got to the main event. Things moved so quickly that I didn't have time to take notes, and before I knew it he was sliding gently but deeply into my aroused channel. I felt myself stretching to accommodate the invasion. And he kept kissing, touching, and shafting me for what seemed like hours. Let's just say he was even better at fucking than he was at oral. OK: One detail that's relevant to this story. Twice, just before he climaxed, he was lying on top when he asked me to put my hands behind my neck. Once I cooperated, he slid his own hands underneath my upper back, reached up, and grabbed my wrists firmly, almost as if his hands were cuffs. That position enabled him to hold me completely motionless while he pounded into me. It may not have been slavery or bondage, but in those moments I was unquestionably under his control and not going anywhere! Jessie was only my second sexual partner, but I think he ruined me for anyone else.

*****

About 2 a.m. I tiptoed into my dorm room. I'd already showered (with Jessie!) so I just got undressed, as quietly as possible, and slid into my bed, tired and a little sore but happy.

About 10 seconds later, my roommate calmly announced, "I gather the date was a success."

I startled and then giggled. "You could say that. But I'm not going to give you any details about how your own brother performs, except to say that he upheld the family honor!"

"Glad to hear it," she snorted. "It's early days for me to start calling you my sister-in-law, but at least you're coming to visit me after Christmas, right?"

"Absolutely. How was your date?"

"Hal's pretty great in the performance department, as well. Get some sleep—you were going to make up that Organic lab tomorrow."

"Yes, Mommy." I replied, trying to sound like the defiant teen I had never been.

The remaining eight weeks of the term flew by. When I wasn't studying, I spent a lot of time on the phone with my new boyfriend. Yes, we talked about his job, and eventually I felt safe enough to confess, in general terms, to my fantasies of slave submission. His reply had been to the effect that I'd made that quite obvious in our first evening alone together. He'd enjoyed being in charge in bed, but made me promise that I would tell him if that attitude ever offended me (as if). Yet, Jessie didn't harp on the subject. Instead, we talked about everything under the sun, finding that our senses of humor, politics, and leisure activities were very similar.

Thanksgiving weekend, he snuck up to Boston to see me for one more day and night together. I don't know what he told his parents, but Pam had a knowing gleam in her eye when she asked me whether I was bored, staying on campus when most people went home for the holiday.

My parents were pleased that I finally had a steady boyfriend and was socializing with Pamela, although I avoided much discussion of where Jessie worked or what we had done alone together. They were disappointed, of course, when I told them I wanted to visit Pam's family in Houston starting the day after Christmas, but I guess my Dad, at least, recognized that such things were inevitable as I grew up and away from them. As for the free plane tickets, I told them what Pam had assured me, that her Dad had so many frequent flier miles that the tickets were no big deal.

Before I knew it, I was coming off the plane at George Bush Airport, to be met with a smiling hug from Pam. I tried to hide my disappointment that Jessie was not there, but she laughed and said he was sleeping, having been the night manager the previous evening. Her parents were more than welcoming, and I met their third child, George, who was a 17-year-old senior in high school, impatiently waiting for his 18th birthday in May. Several times I caught him staring at my body, which was both flattering and a little disturbing.

I had known the Fosters were wealthy, but not just HOW rich they were. Their beautiful suburban home was about five times the size of my parents' place, with a garage and collection of high-end cars to match. There was also a full-time staff, including a cook, two maids, a chauffeur, and what I guess would be a butler or major domo. Except for the last, a middle-aged Anglo guy named Stephen, the staff were all Latinos/Latinas. The family wasn't snooty or arrogant about the staff, and expressed genuine concern if one of them fell ill. In fact, Pam, George, and their mother were just as likely to fetch and carry something as ask the maids to do it, which I found admirably democratic. Still, the staff members did address the family as "Mr. George," "Ms. Pamela," and so on.

That first day of my visit, my roommate didn't mention slavery at all, but every time I glanced at Pam, I saw her gauging my attitude and comfort levels. When we were alone together that evening, about to sleep in her room, I finally brought up the elephant in the room.

"Pam, after knowing you for a year and a half, I can tell when you're plotting something."

She assumed the phoney, outraged innocence made famous by Miss Piggy: "Plotting? Moi?"

"Oui, toi. [Yes, you.]" I replied. "Come on, girlfriend, for at least the last year you've been itching to get me slave-graded, so why not come clean—or rather, come dirty—and tell me what you've got in mind."

