Trying on a Collar Pt. 03

"Looks like this slut is almost done until tomorrow, right? After you run her through the slut wash, please leave her in the manager's office, and I'll have the night shift bed her down. OK?" (The thought of the different meanings for the word "bed" caused my nipples to perk up again.)

"You got it, boss."

*****

By now, the feeling of Bob steering me with his hand on my ass was not only normal but pleasurable and reassuring—I felt like a good little bitch puppy whose temporary owner was both controlling and protecting her.

I needed that reassurance, because both Pam and Jessie had cautioned me that the "slut wash" might be a significant emotional event, even for an eager submissive like me. Large markets such as the Longhorn needed to clean their merchandise in order to exhibit slave meat to buyers in the best possible way. To save money, however, these markets generally hired teenagers (you had to be 18 to even enter a slave market) to perform the task. What did these teenagers get out of a minimum-wage job that often left them damp and sweaty? The opportunity to restrain, fondle, and tease naked slaves, preferably of the opposite sex. With a few exceptions, such guys literally got their hands on more "pussy" every week than they had seen in their entire lives! In her lecture to my college class the previous fall, Sarah Hollister, Professor of Slave Studies at Harvard, had hypothesized that some of these young men would have worked for free or even paid the market for the chance to play with good-looking young slave girls, some of whom they might have lusted after in vain while in school.

This was a daunting prospect for any woman, but it was particular true for me. Having been an ugly duckling in high school, I had far less experience than the average woman with physical attention—welcome or unwelcome—from young males. Oh, well, I thought—this experience plus being put on display for grading should satisfy my inner craving for dominance.

We came to a large, humid area manned by a half-dozen young adults in rain suits. In the far corner, Jimmy, the guy whose wife had tricked him into slavery, was stretched in a naked, inverted "Y"—his cuffed hands held overhead by a rope and pulley system while his ankles were tethered at least three feet apart. Three rainsuit-clad figures were vigorously "washing" him—two of them used long-handled brushes to spread soap everywhere, while the third was squatting between his widespread thighs. The protrusions on the chests of all three "slut-wash attendants" indicated that they were women, and their broad smiles suggested they were having fun teasing the helpless male slave. A safe distance away Florence, the wrangler who had been processing Jimmy, was also smiling with approval. Meanwhile, the woman between Jimmy's legs was "hand washing" his cock and balls and apparently, based on the position of one of her gloves and Jimmie's sudden, convulsive jerking, invading the ex-citizen's rear entrance at the same time. She took the opportunity to remark something to the effect of "Look—it's just like a cock and balls, only smaller!"

Distracted by sympathy for Jimmy's plight, I only half-realized that two other rain suit-clad figures had walked over to where Bob and I stood. Their deep voices indicated that these two, unlike Jimmie's handlers, were male.

"That's a cute piece you've got there, Bob," one of them began.

"Yeah, Frank. I know you'll enjoy playing with this one, especially her boobs, but don't take too long at it—the shift manager wants her in his office in 15 minutes."

"Sheesh!" commented the other guy. "Wish I were a manager so I could take that one to the office! I think I'd be missing for the rest of the night. Come along, darling," he said lifting up on my cuffed wrists to maneuver me towards a wash rack position.

Once there, he used his boots to gently prod my legs apart so the other guy could restrain my ankles. Meanwhile, Frank had repositioned my cuffs in front of me, tied them to an overhead rope, and pulled me up until I was almost on tip-toe. For the next few minutes, the two guys soaped me all over, teased my nipples until I moaned, and took turns thrusting rubberized fingers into my front channel, seemingly looking for a G-spot. In my clumsy experiments in masturbation, I'd never located mine and thought it might be a myth. These guys, however, had spent far more time with their hands inside of women than had I! One of them found it, and I felt myself quickly moving towards a climax. The constant fondling and helplessness were both alarming and thrilling.

And then it suddenly came to an end, as Frank loosened my rope and allowed my wrists to come down to about waist high. Still vibrating, I almost lost my balance. I was almost disappointed to think my "shower" was over, leaving me frustrated—until I realized it wasn't over. Before I could blink, Frank had released one of my cuffs, firmly moved both arms behind me, cuffed me back there, and began hauling away on the rope. My surprised eyes registered that, across the wash bay, Jimmie was now in the same position, wrists pulled up behind him so that he was forced to bend forward with his chest parallel to the wet concrete floor.

Of course, in my case, this meant that my breasts were dangling below me, looking absolutely huge. I felt like a cow about to be milked. Frank obviously noticed my tits as he winked at me and clasped the near one in his firm hand, almost as if he were kneading my boob. That grabbing hand, coupled with their previous toying with me and the helpless position I was now in, set me off!

