Extraordinary Talent Pt. 01

Terri was a very systematic, methodical planner, so I wasn't fooled when she pretended to suddenly have another thought. "Knowing Daddy, he'll probably sign you up for slave block drills and other short classes at the Longhorn—from what I hear, that's become almost SOP for new FINO slaves, since they don't undergo normal slave training. So, if you're going to do that, we'd better practice slave yoga together ahead of time. And no, we're not going to take our clothes off to practice—wiseass!" I hadn't dared to think about seeing HER naked (although the image of her being slave graded was fascinating), but felt reassured that I didn't have to expose myself immediately. She also mentioned, casually, that she would put me through such drills once I was her FINO, and implied that I would be slave naked for that.

*****

For the next several weeks, I lost sleep thinking about the whole idea. If I ever forgot it while studying, Terri would remind me by inviting me to her apartment for another round of Slave Yoga. We both wore gym clothes, but her boy-shorts and sports bra still showed far more of her than appeared in public. Sometimes she practiced with me, sometimes she sat back and watched, but SHE was always the person who ordered the next pose. I didn't know which was worse—being ordered around as if I were already a slave while she sat at her ease, or being distracted by the sight of that voluptuous, scantily-clad body gyrating into lewd positions beside me. The sound of her voice repeating slave mantras almost overcame my own acute embarrassment at saying the same things in front of her: "All my holes belong to you, Master;" "Please buy me and fuck my brains out;" "I long for your monster cock up my ass;" "I live to serve you, Mistress," and so on. There was never a hint that we would be intimate—she seemed oblivious to me as a sex partner. But, I have to think she was deliberately encouraging me to agree to her father's extreme idea. At night, I jerked off frantically at the memory of that beautiful, smiling woman making such enticing offers. (I imagined her as my lover, not my dominatrix, by the way.) If I signed that contract, my opportunities for such relief would decline rapidly.

I also received an email concerning a tele-appointment with a Dr. Nicola Sheldon for another Saturday morning. Terri told me that "Doctor Nikki" was a slave psychiatrist whom I would have to consult before, during, and after the FINO contract. She also told me that this unknown person had experience advising others about such contracts, so I should talk to her if I had questions about the matter.

At the appointed date and time, I logged in. At first, I thought that somehow I had the wrong internet link, because the smiling blonde who appeared on my screen did not look like any shrink I had ever heard of. She didn't even appear older than I was, although I later found out she was in her early 30s. Neither did she talk like a shrink, but she quickly put me at ease. I haltingly asked about the Texas FINO contracts, and she gave me several examples without violating anyone's privacy. She insisted I understand that, outside of the specified time-out periods for my studying, I would have to act EXACTLY like a slave. Someone—presumably Mr. Thornton—had told this doctor that I had a friendship with my prospective Mistress. So, the slave psychiatrist focused on how I should approach the situation, being sure to ask permission and lay out the ground rules so that I didn't inadvertently confuse my friend with my de facto owner—when it came to my time and discipline, Terri was my Mistress, not my buddy. We discussed what Terri and I had already agreed upon, and Dr. Sheldon added some key additional issues to resolve, such as who would be expected to cook suppers and how I should notify Terri if I needed to do schoolwork during a day when I would normally serve her. "Doctor Nikki" told me that she was required to be present when I signed the contract. Of course, she couldn't be with me every day, but Texas law would list her as my guardian, and she would ensure that either Terri or I could contact her in an emergency.

I felt a lot more comfortable with the whole idea when I finished this conversation. There really wasn't much choice. As a practical matter, this contract offered me unmatched funding and opportunities in the career I wanted to pursue, and that alone was worth a considerable risk on my part. Although nobody said anything, I got the distinct impression that if I DIDN'T sign the contract, Mr. Thornton would, at the very least, take steps to ensure I couldn't see his daughter again. I thought that being her slave for four years would almost guarantee that Theresa would never look at me romantically, but that didn't seem to be a realistic possibility in any case—I might as well settle for spending quality time for her until we graduated, and then go my own separate way. After a few more talks with Terri, I finally decided to take the plunge.

