Trying on a Collar Pt. 07

"Or course, Darling," Mrs. Foster replied, smiling warmly. "I knew I could count on you to be sensible. I wanted you to have some real-life slave experiences as part of your service, but this is really pushing the envelope." Turning to her husband, she continued, very firmly, "I expect you to warn this guy that your slave must be returned in good condition—any damage and I'll charge him with abusing livestock, got it?"

A nice sentiment, but in reality the oaf knew could get away with anything short of murder. Whether or not he realized that I had concealed my status from my parents, it was a good bet that neither I nor the Fosters wanted my name on a police report for acting as a FINO under the new Texas personal services law—it would be easy to represent me as a slut using a loophole to avoid being charged with prostitution. I shuddered.

So I lubed myself up and stuck in a butt plug for the short car ride to his house. Mr. Foster was still apologetic, and I think even Hugo looked a little concerned when he delivered us to Hartwick's door. I give Mr. Foster credit—although a big contract was on the line, he did warn the clown not to injure me, and announced that he would return to pick me up in four hours.

To this day, I still can't recall everything that happened to me; I've blocked it out. Suffice it to say that Hartwick was just as rough and repulsive as I had feared. He didn't so much fuck me (although he did that) as batter me, first in the face, then in my vagina, and finally up my ass. He frequently slapped my face and spanked my butt, all the while keeping up a monologue about how I pretended to be an innocent little girl but was actually the biggest slut/skank/whore/bitch/cunt/etc. in creation. I managed to resist crying for a long time, until I realized that he would keep upping the ante until I did so. After that, I lost all composure. He left me in a sobbing heap, only to return half an hour later and do it all over again. After I crawled off to a bathroom and cleaned myself up again, he tied me on my knees and spent the rest of the time watching porn in a vain effort to regain his erection. Of course, his failure to get more than half-hard in my mouth was, according to him, just another sign of how useless I was even as a cunt . . .

Just before the four hours were up, he released me so I could clean myself in the bathroom, where I barely managed to get control over myself. I knew I would have bruises the next day, but I refused to collapse, waiting patiently on my knees for my deliverance.

One look at me and Mr. Foster was thunderstruck, but I whispered under my breath, asking him not to make a scene. Once we were back in the limo, he wrapped me in a soft blanket and told Hugo to drive straight to the ER at the Spartacus Clinic, Houston's largest slave medicine facility. There he carried me inside himself, and produced medical insurance cards and ID—unknown to me, he had used my personal services contract as a reason to carry me on his company health insurance, which in this case meant that no record of my visit need go back to my parents. (As a sidenote, he provided excellent health insurance, retirement, and other benefits to all the staff at their house.)

By this time, I had persuaded Mr. Foster not to press charges against this guy—all that would do was ruin the deal I had just suffered to seal. Apparently, slave abuse of this kind was an all-too-common occurrence in the South. The ER veterinarian (because slaves are technically livestock, their physicians are called veterinarians) gently examined me and concluded that no permanent damage had occurred—Hartwick had probably treated other women, slave or free, like this before and knew just how far he could go without being charged.

After looking me up on the National Slave Registry, the veterinarian remarked, "Her records are annotated that Doctor Nicola Sheldon is her guardian—is that Nikki Sheldon?" Apparently, my dynamic slave shrink has a state-wide reputation.

Mr. Foster did not hesitate. "Absolutely—will you make sure that Dr. Sheldon gets a copy of your report? I hope she can at least telephone us tomorrow to talk to the victim, because of the trauma involved."

Once I was patched up as best the ER could do, Mr. Foster gently wrapped me up in the blanket and carried me back out to the car, then into Pam's bedroom when we got back to the house. By that time I was composed and resigned to the situation, but my BFF almost freaked out. She spent the night spooned around my battered body.