My orgasm distracted me for a moment, until I looked back between my widespread legs and saw the other handler haul down on a hose that almost looked like a grease gun arrangement in an auto shop—only I was the one about to be lubed! I squeaked, more in surprise than anything else, when he deftly inserted the nozzle of this thing into my rear opening.

"Gawd!" He commented. "The only thing tighter than your cunt is your ass—are you a virgin, girl?"

Trying to keep my mental balance, I replied as calmly as I could "I am back there, Master. Please be gentle."

"Don't worry, Beautiful. Much as I'd like to ride you back here, all I'm going to do is lube" (I felt something greasy surge into my rectum) "and clean you out. Clamp down so this thing doesn't pop out—I will NOT be happy if you make a mess in my nice, clean bay."

I didn't want that embarrassment, either, so I gamely tried to hold my sphincter tight as a flood of warm water seemed to fill my belly. It was hard to do with the lube around it. Across the bay I could hear Jimmy protesting, loudly, as he received a similar enema. After a few VERY uncomfortable minutes, the handler gently coaxed the nozzle out of my butt as I tried even harder to hold it shut. My two handlers released my wrists and ankles, seized my elbows, and walked me over to a toilet stuck in the middle of the whole thing. If you had asked me ahead of time, I would have sworn I could never use a toilet while I was sitting on it naked with two young men grinning at me, but gravity would not be denied, and in a moment I unloaded, very noisily. By now, I thought I had overcome my embarrassment, but this caused me to blush all over again.

Then the two guys repeated the entire process, only this time the unnamed handler [we had been improperly but not properly introduced] wasn't gentle about inserting or extracting the nozzle—he practically rammed it into me to start with, and jerked it out of me almost as if he were starting a lawn mower! I guess he figured that he could have some fun because I would now be so clean that any spillage would not be an issue; I managed to hold it in until we shuffled over to the toilet again.

After I finished relieving myself, Frank wiped my butt as gently as if I were a baby, then flushed the toilet and rinsed off his gloves from a hot soapy water hose. The two young men walked me back to their bay, cheerily fondling me as they went, then blasted me with warm air hoses to dry me off. The other handler even took the time to part my hair into some semblance of order before returning me, hands still cuffed behind my back, to Bob.

*****

I had barely recovered my breath when we arrived at a well-appointed office.

"Kneel, slave." Bob ordered, pointing to a spot just in front of a restraining pole. He secured the back of my collar to the pole with a magnet, holding me immobile with my back straight. After repeatedly kneeling on the concrete floor and wooden exercise platform, the office rug felt luxurious on my toes and knees.

The clock said it was past 6:30 that evening. After about 5 minutes, I heard several people approaching; Jessie and the day shift manager walked in. Virtually ignoring me, they walked over to the desk. Jessie logged onto the computer and the two discussed on-going cases, apparently transferring responsibility as Jessie took over for the night. Then Jessie gestured at me and remarked,

"I'm switching collars on this one."

The other guy gave me a measured look, and replied, "I can see why, but do you have documentation to collar her? Did the boss approve?"

"No—we're not enslaving her, just putting her in a real collar for the night, to give her a thrill." He flashed me a smile. "I just want you to know about it as a backup—if you come in tomorrow and she's on the list for sale, you know to put a hold onto it, OK?"

"All right—it's your business. I've heard of female wranglers pretending to be slave sluts overnight, but not to have a manager do it to the temporary inventory. If we're done, I'm 40 minutes overdue to leave." He nodded, looked one more time at my exposed form, and walked out, closing the door.

Grinning a mile wide, my boyfriend walked over in front of me, then bent over to kiss my forehead and gently fondle a breast. There was a prominent bulge in the front of his jeans. "How are you doing, Sweetheart?" He asked. "When Pam told me that you wanted to get graded, I thought it was a great idea, but you in a collar and cuffs looks even sexier than I imagined. Speaking of which," he unlatched the collar that Florence had put around my neck several hours earlier. "See this purple band at the bottom? That says you're just here for grading. Now this one," He tossed my collar over on the desk and picked up another one, "is a real slave collar. The red tag is for pleasure slave, which I know for a fact you'll be good at." He bent over and latched it onto my neck and to the pole behind me.

He stepped back to admire the sight of his enslaved, bound girlfriend, but must have seen the panic in my eyes. "No, No, Shirl—I'm not really enslaving you. As I told Sam, this collar is just for tonight, as a little game because I know you fantasize about being a slave. Do you trust me?"

I still did, of course, so I murmured "Yes, Master."

