Adjusting My Attitude Pt. 08

The job itself wasn't bad, although my legs ached after hours of standing and carrying trays in 3-inch heels. The clientele of the restaurant was usually sober enough to recognize that I was not a cis-woman, but unfortunately some of the customers (and even a few of the staff) hit on me anyway, thinking I was either gay or trans. I managed to evade such advances without offending anyone, but they wouldn't give up.

The problem came with my travel to and from this job. It wasn't too bad going TO work, when it was still daylight outside, but the return trip around midnight was a different story. Late at night, the area around the restaurant/bar was poorly lit and sparsely populated, and I had to walk through it dressed as a shemale slave in a skirt and heels. Walking to the bus stop, waiting for the bus, and riding home exposed me to a number of often-drunken men who, unlike the people at the restaurant, were openly homophobic. Apparently, it never occurred to these drunks that a slave wore only the clothing specified by his or her owners, not necessarily what the slave WANTED to wear. These drunks harassed me both verbally and, occasionally, physically. I was so close to finishing my servitude that I just put my head down and tried to avoid trouble.

That worked for some time, but my luck ran out on a Saturday night, only three weeks before the end of my year in a collar. A short, scrawny guy whose name (I gathered from conversations I overheard) was Al had repeatedly called me names such as fag and sissy slut. He was often drunk and aggressive, but I had shaken him off several times. That night, for some reason, he went beyond mere harassment. As I passed a vacant lot about half-way to the bus stop, Al appeared suddenly and demanded my purse. My collar was quite visible, so I have no idea why he thought a slave would have anything worth stealing. Besides my bus pass, I had only sixteen dollars and change in tips in my purse. I think his act was not really about money, but rather making himself feel more powerful than a despised slave. Had I surrendered to him he probably would have not only robbed me but insisted that I give him a blowjob, then kicked the crap out of me.

It had been a long two nights working in heels while fending off sexual advances and homophobic insults. After almost a year of submission, I had had enough. As a slave, I had been forced to submit to slave handlers and law partners and other authority figures, but I was damned if I would kowtow to a scrawny, drunken moron. Barely pausing in my walk, I slammed my left fist into his gut and then rammed my right knee up between his legs. He was wobbling on his feet, and I was about to hit him one more time before walking away as fast as my heels would permit. Just then, however, a police car turned the corner and immediately turned on blue lights.

"Crap!" I thought, "I've really done it this time." There was nothing to do but drop to my knees and interlace my fingers behind my neck. Fortunately for me, Al was in no condition to attack me; he fell over just as the cop pulled up.

"Stand up, slave—assume the position." I leaned against the police car, legs and arms spread, while he patted me down. In the dim light, he must have thought I was a female slave because he began by fondling me, but half-way through the process he apparently recognized my true gender, and his touch became much less intrusive.

"Back hands." He cuffed me and put me in the back of his car. I was afraid for a moment that Al would join me there, but instead the policeman rolled him over, checked his pulse, and then left him there, still unconscious.

The policeman climbed into his car and looked at me in his mirror. He must have seen that I was on the edge of tears, for his face and voice suddenly softened.

"Hard night?" He asked.

"Yes, Master. I have only three weeks left on my indenture, and now I'll probably get a longer sentence for assaulting a free man." (a slave had no Miranda rights to remain silent.)

He shook his head. "I didn't see you assault anyone—like an obedient slave you submitted when I arrived, while a drunk just happened to stumble and fall over next to you. It's a nice night and he should be fine there while he sleeps it off. Besides, what's he going to say? That he tried to assault a sissy slave who beat him up instead? He'd be laughed out of court. Forget about him. Where were you going this late at night?"

I told him I had just finished working, named the restaurant and explained that my Mistress had dressed me this way and found me this job as a waitress. I also told him where my Mistress lived. I was astonished when he called his dispatcher, apparently changing his status to unavailable for dinner break, and then drove me home. The long bus ride turned into less than 15 minutes in a car, especially one that didn't have to obey the speed limits. I more than half expected him to demand a blow job, but he remained a gentleman, talking calmly and sympathetically to me during the drive.

