Lila Freeuse Slave

Lila, Freeuse Slave

Author's note:

This is a new plot line, although astute readers will notice much in common with some of my other stories. Please tell me if you want more of these Freeuse stories. I live for comments -- since none of the writers on this site makes a dime from this work, response is our bread and butter. All comments are welcome, but the most useful ones tell me exactly what you like or don't like about the story, since that helps me do more of the one and less of the other.

The air was balmy and the sky blue as I walked toward the subway with my afternoon's purchases: a pair of black sandals and a couple of new tops. Spring was trying hard to come to Toronto, I thought as the light wind played with my long blond hair. My green mid-calf length skirt swished as I walked. Neither the skirt nor my white cotton blouse hid the black leather cuffs rivetted around my wrists and ankles, nor the leather collar around my neck.

Since I wasn't on duty with a client, the cuffs weren't attached to anything, but the locks were in my handbag in case they were needed, along with my leash and my neatly folded gag. The big plugs in my anus and vagina, held in place by a leather strap that ran down through my asscrack and between my pussy lips, weren't at all uncomfortable now that I was used to them, but I was still aware of them as I walked. I remembered back to when I first signed on as a Freeeuse Slave, when I could barely walk properly with the plugs up me. Now I was practiced enough that I had an almost normal gait as I walked down the street. In fact, I really relished the erotic feeling of the plugs moving gently in my cunt and ass while I walked.

Since the plugs weren't designed as chastity enforcers, the strap wasn't locked, just buckled. I could remove them any time I needed to, for instance to use the washroom, or wash, or when I was on my period and I needed to trade in the vaginal plug for a tampon. But my Freeuse Slave contract stated that they needed to be in place any other time I was out in public. Clients love to think of slaves' holes neatly packed up for their pleasure -- until they decide to free up a hole or two to slide something else into it.

Of course, the term "slave" was a bit of a stretch, As long as I was under contract, I would need to comply with almost anything a customer wanted me to do, but if I got fed up with the whole business, all I had to do was march into the office of Consolidated Sex Slaves Inc. and hand in my resignation, and the cuffs and collar would be cut off and I would be able to do whatever I wanted. Of course, then I would have to find something else to do with myself. That was my problem.

I have a doctorate in Clinical Psychology, and had tried practice for a while after graduation. The trouble was that I hated it. I had enjoyed the research aspect of psychology while I was studying, but I couldn't stand sitting listening to patients pour out their long, tedious stories while I prompted them to tell me how they felt about whatever tedious story they were pouring out. Even at $150 an hour, I nearly went crazy trying to pretend that I was interested.

One day I lost it and cut a patient off in the middle of her monologue. "Ms. Hallonen, do you know what you need to free you from your insecurities? You need a really good, hard fuck." I never saw her again, and I wasn't sorry.

One day I was sitting at an outdoor table at a coffee shop, drinking coffee and chatting with Emily, who was the kind of old friend that you sometimes don't see for months at a time and then pick up with as if you'd never missed a beat. On this occasion, I was pouring out my own woes about how much I hated my job.

"So, if I hear you right, you'd love to have a job that involves something you really like to do and offers lots of flexibility." I nodded.

"Well, you love sex, right?"

"Right."

"And you really enjoy being bound and gagged when you're being fucked, right?"

I wasn't at all sure I liked where this was going. "Well, right..."

"And you even like some spanking and flogging to spice up the fucking, right?"

"Ummm... right."

"So how'd you like to make a good living doing all of the above?"

I still had no idea exactly where she was going with this, and had no idea what to say. I just stared at her. Then she held up one arm and pulled back the long sleeve of her sweater to reveal a black cuff around her wrist, with a robust-looking D-ring attached to it. She turned her wrist to show that the cuff was rivetted on, not just buckled.

I goggled at her. "You're a Freeuse Slave? Emily, I had no idea!"

"I just signed up a couple of months ago. We're not supposed to cover up the cuffs and collar, but every once in a while it's nice to share a coffee in public without worrying that someone will hail you like a cab and you'll have to drop everything and let them do whatever the hell they want."

"I've read all about this Freeuse Slave business. But I wouldn't have imagined you getting into it."

