Adjusting My Attitude

(WARNING! This story is a FANTASY; in real life, human beings are never property or sex objects and informed consent is always MANDATORY. This story is set in the legalized enslavement world of Joe_Doe_Stories, by permission of that author, whom I again wish to thank.)

(Dan Martinson's Story, continued)

On the Monday morning when all this happened, I had, at age 36, been a well-educated, successful, and wealthy software designer. By 2:00 that afternoon, however, I was nothing but slave meat, a naked, collared, gagged, and bound figure kneeling inside a large metal cage, suitable for transporting pets. I could not see outside of the truck that was hauling my cage down some unknown Texas highway. I did all this to myself, voluntarily self-enslaved for one year to the love of my life, attorney Laura Simmons, deliberately stripping myself of all the advantages I had possessed so that she could retrain me to care about and serve others. There was still no guarantee that she would marry me after this ordeal, but it was the only chance I thought I had for happiness with her. I might add that she had conscientiously warned me of the many undesirable things that she or others might do to me while I was a slave.

I'm sure that my reasons for doing this sound muddled if not insane to many readers. For much of the subsequent year I would have agreed with that assessment, but I still came back to self-enslavement as the only means to make myself a better person and win her heart.

The first humiliating steps of slavery were behind me. At an office of the Texas Agriculture Department, I had signed the self-indenture contract approved by a judge, then stripped and surrendered myself to Laura, who led me through the government offices before ordering me into the cage for shipment to an unspecified slave market where she wanted me processed and graded. Because I had read extensively about the nature of modern slavery, I found only three small surprises in this ordeal. First, the leash she used to control me was attached to my cock and balls rather than my collar; second, perhaps as a result of that mooring, my cock was embarrassingly rigid for most of my walk of shame, giving the impression that I welcomed subjugation to her; and third, she thrust a small and well-lubricated butt plug into my ass just before I was ordered into the cage.

Because I was sitting on my haunches, my heels now pushed that plug firmly upwards past my stretched anus. I'm not sure what she intended by this, but she might have had multiple reasons to plug me: to reinforce that she could and would do things for no particular reason, to stretch my rectum for further invasions, or as a constant reminder of her power over me. It certainly kept her constantly in my thoughts, but that would have been the case without the intruder. I suppose I could have expelled it if I had tried hard enough, but I regarded that plug as the first of many instances in which I must bend to please her. I wouldn't have put it past her to mention the plug when writing special instructions to the slave market, asking for a report if it were not still lodged inside me when I arrived.

I was uncomfortable and nervous but confident, perhaps over-confident, that I could handle the rest of this demeaning process and thus get back to serving Laura.

After a long time—maybe three hours, but I had no way of measuring it—the truck finally stopped and backed up, accompanied by the usual beeping. When the rear door opened, I saw a large loading dock filled with cages. My cage soon joined them. Another electronic beep indicated that someone had scanned my shipping label, adding me to the inventory of this unknown slave facility. (Slaves were, of course, property, not people.) A moment later, a strong female voice with the "unaccented" accent of the Midwest informed me, in a bored tone,

"You are at The Longhorn Slave Market in Houston, Texas. You are here for processing and grading as a pleasure slave. I am required by law to tell you that the slave collar you will be fitted with can deliver a powerful and extremely painful electric shock if you attempt to leave this building without permission. Additionally, all Longhorn employees are authorized to use any means deemed necessary to compel you to comply with all orders given to you, and those means include BUT ARE NOT LIMITED TO electrical shock and whipping. If you follow my instructions you will not be hurt. Do you understand?"

Still gagged, I tried to say "Yes, Mistress" while nodding my head that I understood.

A second later, a very large Black woman appeared in front of my cage and unlocked it. When I say large, I don't mean fat—she was tall, well-muscled, and magnificently-endowed in the chest and was wearing what I assumed was a Longhorn logo, jeans, and work boots. Before that day, I thought I was difficult to intimidate, but in this case she was easily 4 inches taller and 40 pounds heavier than me, not to mention that wore a belt studded with various tools while I was kneeling at her mercy, naked and cuffed. At the same time, this woman's self-confidence and statuesque shape made her both imposing and attractive. She swung the cage door open and issued a very firm command:

"Crawl forward until your knees reach the red line in front of you, then halt and DO NOT MOVE AGAIN without instructions."