When we got to Laura's house, the policeman parked the car and led me up to the front door. He rang the doorbell and removed his cuffs from my wrists. Laura appeared with a look of concern on her face, having obviously thrown on a long robe.

"Does this slave belong to you, ma'am?"

"Yes, officer. Is there something wrong?"

"Fortunately, no. I found 'her' in a bad part of town, trying to get to a bus stop. A drunk accosted her but somehow fell over before he could rob her. I recommend that you don't let her wander around like that late at night."

Laura: "Of course. Thank you so much for taking care of her."

"Have a good night, ma'am."

I tried to thank him but he was gone in an instant and Laura brought me inside. When I told her what had really happened, she hugged me fiercely, demanding to know why I hadn't told her about the danger.

Me: "I thought you wanted me to experience the harassment and vulnerability of women."

Laura: "I did, but I didn't realize how bad it was. I never wanted you to be hurt. Well, I'm calling Chuck on Monday to tell him you won't be coming back to that restaurant next week. Maybe Helen can use you another day each week."

*****

The date of my freedom, like a military DEROS (date of estimated return from an overseas tour), at first seemed to approach with glacial slowness, but then the last few weeks raced by. On my final weekend in her service, Laura seemed determined to have "one last" whatever with Danielle. Friday evening, I licked her to three orgasms while kneeling between her legs as she watched TV and petted my long hair. The next day, we had a girls' day out, trying on many clothes even though I needed no additional female outfits, and having a giggling lunch at an outdoor café. That evening, I was not surprised when she directed me onto my hands and knees, applauded my performance at sucking her "cock," and then mounted my butt one more time. She pounded me vigorously while talking about how much fun we were having. As usual, she removed my cock cage and used both her hand and her fake prick to stimulate me to orgasm right along with her. Nor was I surprised when she announced that we would sleep in the next (Sunday) morning. What DID surprise me was that she didn't re-install the cage, leaving my cock free for the first time in 360-odd days. Only the fact that I had just been pegged and milked enabled me to go to sleep without rubbing myself raw. If nothing else, that certainly confirmed how much I had changed in a year. It was much easier to deal with my morning wood at 6 a.m. the next day.

Sunday we hung around the house. Out of habit, I still wore women's clothing, false boobs and light makeup—I repeatedly caught Laura staring at me with her eyes glistening. After dinner, she removed my collar and told me that my driver, Roger, had telephoned to say he would be waiting outside the Agriculture Department building starting at 10:30 a.m. the next day. She and I would drive over there to complete my manumission about 10:00. She also showed me where she had stored the suit I had worn a year earlier, together with a bag containing my wallet, smart phone, watch, and a set of underwear. I was touched to find that Laura had recharged the phone, a phone which I had completely forgotten for an entire year, although my trust paid the monthly bill.

Laura went to her bedroom early, while I spent the evening un-gluing my false breasts and removing my fingernail polish. It felt really odd to think that I would resume both my freedom and my male identity the next morning. In the shower, I washed my long hair but avoided any conditioner or hair product, then dried the hair flat so it would have as little volume as possible.

I was about to turn in for the evening—my last evening in her home—when Laura knocked softly on my door. I answered to find her wearing the short gown that she had used to tease me throughout my slavery. Wordlessly, she dropped to her knees and reached into my robe to grasp my cock and balls. Because I had learned the hard way how distasteful it could be to suck a dick, I asked whether she was sure about doing this. I only had one chance to ask before her warm, soft mouth engulfed me. After a year of enforced chastity, I couldn't last more a few minutes before reaching a climax. Again, I warned Laura that I was about to come, but she took that as a signal to swallow more of my prick, reaching one arm around to pull my hips towards her while she closed her lips on the root and ran her other hand over my ball sack. After she finished swallowing, she withdrew her mouth, leaving a ring of lipstick at the base of my cock. With that first discharge taken care of, I was able to last much longer when I took her to bed and made gentle love, with me on top or beside her, for almost an hour before we finally climaxed almost simultaneously. We fell asleep cuddling and murmuring to each other. Bliss.