*****

For the next several days, Pam waited on me rather than vice versa. George and the staff all came by the room to check on me and express their regrets about what had happened. Nikki talked with me by telephone for about an hour every day that week, and Mr. Foster insisted she bill him for her time. By the third time she called, I was bored out of my gourd for lack of anything to do, sitting in Pam's room as if I were hiding from life. So, Nikki gently persuaded the Fosters, contrary to their original decision, to let me spend my usual Wednesday-to-Thursday with Jessie. He, of course, was suitably loving and gentle, putting me back together again mentally and not expecting any sex. Eventually, I went back to the bizarre schedule I had been on, although even George was a little gentler and more considerate, and the staff left me completely alone for a month. I'm not going to lie—I still have occasional nightmares about that experience, but it didn't ruin my basic appreciation of love and sex.

(Nine months later, Mr. Foster sent me a link to an article in which Hartwick had been set up in a sting operation, mistreating an undercover policewoman whom he had "interviewed" for a job. He was sentenced to five years' criminal slavery as a result. Mr. Foster never said anything about his role, but I like to believe he had prodded the government into action and I know he paid for attorneys to represent other victims of that clown's assaults. Must have been a fun time when those women got their court-appointed retribution session with Hartwick, complete with strap-ons and shock batons! What goes around, comes around. Up until that time, Mr. Foster has never even touched me, but the next time I was "serving" in Houston, I waited until he was alone and then begged him to let me worship his cock—he deserved it! That's the only way that slaves can show gratitude. Besides, I found out where Jessie and George inherited the size and stamina of their equipment. . .)

The rest of that first summer in a collar was anticlimactic, even after people stopped treating me with kid gloves. Before I could blink, I was getting dressed in Pam's room on the morning we departed to go back to college for junior year. I was soon in the usual whirl of studying and laboratory work, so busy that I was barely holding it together towards the end of the semester.

Intellectually, I was fulfilled at school, but emotionally (or, for that matter, in my innards), not so much. I had become used to being the naked slut who got plowed in all her openings twice a week, and I sort of missed it. Pam must have sensed it, because she doubled up on having me practice slave yoga in the nude, not to mention serving her orally. Twice, she persuaded her boyfriend to come back to our room after telling him that I was off studying. There, she persuaded him to let her blindfold him, after which I got to suck and ride him—but that kind of a passive partner didn't fulfill my submissive tendencies. Thank heavens that Jessie showed up for a long weekend in October, during which he kept me naked, collared, and well stuffed! I realized it was a deadly temptation, but I began to daydream about giving myself to him as a full-time, no contract FINO or even legal slave, just hanging around his apartment naked, waiting to serve. Nope! Too stupid. Great for a brief session of stress relief, but not what I wanted in life.

My two remaining brief periods of servitude—after Christmas and again during spring break—were a nice balance. Neither period lasted long enough for me to get bored waiting, and each one was long enough to ensure that I was well-bored, by both Jessie and George! I needed a fix like that about once a month to keep my libido in check. Back at school, Pam did her best. She totally blew my mind one Saturday—she insisted that we spend the night in a hotel downtown. Once we were checked in and had supper, she demanded that I strip and "Collar." She cuffed my hands together, gagged me, and wrapped me in a full-length cape. After which, she led me to a nearby D/s club she had found out about! Thank heavens, she wouldn't let me go off alone with any doms, but she did keep me on my knees, orally servicing dominants of all genders all evening. Then she put the cape back on me, led me back to our room, and encouraged her boyfriend to ravage both of us. Sigh. Another fix for my submission.

Re-reading the preceding account makes me sound like a sex-obsessed bimbo who could only define herself in relationship to dominant men—a disgrace to womanhood. That's not really accurate, though. Even allowing for the fact that guys will be aroused by any woman who can't say no to them, I actually felt desirable for the first time in my life. True, George would never be more than a fun fuck buddy, but he still treated me with consideration and affection and tried hard to ensure that I enjoyed our sessions. (I liked to think that he was practising on me for how to treat the eventual love of his life.) I hadn't dared bring up the "L" word with my official boyfriend, Jessie, but his conduct, especially after my run-in with Hartwick, indicated that I was a real person to him and not just a convenient source of stress release and entertainment.

