Trying on a Collar Pt. 06

(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—I do not condone slavery, reluctant sex, or sexual assault/exploitation in the real world.)

When the buzzer sounded and the lights went on, I took a minute, huddled naked under a scratchy blanket, to figure out what was going on. I knew where I was, of course—I'd been in the Longhorn Slave Market in Houston before, when I was slave-graded at the end of my third semester of college. But, I had to recall what I was doing there now. Oh, yeah—I had just signed a long-term personal services contract that, while allowing me to remain Free In Name Only (FINO), obligated me, at least outside of school studies, to act as if I were a slave, belonging to Mrs. Anne Foster and her family. When I realized that my bottom was slightly tender, I remembered the last event on yesterday, my first day as a FINO slave—my boyfriend Jessie Foster, who was the night manager at the Longhorn as well as Anne's elder son, had strapped me down on a padded bench and taken my anal virginity. While I was still free, I had agreed that he could do that since I trusted him to be kinder than any random free citizen who felt like taking a piece of slave ass. Despite the discomfort, it had been a fantastic experience—one I wanted to try again, but not for a few days, thank you. The sense of being not only connected to, but totally occupied, controlled, and possessed by the guy I loved, was marvelous for the submissive in me.

By this time I had recalled what I was supposed to do while I was part of the inventory at the Longhorn—I sat up, folded the blanket on my cot, and knelt on the cold, hard concrete with my thighs widespread and hands behind my head, waiting for a slave handler/wrangler to collect me for bathroom and breakfast. It took a while—being Saturday morning, I imagine the market had a number of 18-year high school seniors of both sexes, temporarily reduced to the status of slaves so they could be slave-graded for college loans as well as bragging rights about sex appeal. Eventually, just as my bladder became desperate, a harassed wrangler appeared and took me to the bathroom, supervised a quick douche of both my canals, and then marched me back to the same cage, leaving behind a bottle of water and baggie of slave kibble for "breakfast."

Once again, I reflected that even if I were not being used as a sex toy, my inability to do anything reinforced my abject powerlessness. When you're the daughter of two teachers who is struggling frantically to survive in a tough women's college, just being deprived of reading matter was shocking and frustrating. Then the same wrangler re-appeared, consulted his tablet, and announced that I would be shipped out this morning. Almost as an afterthought, he unzipped his jeans and forced my head onto his cock. Sigh—typical transactional dealing between a slave and a free citizen—at least he smelled and tasted clean. I worked to get him off as quickly as possible with my tongue and mouth while my eyes gazed adoringly up at him, trying to convince him I just loved having him face-fuck me. Nothing could be farther from the truth, but yesterday the Longhorn staff had taught me how to entertain both sexes orally, a training session I put to practice to get this over with. At least he gave me a sip of water, but only after he had filled my mouth and made me stick out my tongue and show him the load before I could swallow. Gross. Then he cuffed my hands behind me, groped my C-cup boobs until my nipples woke up, and marched my naked behind down to the loading dock, taking every opportunity he could to pinch and goose that behind.

There, another wrangler decided that what he really needed was some oral stress release while again mauling what he called my "big tits." As soon as he permitted me to swallow, he wrapped a canvas gag around my head and between my teeth, pulling my lips back into the involuntary "slave grin." I immediately realized that the Longhorn followed the tradition of other slave establishments, in which the juvenile-minded "men" (one had to be 18 to even enter here) of the staff jerked off onto the gags, ensuring that slaves of any gender got the taste of giving a blowjob for the whole time they were in transit. Double gross. Once again, I reflected on the refrain that every little girl learns by age 7: Boys are 'Toopid. If I weren't so attracted to Alpha guys like Jessie, I'd swear off them completely—and I probably wouldn't have signed this crazy services contract.

By now I really wanted to get out of there and back to my "home" at the Fosters, if only to get the taste out of my mouth. The handler replaced the market's cuffs with a zip tie (why did he have to pull it so tight?) and the market's heavy shock collar with a generic leather slave collar. Then he had me shuffle backwards on my knees, butt first, until I was kneeling on the hard tray that made up the bottom of a slave cage. Said cage was often referred to as a "Poodle Cage" for obvious reasons—I was a crouching slave bitch in a collar, not permitted to wander around or bark unless the real human beings, who loomed over me, permitted it. He locked me in with a toy-sized device.