Well, I got the first part of that instructions correct, squirming forward uncomfortably to the red line while managing not to release either the butt plug or my full bladder. But then my curiosity overrode my common sense (remember what killed the cat?) This was the first time I had ever been in a slave market, and I began looking around at the piles of cages and even started to turn to look over my back at the handler. All I saw was a silver rod thrust at me, followed by a strong shock that knocked me flat. I almost lost control of my bladder.

"What part of DO NOT MOVE didn't you understand, asshole?" A heavy boot descended between my shoulder blades, pinning my face to the concrete floor with my wrists still restrained behind me. Belatedly, I realized that I needed to remain absolutely still. In a calmer voice, the woman spoke to another handler. "Come over here and help me secure this idiot, Ken. He was slave stupid before he even got here."

"OK, Florence—hold him there."

I felt a heavy collar, which I presumed was a battery-operated shocking device, being wrapped around my neck, with two sharp points digging into my neck. Only after that did the boot come off my back, but that wasn't the end of the incident. Before I could figure out what she was doing, Florence took two steps towards my feet. Without further warning, something hard and flexible slashed across both of my buttocks with incredible force—once, twice, three times, then four. It was a remarkable display of skill and intimidation: My entire ass was on fire in seconds, but she hadn't broken the skin. I later realized that she had laid the four strokes perfectly parallel to each other with about one inch between each pair.

"When we tell you to do something, you DO IT. And you don't do anything that we DIDN'T tell you to do. Understand, ASSHOLE?" I nodded fervently while again trying to make myself understood around the gag, saying "yes, Mistress." Mentally, I was kicking myself for being so dumb—her response was entirely justified, and I was off to a bad start at the Long Horn.

After a long pause, she leaned forward and I felt something attached to my new collar. Then she ordered me to stand and easily pulled me upright with one hand on my upper arm. Even then, she was several inches taller than my 5 feet 10 inches. She used the leash to tow me over to a kind of podium, where she ordered me to kneel and attached my leash to the podium. Then she roughly removed my gag and waited a moment to see if I would give her any more trouble. She had already scanned my shipping information, which she now called up on a computer tablet.

"Here we are, Slave 566-47-4242. Repeat that number back to me."

I dutifully parroted the numbers back, being sure to add "Mistress" at the end. It was a tiny pleasure to be able to speak again.

She resumed reading the file. "Classification: Pleasure slut. This is weird—you haven't been convicted, you aren't in debt, but you voluntarily indentured yourself for one year to a Laura M. Simmons. Who's that, asshole?"

"She's my girlfriend, Mistress."

She began to chuckle and then erupted into full laughter. "You enslaved yourself to your own girlfriend?? Well, that explains the butt plug! I'll bet she shoved that up your ass herself, didn't she? What are you, the Poster Boy for Pussy-Whipped? I was right, you must have been BORN slave stupid!" She raised her already-booming voice. "Hey Ken, guess what? Twitchy here voluntarily indentured his ass as a pleasure slave to his own girlfriend!"

"You've got to be kidding, Florence." A pause while I heard him walk over and look at the tablet, then he also laughed.

"Man, that's insane! That's the first time I ever saw a man—I mean, a former man—submit to a woman like that. Happens all the time with females submitting to males—not you, of course, Florence. But, you remember that 40-something blonde we had in here last month? The one who, once her kids were grown, begged her husband to enslave her, and then the husband paid extra because she

wanted

the night crew to pull a train on her? She was one satisfied customer, even after he leased her to a brothel for a year. As I said, I've never heard of a male submitting to a woman that way; they must be into that FemDom stuff. Just when you think you've seen it all."

"Yeah, really strange." She grinned. "Of course, as a Black woman, there's nothing I like better than pushing naked and chained White boys around as slaves. Makes for a nice role reversal. Time to get him started. Stand up, Pussy-Boy." After I complied, she installed handcuffs on my wrists, which were still behind my back, then cut off the zip-tie that Laura had installed several hours earlier. Unhooking my leash from the podium, she grabbed her tablet and ordered me to "heel."