*****

The school year ended in the usual flurry of studying, projects, and ball-busting exams. In between all this, I moved my stuff out of the dorm room, which would no longer be mine at the end of the term. Terri gave me a key to her apartment for the two nights I would spend there before we headed "home" to Houston. Not that we spent much time sleeping, as we still had studying to do. Still, she offered me a choice of accommodations: in the huge walk-in closet off her bedroom was a six-foot by six-foot by ten-foot wire mesh cage, complete with a very comfortable mattress with bedding and pillows. She said a similar cage had been moved into her bedroom closet at home. I was free to sleep in the unlocked cage immediately, or I could crash on the couch. I told her that, to avoid endangering her privacy, I'd better stay on the couch. She shrugged as if it didn't matter, but again tried to reassure me that my new role would be bearable once we got through the first few days.

After the exams, Terri guided me through our transition. She had thought the whole thing out—we flew first class to Houston on Thursday, where a family employee, Hans, met us. (Hans was a muscular giant who looked like a recruiting poster for the SS; I later learned he was more a security chief than a driver). Hans and "Mizz Theresa" dropped me with my overnight bag at an upscale motel where, I was relieved to find, my room was pre-paid. Terri said she would pick me up at 10:00 a.m. the next day, and looked at me hard as she urged me to wear "comfortable" clothes. I understood what she meant by that—no socks or underwear, only slip-on shoes, and clothes I could strip off quickly.

I didn't sleep too well that night. As I've said before, logically this was the right move for me, but giving up my freedom, even for a good purpose, was nerve-wracking. I wouldn't have agreed if I didn't trust Terri, but the odds were low that we would always agree while we lived together for the next four years. And this contract ensured that I would not only lose but suffer in any disagreement.

Promptly at 10:00 the next morning, Terri picked me up in a well-maintained but nondescript sedan; I was relieved that Hans would not be a witness to my submission. On the short drive to the Longhorn Slave Market, Terri spoke earnestly to me.

"I'm going to say it again, Matt—I REALLY appreciate your willingness to do this. Quite apart from all the benefits Daddy is giving you, I think part of the reason you're here is because you enjoy spending time with me, right?" I nodded and tried to smile. "I think that's the nicest compliment anyone ever gave me—it makes me very proud to know you. Now, I can tell you're still worried about being my slave, but you know you can trust me, right?"

"Yes, Terri—I guess I should say, Yes, Mistress?" I replied.

"Well, yes and no. Please use Mistress and Master while we're at the Longhorn today, and any time Daddy is around, so he doesn't get upset. The rest of the time, well—when we're studying together, can we please be Terri and Matt again?"

"I'd love that, Terri; one of my big worries is that this will mess up our friendship."

She nodded and smiled. "Same for me. OK: how about a compromise. Most of the time, feel free to call me Terri. If I have to tell you to do something while we're in public, you can reply 'Yes, Ma'am,' so that if anyone overhears us, you can pretend you were joking. Does that make sense?"

"Yes, Ma'am," I replied, trying to lighten the mood. "There's just one thing, Terri—no offense, but you have a bit of a temper. If I ever really piss you off, how will I know it's time for me to act as your slave, so I don't make it worse?"

She giggled. "Oh, you'll know! If I ever call you 'Slave,' it's time for you to shut up and obey your Mistress, got it?"

"Yes, Mistress." We both laughed, a little uneasily.

*****

The Longhorn parking lot was almost full when we arrived but, as "Mistress Theresa" had predicted, there were very few people in sight because they were already inside and probably going through the first public display and grading of slaves. We had mutually decided that it would attract less attention for me to arrive inside already in "slave mode" than to strip down upon signature of the contract. So, when Terri parked her car near the entrance, it was time for my first real embarrassment. She just looked at me, waiting. Sitting beside her, I hastily pulled my polo shirt off, shucked off my loafers, then unbuckled my pants and pushed both pants and boxers down onto the floor in one motion. I stepped out into the bright sunlight and stood in the Present position as she had taught me—feet about shoulder-length apart, fingers interlocked behind my neck. I tried to look forward and down, but I couldn't help seeing her face as she came around the front of the car to collar me. I had expected her eyes to show amusement or even contempt when she saw me slave naked for the first time. Instead, she seemed serious but happy. For a moment, I couldn't understand why her eyes widened suddenly. Could it be she liked what she saw, especially my exposed prick? Naaah. Theresa Thornton, a beautiful daughter of privilege, had certainly seen enough naked Alpha males that she wouldn't be impressed with her nerdy study buddy and soon-to-be-slave. At least, I reflected, she kept her promise not to laugh!