"I'd never make you to do anything you didn't want . . ."

"Yeah, right," I snorted. "I seem to remember someone setting me up for a slave yoga tutorial with her brother."

She replied, seriously, "But, you really WANTED to do that, didn't you? And it turned out great."

Sigh. "You're right, I did want that, and thanks for pushing us up together. This time, though, you've got some wild idea about having me slave-graded, right?"

My roommate nodded. "Right. And speaking of itching to do something, don't tell me you haven't had that on your mind for months. Now's your chance to experience some of your fantasies, with me watching out for you as your temporary 'owner.'" Once again, her fingers made the quotation marks visible.

Another sigh. "I don't know what I really want. The whole idea of slavery frightens me, and it seems foolish to take any risks. While I'm at it, let me ask you something."

Pam: "Ask away, girl."

"If we do this, please, please, please promise me that you won't pull any tricks. Oh, I trust you not to sell me into slavery—if I didn't trust you, I'd never have come down here! But you've told me a few stories of young women who got branded or something else permanent. How would I tell me parents, or even the family physician, that I was dumb enough to let someone burn my butt like that. Please?"

She looked serious, almost nurturing. "Aww, sweetheart. You don't need to worry about that. I know that you haven't had all the experiences that most girls do, and I'd never forgive myself if something bad happened to you." She brightened. "I know what! If you agree to get slave-graded, we'll go to my Mom together and tell her what we plan. You've just met her—can you imagine her letting me get away with any shenanigans involving you? She'd sell ME into slavery of anything happened to you while you're our guest, just like Mr. Castillo did with Miranda."

"That sounds reassuring." I paused, then mumbled "Damn!" under my breath.

Pam: "What's wrong, sweetie?"

Me: "I can't make up my mind. On the one hand, I want to feel safe, and on the other hand I think that the kind of slave-grading you experienced would be TOO safe. I mean, of course I'd be humiliated and nervous about being naked, bound, and so on, but it sounds like—except for being put on display and felt up—the whole process is so antiseptic and controlled that I'd feel just as frustrated afterwards as I am now."

She giggled. "Got you covered, girl. Have I told you about staying overnight?"

"What do you mean, staying overnight?"

"Simple—we check you in so late in the day, say, 3 o'clock in the afternoon, that you have to stay there, overnight, for grading the next morning. There are all kinds of legends about what happen to women who stay overnight, when the night shift can play with them. I heard a story once about young female handlers who took turns pretending to be slaves, put into cages with real merchandise overnight so they were vulnerable to the staff. Since they worked in the daytime, they were just more slave meat to the night guys. Before you say that sounds like TOO much risk, remember—who's in charge of the Longhorn Slave Market on most nights?"

"Jessie!" I almost shouted.

"Soooo, how about we arrange it so that we check you in about 3 p.m. this Sunday, and then the night shift manager decides he wants to sample you as part of the inventory?"

I shivered. "You're bad, Pam. I'm sure that's exactly what you've been planning for months, right? Don't deny it." She couldn't conceal her smirk. "But—Would he go along with that, and if he did, would he still want to date me after I played the slut for him?"

"I already asked him. He pretended to be shocked by the idea, but his hard-on betrayed him. Anyway; today's Thursday, and you have a date with him tonight on his day off. Talk it over."

*****

So we did. After take-out food and slow, gentle love-making, he brought up the subject as we lay in bed together, my head on his chest.

"Sweetheart, let's talk about the elephant in the room--your slave-grading—OK?"

I nodded, hiding my face in his chest hair.

"Pam says you're willing to stay overnight to live out a fantasy of being a sex slave."

I nodded, still not daring to look at him. "You must think I'm a terrible slut; I wouldn't blame you if you broke up with me over this."

"Of course not—I think you're fantastic, and I have no intention of breaking up with you, ever. In fact, the idea of you being my honorary slave girl is kinda hot—that is, if you really WANT to, and not just because I like the idea?"

I finally got the nerve to raise my head, and kissed his lips, gently. "I'd love to, so long as we agree ahead of time not to get offended by each other while we're acting out my daydream. I'm free to be a slut and you're free to use me as you like, no recriminations."

"Great!" he replied, confidently. "Now, in order for you to feel like a slave, you can't know exactly what's about to happen, right?" I nodded, smiling, and he continued. "But we have to agree on a few ground rules so you don't freak out or do something you'll regret. I mean, it's a given that the beautiful woman comes into the market thinking she's just going to get a grading, but the handsome night manager decides to treat her like a real slave, including blow-jobs, spanking, and fucking, right?"