*****

Laura must have gone back to her room during the night; I woke up, out of habit, about 6:00 a.m. to find myself alone. After showering, I had to stop myself from putting on a bra and again when I reached for makeup. Instead, I dressed in my suit except for the jacket and tie. I gathered my long hair low on my neck, hiding most of it inside my shirt. Then, I decided to finish my year of service to her properly. I washed, dried, and folded both the bedding and my last set of soiled female clothing, then re-made the bed which was still equipped with restraints at both ends. Carrying the jacket and tie, I quietly closed the door to my bedroom/prison cell, then went to the kitchen to make coffee and cook breakfast.

Promptly at 7 a.m., as on almost every workday for the previous year, I knocked on her bedroom door and offered her coffee made to her specifications. I showed her a breakfast laid out for her and later cleaned up the dirty dishes before we set out for the Agriculture Department. We had almost no conversation until we boarded the elevator leading up to the Livestock and Slave Division offices.

We both realized that this might be our last moment together, and simultaneously we both started to say, "Can we pick a time" and then stopped, abashed despite all our previous intimacy. I recovered first.

"Mistress," I said, using that term for the last time, "can we agree on a time to meet and talk about this—say, ten days or two weeks from now?"

Smiling bashfully, we finally agreed on two weeks hence, at noon, in the same coffee shop where I had first proposed my self-enslavement to her. By the time we had reached this simple agreement, the elevator doors had opened, and we were walking down the corridor of offices to the division chief's office. There, we completed my manumission in a very few minutes, and Laura handed me the state-sealed certificate of my freedom. Once again a legal human being, I insisted that she precede me back to the elevator. Just as when she had led me out of there a year prior, she deliberately put an extra wiggle in her step, looking back over her shoulder with a smile, checking to see if I were watching. (I was.)

Just as the elevator doors opened at the ground floor, she kissed my cheek and walked quickly away. I could swear that her shoulders were shaking. I went into a restroom to wash my face and then walked outside to find Roger leaning against the fender of my car.

"Welcome back, Mr. Martinson," he said as he opened the back door for me.

"Glad to be back," I said, barely remembering to put my legs into the car one at a time instead of doing the swivel of a woman wearing a skirt. Once the driver shut the door and climbed into the driver's seat, I changed the subject slightly. "Roger, let's be clear about one thing. I just gave you most of a year off with pay, but that was for my convenience, not yours. If you have something you really need to do for your health or your family, even tomorrow, just tell me you need time off, OK?" He nodded, smiling. "Right now, though, take me to Bob's Barber Shop—I'm thirteen months overdue for a haircut!"

Later that afternoon, I visited my attorney's office to pick up the reins of my investments and business interests. That was simple enough, but over the next two weeks, I struggled to regain "normalcy." I hoped I would retain the attitudes that Laura had taught me, but I tried to ditch the feminine mannerisms.

For the past year, I had walked in short steps, one foot in front of the other with my shoulders immobile and my hips swinging. Now I had to reverse the process, rotating my arms and shoulders while my hips moved minimally. Walking in flat shoes was also a challenge after wearing 3-inch heels, feeling as odd as heelless Birkenstocks. Like a guy who had just ridden a bicycle for 50 miles, I found it difficult to take a normal (30 inch or more) stride. Long walks and runs helped me relearn a longer stride, but I still had to think consciously about how I moved. The first time I had lunch with my (former) best friend Jim, he commented that I still walked "a little swishy, if you know what I mean."

At that first lunch, we danced around the topic of my slavery, talking about inconsequential things like we were strangers instead of battle buddies. Finally, Jim interrupted another banal exchange with a look of frustration on his ebony face.

"Look, Dan, it's time we talk about the elephant in the room. I'm never going to get the image of you on your knees, wearing a French maid's dress with your hands locked behind the collar on your neck, out of my head. I know why you did that, and I'll probably razz you about the dress and nylons a few times, but I don't hold it against you. You had the courage to follow your dreams even though you must have felt humiliated. I never asked Terri what you and she did when I wasn't there, and she never told me. I trust you both enough to know that nothing happened that shouldn't have. I probably should thank you for indulging her sexual urges—but no, you can't do that anymore now that you're free, so don't ask! Are we square?"