"Collar." As we had practiced (with my clothes on), I dropped down to widespread knees and lifted one hand as if to move my hair aside, even though my haircut was too short to need it. The asphalt was tough on my knees. She strapped a plain leather collar around my neck, then stepped back and ordered "Stand—reverse—back hands." This brought me to my feet, facing away from her with my wrists crossed so that she could use a zip-tie to restrain them.

On her instructions, I turned back around and stood, patiently, while she clipped a dog leash to the D ring on my collar. I was surprised, however, when she hugged me tightly. I don't know which excited me more—the feel of her full breasts against my chest or her soft kiss on my cheek. Whatever it was, my treacherous cock responded instantly. Oh, great, I thought—now she'll think I'm some submissive who gets excited by being naked and bound, when what I really dreamed of was being able to hug and kiss her back with both of us in the same state of dress (or undress).

As if to confirm my thought, I heard her breathe in sharply when she stepped back and saw my response. "I'm sorry, Matt, I didn't expect to get that reaction."

I told her the truth, masked as a joke. "Mistress, a hug and a kiss from you would put an erection on a department store mannequin." She giggled and made some remark about not believing flattery from a slave. (Sometimes I thought this girl had no idea just how attractive she was—or maybe she thought everyone was trying to get her father's money?) Then she remembered that I was waiting for her instructions.

"Heel, Slave," and we set off across the warm asphalt towards the large sign over the entrance.

I'd seen photos of the Longhorn lobby on its website, showing a long semi-circle of service desks with a horde of both people and slaves waiting to be checked in. Thanks to Terri's careful planning, there were far fewer people and no slaves present when we walked in at mid-morning. She led me over to a sign that read "Concierge Desk," behind which desk were several slave handlers in the Longhorn uniform of boots, jeans, and shirts with the embroidered logo and their nametags. They also wore equipment belts studded with what looked like weapons and handcuffs, like police officers. The only face I recognized was that of Doctor Sheldon, with whom I had skyped, but her body surprised me because she appeared to be carrying a baby. She greeted both of us with a smile, and Terri inquired when she was due—the answer was a rueful "next Tuesday," which surprised me again because the baby bump was still rather high up and not very prominent. She must have incredible muscle tone if that's all she showed in the ninth month.

The formalities didn't take long—one of the handlers cut my wrists free so I could sign the contract. Imagine me, butt naked, surrounded by three women and two men all of whom were fully clothed. Only in the South . . . I felt intimidated, of course, but Terri insisted that I take my time, scanning through the long contract and initialling every page. I tried to check the key elements such as compensation, time for studies, and so on. Finally, when I nodded agreement, Terri signed as owner and Nikki Sheldon as guardian, after which I hastily signed my name. Terri, who had kept my wallet, produced my driver's license and college ID as proof of identity. One of the three handlers, a towering, statuesque Black woman, carefully compared those identity cards to both my face and my signature, then pulled out a self-inking Notary Public's stamp and authenticated the document. The female handler, whose nametag read "Florence," made photocopies for the Longhorn and Nikki while Terri kept the original—I didn't get a copy, the first sign that I was now a de facto slave rather than a person.

Any doubts as to my status disappeared with Florence's next actions. First, she handed Theresa a Visitor's tag—clearly, the Thornton name got special treatment even in the slave market. Then, Florence calmly told me to "Collar," replacing the nondescript collar that Terri had used with a heaver, bulkier one. Two pins dug into my neck as she tightened it on; I knew that these contacts allowed the handlers to shock me at will.

While this was happening, I was distracted by a conversation between Nikki and Terri. The shrink began by asking quietly, "I gather that you and Matt are friends who studied together. How do you feel about this contract?"

My new owner replied, "I don't know what to feel. My father insisted, and you know how he is."

