Through the Side Door Pt. 04

(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 involved in slave business operations. This is strictly a FANTASY—in reality, informed consent is always mandatory.)

(Jack Murtha's viewpoint)

The faint light coming in from a row of oblong windows told me that it was early morning, but I was disoriented, because I don't usually wake up surrounded by wire fencing. Then I realized that a very large, firm, but female body was pressed against my back, with her arm wrapped around me possessively. Willow! After six years of keeping me at arm's length, my tall, beautiful smart friend had finally connected with me romantically, and we'd spent half the night making love.

This connection had come at a considerable price. Willow had persuaded me to masquerade as a naked slave while she, in her job as a wrangler, led me around the Longhorn Slave Market. She admitted that she herself had acted out the same role with her roommate holding her leash—apparently, she got turned on pretending to be a submissive collared slut, even though she was too smart to really want to BE a slave. Somehow, she thought I would enjoy the same sense of sexy vulnerability, and I had foolishly agreed because I loved her so much, even though it was nerve-wracking and humiliating for me.

Then her bosses caught us. The Longhorn's VP for Operations, Mr. Jessie Foster, persuaded us that the only way for us to avoid REAL slavery was to sign a three-day kennel waiver, putting ourselves under slave discipline temporarily while remaining legally free. I guess he thought he could scare Willow straight, or at least give her enough naked humiliation to satisfy her yen for such games. And we'd certainly been put through a number of humbling and embarrassing situations. Mr. Foster had one of his veteran wranglers, Josephine, take us to her home yesterday, which is why we were locked overnight in a cage that in turn was inside Jo's garage. Still, Josephine HAD let us take off our chastity belts (temporarily; she had insisted we re-install them by this morning) and make love. I had no idea what would happen today, but finally linking up with Willow was worth almost any sacrifice. I just hoped that she wouldn't be too embarrassed to continue the romance once we regained our clothes and our freedom.

Morning breath (especially after mutual oral attention) made it challenging to kiss, but Willow and I hugged briefly before settling down on our knees near the gate to our cage, waiting for our keeper, Mistress Josephine. When we heard the door to the house start to open, we braced into the Expose position—thighs wide apart, eyes staring at the floor in front of us, fingers interlaced behind our heads. Then I was startled to hear the garage door begin to open. Even in summertime Texas, the early morning air was slightly chilly.

"Good morning, sluts," Josephine boomed, cheerily. "I imagine you need to relieve yourselves. Quickest way to do that is in the yard." So saying, she released us from the cage and led us out the garage door and around to the back yard, then pointed at two corners and told us to kneel and "Have at it." Urinating like that, in front of other people, goes against so much childhood training that it's difficult to let go even if you can get past the embarrassment of being outdoors, naked, and trying to piss like a dog. Besides that, my dick was in a mesh bag so I wasn't sure if I could aim it properly. But, we were desperate, and after a few seconds of effort I emitted a strong yellow stream; I assume Willow did the same, as she looked much happier when we were led back out to the front, in full view of the street, and then through the garage into the house. It could have been worse, I guess—Josephine could have walked us on leashes to a dog park to relieve ourselves, making us lift a leg!

At Josephine's direction, we cooked breakfast for five. Florence, who had detected our charade two days ago, came home from a night shift, and the third sister, Maureen, eventually stumbled out of bed. All three of these women were tall, well-endowed, and self-confident. The two temporary slaves served the three sisters in the dining room, then retired to the kitchen to eat our own eggs, bacon, and toast on our knees—it was still vastly preferable to having your hands bound behind your back with your face shoved like an animal into a bowl of tasteless slave kibble.