"Yes, please," I responded, as if he had offered me a great treat—which he had.

Jessie: "So, how do you feel about other slave handlers using you as well?"

Gulp. Oh, well, in for a penny. "I think that would be up to the manager, wouldn't it? I mean, if the thought of another guy taking your girlfriend bothers you, then forget it—our relationship is worth more than my foolish fantasies. But, if I'm really part of the inventory, I'd be at your mercy, right? And you might decide to reward one of your subordinates by lending me to him." A broad smile and nod in response. "Only . . . I don't know how to say this, but I'm not ready for anal sex." By now I was blushing furiously, my head again hiding on his chest. "If I ever get the nerve to try it, I'll want to give you my last virginity, but I think it would be too much while I'm already overloaded with excitement. Do you mind?"

His response was a low growl as he rolled me over on my back and speared me again. Both of us were aroused by the idea of playing slave sex, but putting that aside, this man was fantastic in bed!

*****

The time flew by, although I didn't get to see Jessie again before Sunday afternoon. About 3 p.m. I was sitting in a family car with Pam. She had reviewed the procedures with me, and then did everything she could to prepare me for me a top grade—another trip to the hair dresser, several slave yoga practices in private, a session at a tanning salon, plus waxing and shaving until my body was completely hairless below my eyebrows. She finally got her way about slave yoga, demanding that I perform in the nude with her bedroom door locked. My whole body turned red, but she convinced me that it was a necessary stage to prepare me for doing it in public.

When we got to the market on Sunday, all I had on was a loose T-shirt, shorts, and flip-flops.

Pam reached across the console to give me a hug. "Remember that I and other people are going to call you various names and feel you up, not to be mean but to increase your arousal. Don't worry, sweetie, you'll do fine. I want you to relax as much as you can, smile, and enjoy yourself. Just pretend you're a happy, horny bimbo, and I'm sure you'll get a thrill out of this. Ready?"

I nodded, shaking slightly. She continued. "OK: last thing. From now on, obey all orders immediately, just as if it were a yoga training class. That begins right now." In a firmer voice, she commanded, "Strip!"

I pushed aside my fears and followed instructions, shucking off my T-shirt and then squirming in the car seat to slide my shorts off. While I was doing that, Pam had come around to the passenger door, which she now jerked open. "Outside, slave!" Visibly shaking but determined, I stepped down barefoot (bare everything!) onto the pavement, then assumed the Present position, hands interlaced behind my neck and feet slightly apart. It seemed like a dream—the huge parking lot was almost empty, but I was standing in public, slave naked, in broad daylight. This couldn't be happening, could it?

"Collar!" My submissive training from slave yoga took over as I dropped to both knees, thighs wide apart, one hand on my hip and the other holding my hair up so she could install a simple cat collar around my neck. A leash was already attached to the collar.

"Stand! Back Hands, Slut." I pivoted to face away from her and crossed my hands behind my lower back. Immediately, she cinched a plastic zip-tie around both wrists. Then I felt her step closer to me so that she pressed slightly against my bound hands. Her hands came under my arms—one toyed with my nipples while the other searched for my clit. I realized I was already lubricating down there.

"Breathe, girl." She whispered in my ear. "You're obviously enjoying this. Go with the flow and store up the memory of how you feel right now, OK?"

Getting into character, I replied, softly, "Yes, Mistress."

She giggled. "That's a good little bitch. Come along." She led me, slave naked, collared, and bound, towards the large lighted sign marking the entrance to the slave market. My helplessness, being led by my BFF, made me indeed feel like a "little bitch" puppy who might wander off unless kept on a leash. The parking lot was almost empty on a Sunday afternoon, but she had parked—deliberately, I'm sure—at the far edge of the lot to maximize my exposure before we entered.

We were in Texas, but even in Texas January is wintertime. A chill wind made my exposed nipples stand up even more than they already had, not to mention cooling off the stickiness between my thighs. Fortunately, it was a sunny day, and the slightly-warm pavement reassured my bare feet as I followed dutifully behind my temporary mistress.

Too late to back out now—I'd signed the consent form for Pam to have me slave-graded, and there was no stopping her. I shivered again, and this time it wasn't from the wind. What the hell was I doing?

(To be continued)