A forklift soon loaded me into the back of a small, enclosed truck, while a scanner "beeped" as another piece of inventory left the Longhorn. I was hoping for a swift transit, but then I saw them load two other caged sluts into the truck, between me and the door. I recognized the hapless cargo as two of the listless new slaves that had been trying to perform their block positions (aka slave yoga) yesterday afternoon when I had been pressed into service as a demonstrator. (At the time, I got an adrenaline rush out of twisting my naked body in front of an audience of slave wranglers while begging them to buy and use me in various obscene ways—the memory was both shameful and arousing.) There was nothing to say to the other slaves even if we weren't gagged.

I felt sorry and concluded that the poor women must not have learned very much, because when the door opened again the truck had backed up to a rather dirty little loading dock, with an arrow pointing "to brothel office." My two fellow travellers were hurried out of their cages and marched, still gagged and bound, over to the edge of the loading dock where they were blasted by what was apparently cold water from a hose. Then their new owners dragged them off, shivering and protesting through their gags. One of these fine gentlemen, catching sight of me, tried to persuade the driver to "lose" me for a few days so they could rent me out. I was becoming alarmed until the driver insisted that he was late to deliver me. He slammed down the rolling back door with me and my cage still inside, thank heaven.

*****

After another short drive, he halted the truck and re-opened the door, then climbed in to release me from my cage. Through the opening, I could see the large Foster home from an unusual angle—not the front door where I had entered as a houseguest, but the kitchen door where deliveries, including livestock like me, came. As I crawled stiffly out of my cage, I thought I saw the family cook, Luisa, stick her head out of the back door briefly, look at the truck, and step back inside. By the time the driver had marched me (still slave naked, gagged, with hands zip-tied behind my back) up to the back door, the middle-aged butler, Stephen, was standing there looking rather grim. I knew what was expected, so despite the discomfort I dropped down to widespread knees and lowered my eyes to his feet. After a brief exchange about signing for the shipment, the driver departed. Stephen offered me no help, simply ordering "stand, heel," as he led me into the kitchen. It's difficult to get off your knees with your hands restrained behind you—try it sometime.

"Back hands!" came the next order, and he took the opportunity to run his fingers over my breasts, groin, and ass. Only then did he cut first the zip-tie and then the canvas gag off. Thank heavens. When he ordered me to face him again, I did so, carefully keeping my eyes on the floor. As I did so, I murmured, as politely as I could,

"Thank you, Master."

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw his face show some surprise. Evidently, he had expected me to protest being felt up, but I had already decided that I needed to be even more subservient to the servants, who would be quick to take offense, than to the family. He thought for a minute, then nodded as if to himself.

"Have you eaten breakfast?" A baggie of slave kibble three hours before didn't really count as breakfast, but it was all I could expect, so despite my grumbling tummy I replied "Yes, Master."

He put me to work helping the two maids clean the house. Of course, I got all the (literally) shitty jobs, such as scrubbing the commodes. I soon learned that the house had eleven full or half baths, and sometime during that day I got the privilege of brushing every one of them. Not to mention the bathroom floors, usually done with a bucket of soapy water and a brush while I knelt, my bare bottom prominently displayed, on the tile.

I had not seen my best friend Pam or either of her parents; Jessie had his own apartment and their almost-18-year-old younger brother George was (thank god) on a field trip somewhere—I wouldn't have to face him as a slave until I returned in May, about the time of his birthday. When it came time for lunch, I followed the younger maid, Camila, back to a large table in the kitchen, which served as the staff table for meals. Not wanting to risk a snub, I knelt, hands behind neck, in the corner of the room, but Luisa, the 40-something cook, smiled at me in a friendly manner and told me to sit on a stool at the table with the rest of them.

Stephen approved, saying "You only need to kneel to us once each day until told otherwise; too much formality takes up time. Of course, you kneel to any member of the family the first time you see them each day." I murmured "Yes, Master," focused on the plateful of Mexican food that Camila handed to me!