By the time we had cleared the table and washed the dishes, it was after 9:00 a.m. on a Saturday. We could hear lawnmowers running nearby and cars passing. So of course, that was the time our temporary owner chose to have us conduct block exercises, otherwise known as slave yoga, on her front lawn! She reminded us that we were under slave discipline, and gesturing with her shock baton marched us out front. For 20 minutes, we twisted and squirmed into every position you can imagine, all while loudly announcing slave mantras, which were filthy come-ons designed to entice a potential customer into buying us while conditioning slaves to think of themselves as passive sex objects. Imagine being on your elbows and knees {"Slave Fours"}, facing the house with the street to your "rear," while announcing "I'm your bitch, Mistress," or spreading your legs and bending down as far as possible, so that your butt was the highest point on your body, and then begging "Please shove your monster cock up my ass, Master." My chastity belt was of a loose mesh that didn't really conceal anything, although it did hold my genitals still as I gyrated. Willow had a similar, almost see-through screen over her vulva, but her 44D boobs (or were they DD? Now that we were lovers, perhaps I would summon the courage to ask her) and her shelf-like buttocks undulated everywhere, distracting me and causing considerable cramping inside my belt. Obviously, this was another exercise designed to emphasize the helpless exposure and humiliation of being a slave in public. I didn't like it, except for the chance to admire Willow's voluptuous body beside me. I noticed that she was simultaneously blushing on her face and oozing from her belt—this clearly played into her submissive fantasies.

Finally, Josephine had us halt in the "Present" position—hands behind necks, legs shoulder-width apart, facing the street so that the whole neighborhood could see all the areas our mothers taught us to conceal. Smiling slightly, the wrangler asked Willow to describe how she felt at the moment.

"Exposed, humiliated, helpless, vulnerable, and incredibly turned on, Mistress," was the prompt reply.

"How'd you like to be my slave full time, so I could have you exercise like this and then mow our lawn naked every Saturday morning? Well, not completely naked—I'd let you wear boots for safety. I'm sure the neighborhood boys would bring lawn chairs to watch you, and their moms would thank me for getting them outside, away from their game controllers."

Willow audibly gulped. "That sounds fantastic as a fantasy, Mistress, but I think the reality would be uncomfortable at first and eventually almost boring, especially without Jack here."

"Excellent, slut!" came Jo's booming voice. "You're getting the message—real slavery is a lot less sexy and much more boring than your imagination. And you're right—REAL slaves don't get to sleep with their boyfriends, they just provide convenient holes for citizens who don't care whether the slaves get off or not."

Once she had milked the maximum humiliation out of the situation, she marched us inside and allowed us to shower together, reminding us to shave off any stubble that had grown since we removed our body hair the previous day. It was nice to soap each other up and steal a kiss or two, but we couldn't do much while wearing the belts. I did give her breasts more attention than was strictly necessary for cleansing, but I quickly realized that this just made both of us more frustrated.

*****

(Willow McDonald's perspective)

Performing slave block drills at the Longhorn, naked in front of my peers, had been embarrassing and yet ultimately enjoyable, sexy. Doing so outside a house in full view of suburban strangers was a different kind of humiliation. It had a certain sexual component, but once was enough. Naked slave yoga in the front yard would join my other experiences of the past several days, including being strapped and face-fucked by the night shift, practicing slave block positions and slave mantras in front of my colleagues on the day shift, having my nude body "searched" by an auctioneer as if I were in police custody, and finally fucking like rabbits with Jack. These sensations would provide me with years of material for masturbation and day-dreams, but I didn't really need a steady diet of such things. Especially now that I had Jack to love on.

When we emerged from the shower and put our towels into the clothes washer, I was surprised when Mistress Josephine and her sister decided to restore full discipline on us. Ordered to "back hands," we felt our wrists cuffed behind our backs, after which we were brought into the living room and told to kneel facing the sofa. Without any sign of modesty, our two Black mistresses dropped their jeans and panties and sat down in front of us, ordering us to give them each at least two good orgasms. I set to work on Mistress Maureen. Her sister had mentioned that Mo' was recovering from a failed relationship with some guy, which may explain why she responded so vocally as I pressed my face in close and diligently tongued her. I got into the submissive act of giving another person pleasure while being denied it for myself, only occasionally being aware of low moans coming from Josephine. Having experienced the same intimate service from my lover and fellow captive last night, I correctly identified Jack as the source of her pleasure. Only after Jo convulsed for a third time did they wipe our faces off and hold bottles for us to drink from, all while keeping us bound on our knees.

As soon as our thirst was quenched, the two sisters pulled our mouths into the famous "slave grin" by re-installing the canvas gags we had used yesterday.