This sense of desirability gave me a physical and social self-confidence to match my intellectual ability, and it changed my whole outlook on life. Pam even remarked that I carried myself differently, and was much more outgoing and engaged with other people of all genders. For the first time in my life, complete strangers wanted to spend time with me, and none of them in Boston knew that I spent my vacations as a slave. Some of them wanted dates, but others actually seemed to enjoy just talking with me. Even allowing for the horrible experience with Hartwick, my personal services contract had given me a lot more than just college money and the chance to act out sex fantasies.

One drawback of this entire arrangement came on the anniversary of my contract, when, like clockwork, my year-long implant expired and I had a truly miserable period that seemed to last for ten days. Fortunately, college spring break was later this year than the previous year, so I wasn't suffering through this while wearing a collar. Once we did return to Houston, Pam took me to the clinic for a six-month implant.

*****

The final summer was a more realistic experience of slavery than any brief outings. Once again, I was the lowest of the low in the household. My two dominant masters began to invent games to play with me—Jessie had gotten his brother a summer internship at the Longhorn, and they seemed to be holding a competition to see which one could drive me farther into sub-space while fucking my brains out.

One day in July, Jessie came up with another such game. He reminded Mistress Florence, the imposing Black female wrangler on the day shift, of how she had used me twice as a demonstrator to perform block positions, aka slave yoga, in training other new members of the inventory. So, at her suggestion, one morning George hog-tied me in the trunk of his car and drove off. When he opened the trunk again, we were at the Longhorn. What was it Yogi Berra said about "Déjà vu all over again?" George led me cuffed, collared, and leashed across the parking lot for yet one more time; at least he allowed me flip-flops on the hot pavement. He installed a full-scale shock collar (coded red for pleasure slave) to make the experience more real. Florence gathered an audience of wranglers, new slaves, and women in for slave grading. She gave me a big build-up, to the general effect that, 18 months earlier, I had been a timid little Yankee girl who just came to be slave-graded. But, she claimed, I was so obviously hot for the collar that I sold myself into slavery (almost true), and that I happily serviced their intern, George, and Mr. Jessie, the night manager, on a constant basis (I heard the dayshift manager comment, in a stage whisper, how lucky the brothers were, which made me feel good.) Then Mistress Florence put me to work dancing, prancing, and mouthing filthy mantras, much to the entertainment of the other wranglers. George was so inspired that he later led me off to a remote cage, where he and another intern spit-roasted me for their afternoon "break." Because I knew and trusted George, I could relax and enjoy the experience. Afterwards, he was kind enough to give me both mouthwash and a water bottle. How to make a slut feel appreciated!

Still, it was a long and strenuous day. I was actually longing to go back to cleaning toilets in the Foster house, when George announced that I would be staying the night. Intellectually, I knew that nothing really bad was likely to happen to me—my real status and "owner" were recorded in the National Slave Registry. Still, being a naked slut wearing a red collar in a major slave market, left in the clutches of wranglers who didn't know much about me, was a little nerve-wracking. Along with two fresh-caught young females, I went through the usual mill of being fondled, teased, and run through the slut wash where the 18-year-old high school boys had fun feeling me up while washing and douching me thoroughly. And slave kibble for lunch and dinner is not my favorite diet.

Then, of course, Florence's sister Josephine, who worked on the night shift, showed up with a big grin on her face. Her sister had told her about my yoga/block position demonstration, so she wanted a repeat performance for the other shift. I was dog tired, but "no" is not an option for any slave, so as she led me off, cuffed and leashed, I tried to summon the energy for another round.

I should have realized that this was another set-up, with Jessie in the audience beaming proudly when the other wranglers made crude comments about how much they'd like to take me for a test drive. I barely heard them, however—I was no longer going through the motions, but dancing to please and seduce my boyfriend/master.

"SLAVE FOURS!" (drop forward onto all fours, face down, head and shoulders were lower than my behind.) I replied, "I'm your bitch, Master."

"FLIP OVER!" (my body twisted around, catching myself so that both hands and both feet were on the floor beneath me, back arched, thighs wide apart, again showing everything.) My response was to beg him, "Please use me as you will."

"DISPLAY!" (scramble to my feet, still facing away from the handlers, legs to shoulder width, head down between my legs, waving my butt in his face.) I purred, "All my holes belong to you."