"Yeah, I get that. I don't want to intrude, but let me give you some free advice, OK? Obviously, your relationship with Matt is changing. You shouldn't think less of him because of this."

"Of course not," mumbled my friend, apparently distracted by the naked guy showing a half-hard-on on his knees in front of her. "If anything, I think he's very brave to do this. If the situation were reversed, I'd die of embarrassment having to strip and wear a collar in front of him. It's just . . . gonna take some getting used to."

Nikki nodded. "Absolutely. What I wanted to say is, you need to watch this process where he become a slave, and PARTICIPATE in controlling and training him so you both adjust to the new relationship. Flo' here is an expert—when she asks you to do something, please do it, so that by the end of the day Matt and you will be comfortable with the situation, OK?"

Terri seemed to agree, but I was distracted as the handler had me stand, reverse, and back hands again, only this time she installed heavy leather shackles onto my wrists. Lifting up slightly on my hands, Florence obliged me to move in any direction she chose unless I wanted to dislocate my shoulders. She maneuvered me towards the nearest pair of swinging doors, inviting "Mizz Thornton" to accompany us.

*****

You're probably familiar with the processing required of all slaves, so I'll just say that Florence chipped me, fingerprinted me, took a DNA sample, and finally, using a local anaesthetic, inscribed a slave ID number inside my lower lip. While my lip was still numb and tingling, she made me repeat my new number: 877-52-4399. She added that "You may be referred to as 4399."

Florence next walked me over to a practice slave block, a raised wooden platform where four young, naked, and collared women were just about to begin slave block practice, the more explicit form of what soccer moms called Slave Yoga. My handler released my wrists and told me to join in. I was silently grateful that Terri had made me practice the poses and mantras, so that I could go through the drill without making more of a fool of myself than was inherent in gyrating, naked, in a group of women while several clothed people watched me expose myself. I was concentrating so hard that saying those filthy mantras didn't bother me. What DID bother me was the sensation of my semi-erect dick swaying around as I assumed various lewd positions—and the sight of Teresa, trying hard not to smile at the sight of me. I think she wanted to spare my feelings, but it came out looking like a smirk.

I guess the platform drill served its purpose, because I was still aroused when Florence photographed me for the National Slave Registry. She took three poses. The first was with me in Expose, hands behind my neck in full frontal nudity with my stiff prick quite evident. Next, I had to kneel, holding my cock and balls up for exhibit, my mouth still open and panting from the exercises. Finally, and perhaps most humiliating, was to lean forward so that my forehead touched the ground while both of my hands held my butt cheeks apart, giving the camera a full view of two openings and my submissive helplessness as I looked back between my legs. I had expected—and dreaded—all these poses; what I had NOT anticipated was that my new "owner," Terri, would use her cell phone to capture the same poses! Sigh; I had to remind myself that she couldn't divulge those photos at school without breaking the contract.

Florence entered all the information, including Dr. Sheldon as my guardian and the words "Texas FINO," into the data base, then generated two laminated cards with my photo (face only, thank heavens) and other data, identifying me the same way, which she gave to Theresa.

Next stop was the "Slave Veterinarian," a female MD who examined me after she and Florence had secured me, spread-eagled, hands again cuffed behind my back, on a Frankenstein version of a gynocology chair, my ankles lifted high and spread while the "Vet" THOROUGHLY examined my dick, balls, and anus. The Vet explained that Texas law required all slaves to be restrained for medical examination. I'd had doctors probe me down there before, but none of them spent what seemed like five minutes exploring every inch of my lower colon. When she was finished, the Vet unexpectedly applied a bag of ice to my groin, shrivelling my equipment instantly. I tried not to whine.

Flo' urged Terri forward. "Ma'am, this is one of the things Doctor Nikki was talking about—YOU need to be the one that puts the belt on him." My friend/owner was as red in the face as I was, but after a brief hesitation she gently threaded my suddenly-limp dick into the wire mesh bag and used the lock to secure the metal strap around my waist. Both of us looked relieved, thinking that the worst was over, until the Vet presented Theresa with ANOTHER object—a small, black butt-plug whose tip gleamed with lubricant.