"In case you haven't guessed," Jo explained in a conversational tone, "It's time to transport you again. Of course, that means the full rigor of poodle cage restraint. Willow, this is a hands-on experience of Longhorn policy, keeping our inventory secure to ensure we don't lose any. Let's go, kids." She helped each of us to our feet, reconnected leashes to our collars, and led us out the front door and down the steps to the waiting pickup truck emblazoned with the Longhorn logo. We had to stand nude in the street until she had opened the tailgate and put a wooden step-box on the ground, then helped us clamber into the truck bed. Once again, she had us shuffle backwards on our knees (not easy to do without the use of your hands) into dog cages that were barely large enough for our bodies. She followed the usual police precaution of guiding my head with her hand so I didn't bang into the edge of the cage. Then she shut the cage door and secured it with a cheap padlock. Jack got the same treatment. Just as yesterday, I felt like a hairless dog, a bitch bound on her knees with her mouth muzzled to prevent yapping while a "real" person remained erect and free to move or talk. My keeper's comment only reinforced our lowly status.

"Gooood pets," she commented, in an approving voice, smiling down at her helpless charges. She wasn't gloating over our subjugation, just using the normal restraint procedures and voice cues meant to encourage slave compliance. Free people always treat slaves as animals, except when those animals serve as sex objects.

By now, the sun was high enough that I was starting to perspire, but the heat meant that no one was mowing their lawns to see Jack and me being caged like naked livestock. On the other hand, there was plenty of traffic to notice us. While our genitals were concealed by the sides of the pickup, my breasts were on full display for any horny guy to stare at—and they certainly did stare! My treacherous nipples were fully erect before Josephine started the truck, and I soon found myself lost in the subspace of my own fevered and lurid imagination.

-Because we had tried to escape, we two slaves were considered flight risks, and our slave sentences had been doubled. Josephine was a court bailiff, transporting us to some remote chain gang where both guards and convicts would make me "airtight" by filling all three of my openings, while Jack would be forced to fluff the next group waiting to skewer me.

-My owner was dissatisfied by my sexual performance, so he was shipping me to the famous Pearson Pussy Ranch to train my mouth, cunt, and butt to provide exquisite sensations, not to mention my cleavage and butt crack as further sources of friction for his oversized dick. Jack, on the other hand, was going to get advanced training in cunnilingus to service the owner's wife—as well as me when I got too horny and the owner was out of town.

-We were part of a secret exchange program added to the latest international trade agreement, being shipped to a slave brothel in Siberia where I would entertain horny gold miners while Jack mopped up the excess secretions and laundered the sheets. Sometimes, groups of Russian government bigwigs would get together to see if they could exhaust the "American whore" sexually, but they usually gave out first as I screwed all of them to a standstill. The Roman Empress Messalina and Tsarina Catherine the Great had nothing on me.

The speed of the truck and the accompanying highway noises dropped off sharply when we exited the Interstate, snapping me out of my erotic daydreams. Josephine had not indicated WHERE she was taking us, playing on the uncertainty when slaves were kept in ignorance of their future. Wherever we were going, we apparently weren't at our destination yet—she pulled in at a large gasoline station-convenience store and parked beside one of the pumps.

What did surprise me was that she climbed into the bed of the truck and released us from our doggy prisons and even from our cuffs (but not our gags, unfortunately.) After we climbed down, Jo attached one end of a heavy chain to a towing shackle on the back of the truck, then padlocked the other end around my right ankle. She repeated the same procedure with Jack, leaving us literally in chains (OK, "chain" singular, if you insist.) She again claimed this was standard procedure—sluts in shipping cages need to stretch periodically, and the Longhorn wants to ensure that no slave escapes custody. (As if I was going to run off stark naked while wearing a collar and gag, an open invitation to sexual assault!)

Next, Jo began ordering us to perform various slave block positions right there in the middle of the gas station while she pumped fuel into the truck. Dozens of people, especially young male adults, gawked openly at us, and I heard more than one favorable comment on my bobbling boobies. "Tits big enough to feed the 82nd Airborne" and "Wouldn't you love to use those for pillows?" were examples of their sophisticated repartee. At least, being gagged, we didn't have to repeat slave mantras—I couldn't imagine what kind of response such come-ons would have elicited from the immature spectators.