*****

First, my slave number was tattooed on the inside of my lower lip in an almost-painless procedure. At the same time, a red (for pleasure) tag with my lot number was connected to the shock collar.

I don't remember every step that she led me through. I do recall that, at almost every stop, she found my story so hilarious that she told her co-workers of both sexes that I had self-enslaved to my girlfriend as a pleasure slut. That always brought a laugh, with the female handlers adding that they'd like to do that to their own husbands, boyfriends, or (speaking more quietly) bosses.

I had read various accounts of such processing and wasn't surprised when Slave Handler Florence led me up to a slave veterinarian wearing a white coat, but I was caught off guard that this veterinarian was a woman—a pretty, blond, young one, probably a recent graduate of med school. "Dr. Janice Oliver" the nametag said. Once again, Florence told the endlessly-amusing story of how pussy-whipped I was, and the resulting giggle from a clothed, attractive female authority figure made me even more embarrassed, something I had not thought possible. Florence released my handcuffs. Dr. Oliver pointed at a sort of vaulting horse and told me to "Bend over, Pussy-Boy." I complied promptly, not wanting further punishment, and the two self-confident women restrained me, wrists and ankles parted, bent over with my butt high. I heard the snap of a rubber glove being pulled onto a wrist, after which the veterinarian extracted that irritating plug. A few seconds later she thrust two well-lubricated, rubber-clad fingers up my rectum. I'd had previous physicians check me back there, but this MD spent what seemed like five minutes twisting and exploring every inch of my colon. My cock, which had been completely limp since I was shocked, regained most of its rigidity as she massaged my prostrate. Just when I felt I might ejaculate from her intimate invasion, she withdrew her fingers and I heard another "snap," presumably as she disposed of the glove.

"Anus seems almost virgin, prostrate in good shape." She remarked, sounding surprised that someone hadn't been reaming me back there.

An alcohol swab traced a cold patch on my left buttock, after which a sharp invasion occurred—not a needle but, I presumed, the insertion of a "chip" to mark and track me. There was a pause, and then Dr. Janice remarked, apparently to Florence,

"Huh. Ordinarily, when we get a male pleasure slave in here, the owner wants a long-term supply of antiandrogens—you know, testosterone blockers—injected to calm the slut down and make him more docile. The instructions from this owner specify NOT to give him antiandrogens—I guess she wants to keep his junk functioning at its peak. I can see why," she said, appreciatively, as I felt her fondle my cock and balls, again encouraging an erection. Not for the first nor the last time, I silently thanked Laura for her thoroughness and care.

The next few minutes were a more conventional physical exam, although she did measure body temperature with a rectal thermometer! I guess it was easier for her than bending over to where my head dangled close to the floor. Finally, the two women released and re-cuffed me and Florence led me off, sped on my way by a soft tap on my butt from the doctor. "Take good care of Pussy-Boy, Florence."

"Don't worry, Doc—since I striped his ass he's being a good boy, aren't you?"

"Yes, Mistress." I may seem cowardly to you, but there was no point in inviting her displeasure again when she held all the cards.

Florence announced that it was too late to complete my processing that evening, so she pulled me to the showers, a large area manned by a half-dozen young adults (you must be 18 to even enter a slave market) in rain suits. In the far corner, a young woman (who might have been pretty under other circumstances, like if she wasn't a desperately unhappy slave) was stretched in a naked, inverted "Y"—her cuffed hands held over her head by a rope and pulley system while her ankles were tethered at least three feet apart. Three young men were vigorously "washing" her—two of them used long-handled brushes to spread soap everywhere, with special attention to her breasts, while the third was squatting between her widespread thighs, "hand washing" her loins and apparently, based on the position of one of his gloves and the poor woman's sudden squeak, invading her rear entrance at the same time.

At first glance, I had thought all of the rain-suited "car wash attendants" were males, but as Florence towed me closer, two of these attendants detached themselves from the by-standers and approached her. Based on the top-heavy bulk of their chests and the ample posteriors in their pants, these two were female, one of whom had a height, face, and body shape that resembled a slightly-younger version of Florence. When she opened her mouth, this young woman, who was at least as imposing and sexy as my custodian, confirmed the relationship.