"Well, this way I can put you in a cage with the rest of the permanent inventory, and leave you there overnight. At the very least, you'll get to feel like a slave, and if there's a disturbance you may get a little attention from the night crew—so you'd better behave!" He winked at me. "The cages are under video surveillance, so you should be safe. Then, early tomorrow morning, I'll swap your collars again and put you off in the grading cage. Are you interested?"

"You know I am, Master."

He knelt down beside me, unlatched the magnet behind me, and wrapped his arms around me. Damn, that felt good. "Just for one minute, forget about acting like a slave. Look me in the eye—is my favorite girlfriend Shirley OK with playing this game?" My answer was a broad smile and a nod.

"And speaking of trusting me, I know you're worried about the video and photograph I have on my cellphone, right?" Another nod.

"The phone is locked, and YOU get to decide what happens to those images. When I wake up tomorrow afternoon, I want you to watch the video just to visualize how hot you looked going through your slave block positions. After that, I'll hand you the phone and let you delete the video. Of course," he continued, wistfully, "I'd REALLY like to keep that photograph of my sexy girlfriend in the 'Present' position, slave naked except for her collar, but if you can't stand the idea of that photo being around, again, I'll let you delete it."

"Ummm," I murmured, "I know Pam wants to see both of those files, but I'm not sure whether I can stand the embarrassment."

"Well, if Pam wants to see them, I suggest you tell her that the price of admission is that she must authorize me to let you see HER grading photographs on the National Registry. One set of slave slave-grading pictures for another—only fair, right?" We both laughed, and agreed to leave the topic aside for now.

"All right, slavery is back in session, and I want to sample the inventory." He stood over my kneeling form, unzipped himself, and pulled his cock and balls out. "I've been dreaming about this ever since Pam mentioned the idea, So . . . suck my dick, cunt!"

I'd been dreaming about it, too, and his words turned my meter back up to full. It was much more difficult for me to entertain him with my hands still cuffed, of course, and he barely controlled his excitement about having his girlfriend as a collared cocksucker—every young guy's dream come true. He definitely controlled my head with his hands, but was actually quite considerate, letting me breathe frequently rather than just fucking my face. We were soon a well-oiled machine as his substantial rod pistoned in and out of my mouth.

Being "forced" to give a blowjob to a master—and especially to Jessie—was probably my all-time favorite masturbatory image. I don't know which of us was more excited, but after a frantic few minutes of me trying to swallow his entire shaft he pulled out abruptly and urged me to my feet, almost pulling my hair. He grabbed his jacket off a coat-rack and spread it over the near side of the shift manager's desk. I needed little urging to bend over and spread my legs, offering myself up to my temporary master. My erect nipples encountered the plexiglass cover on the desk, just as Jessie clamped his hands on both of my buttocks, brought his saliva-covered shaft up to the present, and sank smoothly into my cunt, all the way to the hilt. As he leaned over and lay on top of my back, he whispered in my ear something inarticulate about how magnificent it felt to be inside me.

We were both too excited to last long, but in the 120 seconds or so of frantic fucking before he blasted into me, I swear I had three slavegasms." He collapsed on top of me, leaving me warm and snug as we both tried to catch our breath.

With an effort, Jessie finally pulled out, walked around the desk, and produced some wet-naps and a towel that he used to clean up the swamp around my labia. Then he released my cuffs, picked me up effortlessly, and sat down on a sofa with me in his arms. Bliss.

A few minutes later, he reluctantly announced that he had to get to work. After a very soft kiss and a "thank you," he put me back on my knees against the restraining pole, hands again secured behind me and the genuine pleasure-slave collar magnetized to the pole.

"You have definite potential as a pleasure slave, 4987—that's the number associated with this collar, by the way, so don't forget it. Ready for your adventure?"

Back in character, I replied, "Yes, Master."

He dialled a number from memory. "Hey, Jo—when you get a chance, will you come up to the shift manager's office and bed down 4987 for the night?"

The feminine but rather husky response was so loud I could hear both sides of the conversation.

"Sure, Boss. Is she any good?"

Looking at me, he grinned, "Yeah, I've just been checking, and she has great natural talent. But, she's fresh caught slave meat and doesn't know anything, so keep an eye on her tonight, will you?"

"I always do, Boss." When the conversation ended, Jessie remarked, by way of explanation, "Josephine is the sister of the woman who first checked you in this afternoon—I think you'll like her even though you're meeting under such odd circumstances."

He again bent over to kiss and fondle me, wished me a good night, and hurried out of the office. I trusted my boyfriend and his sister, but for the moment I felt bereft. I was naked and immobilized, collared as a pleasure slave, kneeling in a strange slave market office waiting for a female wrangler . . .

(To be continued)