"My God, it is a real site! Umm, hello Slave 37."
"Hello, Miss."
"So, like this is real, you do, like anything? Are you really a slut? Do you have a name, Slave?"
"Umm yes Miss, that is my life now, I am Miranda." I brushed back my hair and sat up taller.
The commands and laughter started to come and I lost track as I did them all. Show us your tits. What is your bra size? I don't believe you, measure them for us. Pinch your nipples. Harder. Spread your legs. OMG what is the tag? Get a close-up of that. Use that vibrator on the shelf next to you but don't come. Put that newspaper down and pee on it. Disgusting slut. They laughed and hung up.
When the computer chimed again, I pushed Enter to see Salon Girl on the screen. " Very good Slave 37, I was watching your first call and you did pretty well- but you forgot to ask them to call again sometime. I think you are a natural at this. Now get on that treadmill you have and do 3 miles, you can take off the heels but keep the bustier uniform of course." She hung up, and a few moments later I was running, my breasts bouncing in the cups and sweat running down my body. When I looked up the camera on the wall was blinking, and I realized she was making a record of everything.
6
I was a week into my new life, getting off the bus after work since Salon Girl had still borrowed my car and said I needed more exercise. It was a long walk in high heels, but she said I needed to wear them all the time now, and she would check on me. When I let myself into the small house, I went first to the computer to sign in and reset the alarm. I glanced at the clock, then quickly removed my work clothes and hung them in the now-empty closet. The new, cheap underwear they had bought me went into the laundry and I slipped on the leather bustier, supporting my exposed breasts and leaving my bottom half exposed. I clipped the long light chain to my collar.
Before the computer chimed, I went to the bathroom, where the toilet seat had been removed and the web cam blinked in the corner, recording everything, sitting on the cold porcelain. The hand towel had been replaced with pieces of my former designer clothing, now torn into pieces; I washed and dried my hands and blinked back tears.
When the computer chimed, I saw Salon Girl onscreen, laughing. "Slave 37, you are a minute late today. That is another $100 you need to work off, slut. Your dinner is on the desk, one of the girls dropped it off when I sent her over earlier. Remember, good customer service online tonight."
The screen went back to the welcome page, "Slut to Degrade", with my photo and the very low rates shown. I opened the greasy paper bag to find a plate of mixed food, a half-eaten sandwich, cold steamed vegetables, hard boiled eggs, with cherry soda-all on the list of dislikes she had asked me for. I silently ate using my hands, then wiped them on the torn Ralph Lauren sweater.
When the screen chimed, I turned to the computer, to see the video link, a group of older and heavy men it looked like. As the meter clicked with their payment, I sighed and played my new role. Show us your tits, play with them, pull the nipples, spread your legs, use the toys, cum for us, beg to cum, put objects in that wet cunt, thank us for it. Please visit again sir. Each call was similar, as I saw my earnings listed on the screen at the lower left.
My first two hours had ended when the key turned in the door and a young woman stepped in, holding the key from Salon Girl. "I heard you were tagged, is that true?"
"Yes. I am tagged here." I knew better than to question her, and turned in my chair, and lifted both legs high. Between my thighs, a silver chain was linked to a piercing in one labia. The chain carried a metal tag, like a pet tag, which hung a few inches below her pussy, with my Mistress's phone number and my slave number. "37". I held my pose as the woman reached between my legs and touched the tag and pulled lightly on it, realizing now how far I had fallen, giving up my life and my body.
The young woman came closer, reaching out to touch the tag and pull on it lightly. "So, you are really, like, a slave? Who does anything, like a slut?"
"Yes, Miss." There was really nothing else to say. The woman, a lot younger than I was, was dressed like she had come from a party, with a slim dress and high heels. She looked at her small watch.
She tilted her head, then reached for my chain and tugged on my collar. I had to crawl quickly after her, as she led me to the bathroom with the open door. "I've been in the car, so I really need to pee, but this is disgusting." She pushed me to the tile floor, then stood and lifted the hem of her dress and pushed her panties down and stuffed them into my mouth. She was tugging the chain as she began to pee, with me looking up between her legs. It splattered in my face, and my lips, soaking her panties there, and rolled down my body to puddle on the floor. It tasted of vinegar, and faintly of oranges. When she was finished, she pulled me closer to use my hair to wipe herself.
"The panties are yours now, put them on. A slut in wet panties seems appropriate. And you know the smell of pee will never leave that sweaty leather corset you are wearing."
I was standing in the puddle, pulling on her urine-soaked panties, feeling them wet against my skin. I used one of the designer rags, part of my favorite designer silk dress, to wipe my face and hands.
She let go of my chain leash,, and walked into the bedroom, to flick through the few clothes left in my closet, then used her key to open the spare room, with most of my things. When she came back, she carried my long cashmere winter coat. "Salon Girl said you would want me to have something, this might do. You are such a good hostess."
The computer chimed again, and I looked from her to the office, not knowing what to do first. "Back to work, Slut, I can let myself out." I had another hour to do, and 3 miles on the treadmill.