Emily pulled a "You've got to be kidding" face. "Hold on. You know me better than that. Remember what we got into when we went to Draco's Dungeon for a lark?"

I giggled. "How could I forget? I'll never be able to unsee the picture of you hanging naked upside down while a big hairy guy tried to fit the biggest dildo I've ever seen all the way up your ass."

"My asshole hurt for days, but I had the night of my life. Especially after he fed me his cock all the way down my throat while he gave my clit the best finger-job ever. As I remember, you had a pretty kinky good time yourself."

"Strapped face down over a bench while my guy held a vibrator on my pussy and spanked the fuck out of me with a paddle in the other hand."

It was Emily's turn to giggle. "We both ate breakfast standing up the next morning."

Once we got finished giggling over our Draco's adventure, Emily looked at me seriously and said, "So you can see why I enjoy this Freeuse stuff.

"Although 'Freeuse' is just as much a misnomer as 'Slave.' Yes, any man or woman who wants to can just hail me, hook my cuffs together and do pretty much what they want as long as they don't do real damage. But it certainly isn't free. Nobody can call "Freeuse" on me unless they've paid for a client's license, and they're expected to tip really well if I do a good job. The basic salary isn't m much above minimum wage, but the tips are what makes it great. That, and the fact that I love being bound, flogged and fucked just as much as you do."

I sat in silence digesting this information. Emily was right -- I do like being bound, flogged and fucked, a lot. Emily and I have kept our friendship on a strictly "friend" level, and have never had any sexual adventures with each other, but we have dipped out toes into the BDSM scene together a few times, and neither of us is especially picky about whether we're being fucked by a man or a woman. Our taste for adventure was likely one of the things that had brought us together, and still frequently furnished us with topics for conversation.

Suddenly we heard a hail. "Freeuse!"

"Fuck," said Emily, glancing down at her wrist. "I forgot to cover up my cuff again, and someone saw it." She downed the dregs of her coffee and turned around in her chair to face the direction the voice had come from. "I guess that's the end of today's little chat."

A woman walked up to Emily. She was forty-something, with nicely coifed brown hair a bit above her shoulders, wearing a T-shirt and stylish jeans. She looked Emily up and down, pointed to her crotch and said, "Show me."

Emily leaned back in her chair, spread her legs wide, and hiked up her skirt, showing off her panty-less crotch with the plug straps running between her lips. The woman reached down and took advantage of the slight stretch in the crotch strap to wiggle the plug in and out of Emily's pussy a bit, then ran her fingers over Emily's labia. The woman smiled broadly. "Mmmm. Looks and feels good. Don't worry, Sweetie. We'll have that plug out in a little while and see if that pussy tastes as good as it looks, won't we? And maybe we'll check out what that tongue of yours feels like, too."

The woman produced a card and Emily slipped it into a card reader attachment on her phone. It dinged happily. Emily turned to me and said, "Now we know we're each licensed and we have each other's information in case one of us fucks with the rules and needs to be reported."

The woman said, "Up." Emily stood. "Leash, lock and gag please." Emily reached into her handbag and brought out a leash, which the woman clipped onto the D-ring on Emily's collar, now revealed from under her turtleneck. Emily turned and brought her wrists together behind her back, and the woman locked her cuffs to each other. It didn't look quite like a padlock that would open with a key. Instead, it was more like a karabiner, although it was clearly designed to be impossible to remove if your wrists were locked together and your hands out of the way. The woman brought the black ball gag that Emily had handed her up to Emily's mouth.

Emily turned back to me and said, "Just think about it, OK? See you late--mmmpphhh!" The ball gag went in her mouth and was buckled snugly behind her head, and that was the end of the conversation. The woman walked away, leading Emily on the leash.

**

I turned Emily's advice over and over in my mind for weeks. I did as much research as I could on Freeuse Slavery as well as some of the other options for making money off my body. I checked the information on the website of Consolidated Sex Slaves and other companies, read the government literature on the rules around legal prostitution, and even consulted some chat sites where slaves and former slaves traded stories about their experiences, most of which were reasonably positive.