"SPREAD YOUR CHEEKS!" (Reach back with both hands to pull my buttocks up and out displaying my labia and sphincter.) "Please shove your massive prick up my ass, Master." (This time, having learned to accommodate George and Jessie back there, I was much more willing to make this offer—even knowing just how "massive" his penis was—than I had been during previous trips to the slave market.)

He finally called a halt, and I was surprised by a round of applause from his subordinates. Trying not to betray himself, he quietly told Mistress Josephine to take me up the shift manager's office. She gave me a bottle of water to slack my thirst, then left me, cuffed and kneeling, with my collar magnetized to a pole. This was the normal restraint used for a slave left in that office. It was slightly uncomfortable to be held upright by my neck, but at least I was kneeling on the soft carpet, which was a lot better than the concrete floors or the wooden exercise platforms on which I had knelt for much of the day.

As soon as he arrived my boyfriend complimented me again on my "performance;" he bent over to fondle my nipples until they stood out, then unzipped and gently fed me his cock while petting my hair. It was difficult to swallow him too deeply when my head was immobilized, but it was a thrill for both of us to again have me tonguing him as a helpless slut in his office. He quickly grew impatient, freeing me from all my restraints and pulling me into his arms, only to sit down with me in his lap. A lot of fairly hot and happy necking ensued, with me acutely aware of the lump rising underneath my naked tush. Eventually, he shed his boots and jeans so that we could couple vigorously, him pinning me down on the sofa. With the exception of George's equally-rapid pounding in mid-afternoon I had been frustrated by repeatedly teasing and edging all day. Now, I was overjoyed to make love with my boyfriend.

He restored the family slave collar to my neck and let me sleep on the sofa under a soft blanket, only awakening me once about 4:00 a.m. as he gently aroused me before we made love again. When his shift finally ended, he marched me back across the parking lot, still slave naked, collared, and cuffed. Once at his truck, however, he released me and wrapped me in a blanket for the short drive to his apartment (He stopped off at a drive-through to buy us both breakfast, so I didn't have to cook). Then I got to spend another fun day, spooning and reading while he slept, followed by a nice evening of pizza, cuddling, and Netflix. All perfectly lovely for a boyfriend and girlfriend, except of course that I was still naked and collared!

No one let my last week in a collar pass without getting their last licks in—or perhaps I should say, for the maids, cook, my girlfriend Pam and even her mother Anne to get their last licks from me. As I knelt between her thighs, arousing a few genteel sighs from my nominal owner, she praised my brave performance over the past 17 months, all while stroking me like a favorite pet. As for George and Jessie, my anus was still pleasantly buzzing when I boarded the plane back to my parents' house. The staff gave me a little party the last day I wore a collar, while the following evening the family took me out to dinner. Everyone urged me to visit Houston again, and Mrs. Foster even gave me an open first-class ticket, but we all knew it would be difficult for me to go from house slut to house guest.

*****

Ten days later, Pam and I were again sharing a room—this time a suite—for senior year in college. I was overjoyed to see her, and we spent a lot of time together, but we both knew something was missing—for too long, she had been able to coerce me into doing something outrageous, if only with the hypothetical threat to "tell Mom" that I hadn't obeyed. Now that my personal services contract was finished, she couldn't shame me into such things. Not that she really needed to—as I said earlier, I had become much more assertive and even gently sensual than I had been when we first met three years earlier.

The third Saturday, she caught me playing with my old slave collar, and insisted that I confess. So I did, and before I knew it, she had me wearing the collar, butt naked, going through slave yoga and mantras while remembering my last performance (in front of Jessie) at the Longhorn.

Jessie and I still texted, e-mailed, and telephoned frequently, but I was unsure what our future, if any, would be. I was somewhat relieved when he invited himself up to visit for another weekend in early October. He insisted on taking both Pam and me out to a nice dinner—and floored me with the traditional, down-on-one-knee proposal in the restaurant!

Later that night, after he sent Pam home in a taxi and he once again filled all three of my openings, it was time to talk about our future. He told me that, effective in January, he would become the lead manager and vice president for operations of the Longhorn. This not only meant a much larger income but also—thank heavens—an end to the night shift!