In addition to the cook and butler, the household consisted of a chauffeur and two maids. They all talked quietly but happily; knowing my place as the lowest of the low, I only spoke when asked except for once, when I politely asked permission to get some water and inquired whether anyone else needed anything.

A brief detour: My parents, being teachers, were obsessed with all things British and the Public Television station (I think it was WSKG where we lived.) So they had shown me videos of the 1970s TV series "Upstairs, Downstairs." It's about the decline and fall of a well-to-do London family in the early 1900s. As the title implies, it focuses on two parallel micro-societies: the family upstairs and their servants downstairs, both affected by the changes in society and by the World War. Now I found myself thrust into [yeah, slaves are often thrust into] a Texas version of the series, only without the tragic overtones. Call it "Living Room, Kitchen," and I had just transferred myself from honored house guest in the front of the house to lowest servant in the rear [speaking of which, MY rear was reminding me of Master Jessie's over-sized equipment.] Master Stephen and Mistress Luisa, as I always addressed them, were very conscious of their status, and accepted no disrespect from the chauffeur or the maids, still less from me.

I doubt that the maids knew why I was suddenly slave naked, but in their world—by which I regret to say I mean the working-class, Hispanic/Latino population—young girls were always being enslaved or exploited in one way or another, so they were unsurprised. I gathered that Stephen had been quietly urging Mrs. Foster to buy a slave for some time, to relieve the staff of some of their work-load. They all took advantage of me, dumping the undesirable tasks on me, but that came with my new job description. They weren't mean about it. OK, Hugo the chauffeur tried to be macho, calling me "slut" or "cunt" and groping me when the cook wasn't around, but I'd heard and felt worse at the slave market. Camila and Elena, the two maids, called me "slave" whenever someone might hear them and (with a smile) "little puta" when we were alone. I wasn't offended—everyone likes to feel superior to someone else, and up until now all the excrement had rolled downhill to them. Late in the afternoon, Luisa the cook borrowed me to do some make-work of food preparation for the family dinner; I think she wanted me to be able to sit down and relax, but I kept working as best I could.

At least when I was with her I felt safe from Hugo. The rest of the time, if he found me alone, he would take advantage of my low status by fondling or goosing me. I knew that complaining would do me no good, but worried that at some point he might cause trouble—boy, was I right.

Anyway, back to my first day as a servant/slave/slut/cunt/fill-in-the-blank-with-any-pejorative-word. Just before 9:00 p.m., when I was wondering when if ever I could sleep, I got a break. Stephen summoned me to follow him, and led me to the door of Pam's bedroom, where I had slept as a free citizen two nights earlier. He instructed me that, unless Mistress Pamela asked for me earlier, I was to report to her door at 9:00 each night. The next morning, I would report back to the kitchen at 6:00 a.m. or as soon thereafter as she dismissed me. "Yes, Master." I replied, dutifully.

I had no idea what kind of welcome I would receive, so I hesitated before knocking timidly on the door. "Who is it?" Pam asked. Crap—I didn't know how to refer to myself, so I finally blurted out "Shirley, Mistress."

I heard her rushing to the door and flinging it open. Pam dragged me inside and hugged me even as I tried to kneel to her. Closing the door and locking it, she drew me over to her bed where we sat down, her arm still hugging me close. She was very worried about me, so I tried to put on a brave front. I described my "training" at the Longhorn, making it sound like practicing oral sex was a joke. She giggled at the idea of me entertaining not only three male but two imposing female wranglers, and made some remark about trying out my skills when we got back to college. I tried not to tell her what Jessie had done with me that night, but she invoked her rights as my owner to demand the truth, promising that she wouldn't tell Jessie that she knew. She ooohed and aahhed as I became rapturous describing the feeling of my boyfriend tying me down and vigorously possessing my body in such an intimate way.