I read more about how, after the courts had struck down the prostitution laws for the fourth or fifth time, the government just threw up their hands, set up some minimal guidelines, and let free enterprise take its course. This Freeuse stuff is just one of the ways it rolled out. No matter how I sliced it, it seemed as though Freeuse was the best option for someone with my personal predilections, as well as the most lucrative, and Consolidated had one of the better reputations among contractors and clients alike. The whole thing had a lot of the trappings of the gig economy, but it certainly sounded as though it beat driving for Uber.

The breaking point came one day when a client was whining about his relationship with his wife. "She's always complaining that I'm not interesting any more. I don't know what to do. We have date nights every once in a while, usually dinner and a movie, and I always remember our anniversary and her birthday."

"How often do you have sex?"

"Pretty regularly. At least every six weeks or so."

"How do you usually do it? What positions, what styles?"

"What positions and styles are there? I just put my thing in her thing and push."

I nearly yelled at him. "You know what you need to do? You need to tie your wife face down on the bed, spank her ass red, and then fuck her in it until she screams the house down." I stood up, walked out of my office, and never came back.

The next day I was signing up at Consolidated Sex Slaves.

**

Two weeks later, I had completed my orientation lessons, my background check, and my physical and psychological health check. I was ready for my final fitting with my Freeuse gear.

The Freeuse rigger took my left wrist and wrapped a leather cuff around it. She slipped two fingers under it to make sure it was tight enough not to slip off but loose enough not to cut off circulation, then pushed a rivet through the holes she had selected and worked a small electric rivet setter into place around the ends of the rivet. She squeezed the trigger and with a load "pop," the ends of the rivet mashed flat and held the cuff in place. She did the same with a second rivet, then cuffed my other wrist, my ankles, and my neck.

Even though I had been told exactly what to expect, the rivets gave me a queasy feeling. They felt so permanent, even though I knew I could cut the straps off with a good pair of tin snips. They were just intended to enhance the general look and feel of slavery.

Then it was time for my plugs. The rigger slid a lubed finger into my vagina and checked it for stretchiness, then did the same with my asshole. "Yes, I think a Number Two and a Number Four will keep those holes snugly stuffed without causing any discomfort. I know you have a pretty good history of anal experience or you wouldn't have made it past the initial screening, so you shouldn't have any trouble wearing a Number Four butt plug."

As instructed, I wasn't wearing any panties, so all I had to do was slide my skirt down, spread my legs and bend over, braced against the chair I had been sitting in. I glanced at the size of the plug in her hand and hoped she was right about the fit: it looked pretty big to me. But she lubed it thoroughly, and with some gentle but firm pressure and some twisting, she was able to force it past my sphincter until my asshole sucked it in. It settled into place with only the safety flange on the outside, and it felt surprisingly comfortable once it was in.

I turned around and she pushed an even bigger plug into my vagina. It didn't have a snapback like the anal plug, since vaginas don't have sphincters to grip them, but it slipped smoothly in until it was stopped by its own safety flange. It felt like the tip ended up just a centimetre or two from my cervix. The rigger had obviously done a good job of sizing up not only the potential stretched diameter of my vagina, but also its depth.

She fastened a belt around my waist and a strap between my legs, and I was all set. She wiped up a bit of excess lube, I pulled my skirt back up, and I was ready to go to work.

**

So that brings me back around to that balmy spring day on my way to the subway. Emily had been right -- I quickly got used to being paid handsomely to do what I most like doing. Even though I occasionally encounter a client who likes to push things, especially the impact play, a bit farther than I would have chosen, I know that, once I've swiped a client's card, my phone is monitoring my every movement, and that a bodyguard will turn up and intervene if I'm in any real danger.

I boarded the train and looked around for a seat. Seeing none -- it was nearing the afternoon rush and the train was pretty packed -- I grabbed a stanchion and joined the standing-room-only crowd.

Within minutes, I felt a hand on my ass. This was no casual bum-brush. The hand got a good grip on an asscheek and squeezed it firmly. I dropped my bags and whipped around, expecting to have to fend off another asshole subway groper. Instead I came face to face with a tall, well-built man with a big smile on his face. "Freeuse!" he said, pointing at my collar.