"Hey, Sis," she began with a smile. "What's got you working so late?"

Predictably, Florence replied in a laughing voice, "You'll love this little asshole, Mo'. This guy is such a wimp that he enslaved himself to his own girlfriend!" While saying this, she was detaching the leash from my collar and freeing my bound wrists. They didn't stay loose very long.

"Mo'" (Maureen, I conjectured?) laughed as hard as her sister. "No shit? I've been looking for a White slave as a boytoy, although this one looks too old, and his cock is too small for me."

In case you're wondering, I'm not going to dignify that slander with a response. I will say that Mo' found my cock large enough to use as a handle, grasping it in her rubber-gloved hand and pulling me over to another block-and-tackle and set of hoses. Once again, my member didn't understand what was going on, and instead of hiding regained much of its rigidity by having a woman's hand wrapped around it. In short order, Mo' reconnected my wrists in front of me and pulled them above my head with a rope, then casually kicked my ankles apart so that her partner could tether them to the ground in the approved "Y" position. Even if I had been clothed, no guy wants to be stretched out with his cock and balls exposed to any attack. It made me very nervous, but I knew better than to protest. My butt still stung slightly.

Mo' and her unnamed female partner proceeded to shampoo my hair and scrub my entire body. Except for their gloved hands playing with my equipment and sliding between my rear cheeks, they used long-handled brushes to wash me vigorously, finishing with a high-pressure stream of cold water to rinse me off. The shock of that water aimed right at my balls evoked a brief scream, after which I tried to compose myself. My penis had belatedly decided to shrivel up, a fact that Mo' and her partner joked about. Then they lowered my arms and disconnected the rope but left my hands still shackled together.

"Bend over, lover-boy," Mo' ordered me, slapping my butt cheek to reinforce the message. With my ankles still tied apart, I had no choice but to comply. Not surprisingly, a well-lubricated nozzle penetrated my rear end and warm, soapy water began to fill my intestines. Leaning on my rear end with her hand preventing me from expelling the hose, Mo' said in a quiet voice that only her partner and I could hear,

"I love this part of my job. I get paid for tying White boys up, telling 'em to bend over, and then shoving something big up their tight little butts!" The partner giggled. "And sometimes," Mo' continued, "I get to do this to some Black dude who thinks that, even though he's a slave, he's still entitled to fuck me. So I get the chance to put him in his place by fucking

him

. Either way, it's payback!" She sounded more amused than threatening.

After making me hold the water for several minutes, Mo' finally jerked the hose out. As I struggled not to foul my legs with the water, she and her partner released my ankles, then each took one of my arms and dragged me over to a toilet mounted in the middle of the shower bay. By this time, I was so anxious to void myself that I willingly cooperated with them, collapsed on the toilet seat, and unleashed a gush of soapy muck as I sat there stark naked, bound, and slightly shivering. Once I finished, they took me back to the wash station and again restrained my ankles.

Mo' commanded, in a voice dripping with false erotic promise, "Bend over, sweet cheeks." I imagine some foolhardy man had once said the same thing to her, and probably paid for the consequences. As I complied with her command, her younger partner did a credible imitation of a young girl excited about getting a treat: "Oooh. My turn, my turn! I wanna do him!"

The large Black lady replied, in a tone of false annoyance, "Oh, all right! Get on with it, Allie, we haven't got all night for you to shaft Pussy-Boy here." This was obviously a familiar routine for the two of them, and I had to laugh quietly at it. In that moment, I did not feel humiliated. I mean, everything is relative. It was probably inevitable that the Longhorn Slave Market would give me an enema at least once while I was a part of its inventory, and equally inevitable that the process would be as demeaning and sexualized as possible. If two attractive and assertive young women could find some humor in performing this unpalatable act as part of their job, what was the harm? Since, as Mo' had said, somebody was going to shove something large up my tight butt anyway, I'd rather have these women joke about it rather than my being invaded by some guy who hated the work, an act that would have added a touch of gay sex to the already-uncomfortable procedure.