Long story short, she told me that we were still BFFs, but she warned me not to show any sign outside of this room, so that her Mom didn't take control away. She also said that, at least at first, I would have to sleep in the cage as expected. But she let me take a long shower in her bathroom, after brushing my teeth and rinsing my mouth repeatedly to get rid of cum breath. She also gave me a little bed light and some paperback books to read at night, reminding me strictly to hide them under the mattress in the cage. Of course, knowing Pam, I should have anticipated what her concept of bedtime reading would be—novels by John Norman, Sharon Green, and other vintage authors on dominance, submission, and female slavery! But, even these novels were a luxury after two days of being treated as brain-dead and illiterate. I'd already learned the truth of the cliché that no one ever bought a pleasure slave for her mind.

So I went to sleep feeling much more hopeful. Pam insisted on locking me in, so she could say she had done so if her parents asked. She also set her alarm for 5:40 a.m. to let me arise and use the bathroom before reporting to "slave duty" as she called it, with a sympathetic smile. When the alarm went off, she dutifully released me and was asleep again before I got to the bathroom.

*****

The next several days were more of the same—me playing naked scullery worker and maid 14 or 15 hours a day, getting briefly fondled by Hugo and sometimes Stephen, but otherwise busy and slowly adjusting to my new role. Or so I thought until Tuesday, when Mrs. Foster summoned me to accompany her on a trip to an upscale department store. Hugo drove the largest car in the garage, which I would have called a limousine. Mrs. Foster sat in the back while I knelt on the floor and she petted my hair. She asked me gently how I was doing, and I tried to be positive and satisfied. Complaints would do no good, so I had to channel the happy submissive bimbo that had been dumb enough to sign that contract.

THEN we got to the department store. Up until then, I had played at being a slave in the slave market and the Foster home but now, for the first time in my life, I was slave naked in public, being led around on a leash in a crowd of fully-clothed people. A few young guys leered at my bouncing breasts or groped my behind, while some young women looked away, distressed by my condition. There were other slaves around, but I felt as if I were in one of those nightmares where everyone except you is clothed. I think Mrs. Foster did this on purpose, just to shock me, because she really didn't need my assistance—at most I carried a few packages for her. She did show me off to a few acquaintances who also had slaves in tow—the general theme of their conversation was one-upmanship about having pretty sluts on leashes. One of them even bragged that HER slave, a cute young blonde, had once dared to compete with this woman's daughter for the same boy in high school—so when the blonde's parents declared bankruptcy this woman bought the blonde, by then aged 18, as a pet for her daughter. I shivered at that image, but also because the temperature in the mall was not intended for nudists. Apparently, my appearance in comparison to this ex-cheerleader was satisfactory, which for a girl like me with self-esteem issues was reassuring.

When my owner went to a beauty salon (a lot more upscale than any I'd ever seen), she parked me in the "Slave Waiting Room"—three other slaves and I, all kneeling with our leashes attached to hooks above our heads! Up until that point my hands had been free, but of course, in keeping with the theme that slaves were irresponsible livestock or at best family pets, I was now cuffed. One slave made the mistake of talking, and an attendant promptly shoved a red ball gag into her mouth with as much unconcern as one might muzzle a noisy dog. Glad I'd learned to keep quiet. After waiting like that for an hour, I was led by the attendant to a hidden commode and ordered to relieve myself while she watched. I discovered that this commode was equipped as a bidet for the livestock, which avoided the question of cleaning myself but made me feel even more helpless—not to mention slightly wet when returned to my hook. At least we got to kneel on soft rubber mats, but it was still demeaning and above all boring.

In the car on the way home, Mrs. Foster encouraged me to talk, apparently waiting for me to complain about my public exposure. Instead, I complimented her on her hairstyle and nails—she was still a beautiful woman who must have been graded as Prime when SHE wore a collar, although of course I didn't say that out loud. I may have foolishly signed a Texas FINO personal services contract that made me a de facto slave, but I'm not stupid enough to remind my owner that she had once been full-time slave meat!

Apparently, my behavior was satisfactory, because the next morning about 8 a.m. Stephen cuffed and leashed me, leading me out through the chilly backyard to Jessie, who was waiting in his truck. My boyfriend used the excuse of putting my seatbelt on me to feel me up and kiss me, but he also put a comforter over me, bless his heart. He was on his way home after a night at work, so too tired to do or say much. He gave me a clear plastic apron so I could cook breakfast for both of us, then let me use the bathroom before taking me to bed to cuddle while he slept. Bliss.