With an exasperated look, I pulled my phone out of my handbag. "Look, bub. You're supposed to hail me

before

you grab yourself a handful. Until then, I'm just another woman on the train, not your slave."

He looked sheepish and handed over his client card. I swiped it, and heard a little ding from the phone in his pocket, indicating that he had received my information at the same time as I had received his. He looked at his phone.

"Lila. Nice name. Says here that you're up for a pretty wide range of stuff."

"I aim to please." Actually, I was a bit annoyed at the timing. I wanted to go home and make dinner, not find out what kinks this guy -- Edward, my app said -- wanted to try out on me. But this is what I'd signed on for. Clients hail, I stop whatever I'm doing and answer. And I do aim to please. That's where the tips come from.

"Leash and three locks, please." I handed them over. Either he wasn't a gag man, or he was saving that for later.

I held my wrists together behind my back in the standard Freeuse Client Acceptance pose, and he clicked a lock on the D-rings to fasten them together. He hooked the leash to my collar the way almost every client inevitably does, then reached into his pocket and produced a length of light chain. Using the other two locks, he fastened my ankle cuffs to each end of the chain, producing a hobble. The chain was long enough that I knew I'd be able to walk fairly easily, but I would be prevented from running. I had no intention of running anyway, as Edward must have known perfectly well, but I guess he liked the window dressing of a slave with her ankles chained.

We came to his stop, only about five stops past the one where I'd intended to get off. Edward picked up my bags so they wouldn't get left on the train and leave him with a Slave Item Replacement Fee. The other passengers looked at us as I rattled by in my chains, but didn't otherwise react. Clients leading chained slaves was a common enough sight by then that it elicited no more than mild curiosity.

Fortunately, this station was one of the newer, accessible stations, so it had an elevator as well as stairs and escalator. Good -- I had no desire to navigate either stairs or escalator with my ankles hobbled and my hands bound.

When we stepped out onto the sidewalk, I noticed that the air was decidedly less balmy than it had been: the evening was cooling off quickly. Fortunately, Edward's apartment was less than a block away. He led me by my leash through the lobby of a low-rise apartment building. His apartment was on the first floor, which was actually a half floor down from the entrance. Fortunately he took me to an elevator again, and we rode down the half-floor to his place -- 101.

It was a smallish but comfortable-looking two-bedroom apartment furnished in Scandinavian style. Edward got right to the point. Without waiting to get me into the bedroom, he pulled my skirt to the floor, exposing my strapped and plugged pussy, and I stepped out of it, being careful not to get my hobble chain tangled up.

My top and bra weren't as straightforward. It was perfectly acceptable for clients to rip or cut off clothes, and people were sufficiently used to seeing slaves walking home naked, half-naked or wearing revealing rags, that nobody worried much about it. But that, too, would have incurred a Slave Item Replacement Fee, and Edward was obviously a frugal enough man that he didn't want to get his rape fantasy kicks that way. He unlocked my wrist cuffs, and I slipped off my top. He came around behind me and unfastened my bra clasp, cupping my breasts firmly in his hands and thumbing my nipples so they stood stiffly erect.

Edward came back in front and got in a good, long eyeful of my nearly naked body, wearing nothing but shoes and a crotch strap. I'm quite proud of the way I've kept myself in shape. My breasts are a generous B cup, sufficiently well-toned that they don't droop even without a bra, and I usually add a touch of rouge to my nipples -- not enough to make them look painted up, just enough that my pale areolas don't disappear against my even paler skin. My body tapers to what is still a narrow waist, flares to generous hips, and ends in long and well-curved legs. The low heels I was still wearing were just high enough to shape my calves and induce enough pelvic tilt to jut my breasts out a bit.

I let my arms dangle at my sides and smiled with what I hoped was an alluring but not slutty smile as Edward ran his hands slowly down my body. He started with both hands on my cheeks and ran them down my neck and shoulders, paused at my breasts to thumb my nipples again, then down over my belly and waist, my well-waxed mons where it puffed out around the crotch strap, and down my smooth legs to my knees. As my pussy started to juice around the plug from the erotic feel of his touch, he brought his hands back up to my waist.