I snickered [still had to avoid the urge to giggle] and nodded. "Thanks, Jim. I'd hate to have my crazy love life interfere with our friendship. I have to tell you, though, that Terri already asked if I would continue servicing her, so YOU'RE going to have to tell her no more, OK?"

We both laughed, and I offered to hire a cleaning service for her now that she had been spoiled for a year. Then he said, "The only thing I want to know about your whole crazy year is, did it work? Is Laura going to marry you so you stop moping around like a lost puppy?"

Me: "I don't know. I'm meeting her next week to find out."

On both of the succeeding weekends, I sent Roger home and drove myself to shopping malls and other public places. In addition to walking like a man, I had to re-adjust how I interacted with people. As a slave, I had been expected to drop my eyes and stand still or kneel in deference to any free person, and as an honorary female, I had followed the usual convention of giving anyone I met a slight half-smile without making eye contact. I had learned by observation that all men, most women, and even children expected that smile as a sort of approval from any adult woman, as if she were a potential girlfriend or maternal figure. If they didn't get the smile, even from a complete stranger, they would look more closely and probably detect my actual gender. On the other hand, if a free or slave woman looked a man in the face for more than a moment, he would take that as encouragement to "chat her up" as the British used to say.

For much the same reasons, I had to avoid creeping women out by staring at them too long. No, I was NOT undressing them with my eyes—having been on the receiving end of that with (usually near-sighted) men when I was dressed en femme, I didn't want to be the cause of any discomfort for a woman. In fact, most of the time I looked at women only because they reminded me of Laura—although I must confess that, two or three times, I focused not on the woman but on the cute clothes she wore and wondered where she had bought them! I could see that it would take a long time to shake off the female persona she had imprinted upon me.

To satisfy your low curiosity, yes, I jerked off daily and sometimes more often during this period. Just as before my indenture, my erotic thoughts were filled with images of Laura and me making love as equals. OK, to be honest, once in a while I thought wistfully about tonguing her labia and letting her peg me while her boobs pressed against my back. Get over it.

*****

(Laura's point of view)

I've dreaded this day ever since I was STUPID enough to agree to Dan's self-indenture—I only agreed to it because, like him, I dreamed of a reformed Dan whom I could marry with confidence. I had warned him that I would have to do painful and embarrassing things to him in order to achieve what he claimed he wanted. I also told him of the risks he faced by making himself a slave. Yet, I never wanted to hurt him, and I certainly never wanted to force him to give a blowjob to my managing partner or expose him to attack by that drunken clown.

Having said that, I love the new Dan that emerged from his year of subjugation. He's generous, sensitive, and caring not just for me but for the babies and other women he served. If I could, I would be happy to keep him as a servant but even more as the equal partner he had dreamed of becoming. Now, I'm afraid that I've wrecked any hope of a future together. He'll always think of me whipping and dominating him, making him wear a dress and suck dicks. How can I make it right?

(Dan's point of view)

I wondered if Laura was as nervous as was I. I didn't want to get into recriminations or apologies about what happened over the last year. I just wanted to get on with our lives, together. I was convinced that my slavery, however horrendous at the time, had achieved her objectives—but did she agree?

We met by appointment, both visibly on edge as we sat down. Before I could say a word, Laura blurted out,

"Dan, I feel so guilty about how I treated you and especially when I hit you. By rights, I should offer you the chance to treat me the same way, to tie me up as your slave while you used my mouth and bottom. But then you'd probably want to hit me too, and I couldn't stand that pain, I mean . . ."

I tried to stop this rambling, grasping both of her hands gently. "You have nothing to apologize for, Darling. The whole crazy situation was my idea and I know you well enough to know that you hated having to discipline me. Some of the things you made me do were pretty bad, but I'd rather put that behind us. You must know I could NEVER hurt you, so don't even think about that. Someday, if you trust me enough, I'd love to use that bondage equipment on you, but only to play with your body while we make love."