It seemed to take hours to refill the truck's fuel tank, but finally Josephine finished. She ordered us into the kneeling "Expose" posture (which inevitably thrust my breasts up and out). I was already aroused by my second experience in poodle transport, not to mention cavorting in front of an appreciative (if juvenile) audience. I wasn't at all attracted to these young punks as people, but the sensation of being at the mercy of any free citizen was powerful. If anything, I guess the idea of being exposed to such obnoxious, pimply-faced adolescents, most of them younger than me but free, only increased my sense of subjugation. I couldn't look directly down at my body, but felt my juices oozing down my thighs. And then Jo said, "Don't wander off, sluts" (as if we could escape our chains) and went into the convenience store!

The sharks (or should I say piranhas? Something small, anyway) immediately began circling their helpless prey. We weren't allowed to break position without orders from our "owner," so we knelt there helplessly, staring forward to the pavement. Out of the corner of my right eye, I saw three guys who looked to be no more than 19 drooling over my displayed body and egging each other on to cop a feel. Four teenaged girls were also gawking at Jack, commenting on his erect shaft (which may well have been the first one they'd ever seen "in the wild." Somewhere I had read that an erect penis looks bigger without pubic hair, and Jack was fairly well-endowed to begin with.) The oldest of these females, whose business attire suggested that she was probably in the work force and therefore aged 19 or 20, first stroked Jack's face and arms and then reached down to give his cock a few pumps—it didn't look like her first handjob. Just as he seemed to get even more erect than before, I felt hands on both of my breasts, squeezing them firmly and flipping thumbs HARD across my erect nipples. When I looked up, the owner of these hands was staring at my chest while the guy next to him was unzipping, apparently hoping to get a quick blow-job from me! Or maybe he intended to jerk off between my breasts, since I was still gagged. I was so horny that I enjoyed the sensation but feared being the focus of a gangbang, especially since the truck stop undoubtedly had crime cameras that would have recorded the whole thing: Instead of "Debbie does Dallas," I thought I was about to star in "Houston does Willow" or "Truckstop Slave Slut." Things I did NOT want to see on YouTube for the rest of my life!

Fortunately for my peace of mind, Josephine reappeared, and the would-be molesters disappeared in all directions—Nobody messes with Josephine or her sisters! I was still quite aroused and distracted as, one at a time, Jo unchained us and returned us to our cuffed, kneeling, caged environment. Who would have thought being put BACK into such an uncomfortable position would feel like a relief? (After this adventure was over, she told me that she watched us through the store window the whole time, ready to intervene if we were in danger, but I didn't know that. Submissive fantasies are fun, but being mauled by a guy whose technique was more suited to kneading bread dough than fondling a woman was uncomfortable rather than erotic.) Once it was over, I had to admit that my keeper had given me another scary submissive experience to treasure for future masturbation.

Even at the time, I suspected that the slave handler's "standard procedure for sluts in transit" was just an excuse to put me on public display again, dragging my long-suffering boyfriend along so that I would again feel guilty about getting him into this mess. My suspicion was confirmed when, less than five minutes later, she pulled into the side gate of the Longhorn Slave Market and parked the truck in an empty space in the row of company vehicles. Once again, Mistress Josephine extracted us from our canine coops and helped us dismount from the truck. She removed the hated gags, but left our hands restrained behind our backs as she connected the leashes again.

"Heel, sluts," she said cheerfully, and set off at a brisk pace towards the same side door we had exited the previous day. Being barefoot on hot pavement, not to mention worried about being dragged by our necks, we hopped more than walked in her wake, and were glad to get into the cool interior with relatively-comfortable linoleum and concrete floors. When I passed the big mirrors at the end of the corridor, I was no longer surprised by my appearance. I'd adjusted to the idea that I was a naked, collared pet on a leash, just like all those I had led around in my other existence as a slave wrangler (would I ever get back to that?). The thought even flashed through my head that both Jack and I looked sexy, the kind of bondage toys many people might want to bid on and play with. I guess my training by Josephine and Antonne (not to mention the passionate attention from Jack) had really improved my self-esteem. (Ha! I thought. You know you've got SERIOUS self-image problems when you're PLEASED at how you look as a slave on a leash! Still didn't think I liked this look well enough to make it permanent.)