(
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.)
(Laura Simmons' viewpoint)
I'm not sure I can do this properly and treat Dan the way he needs to be treated. If you haven't read the previous portions of this tale, you probably should, but let me summarize briefly:
Dan Martinson was a successful, 36-year-old, software designer. I loved the guy, but I turned down marriage twice because he was just so successful, so spoiled, so in charge, and so entitled that I couldn't imagine the rest of my life with him. He came up with a crazy solution that at least showed how much he loved and trusted me: He would put all his assets into a blind trust and self-enslave himself as my property for one year. He argued this was the only way to truly strip away all his wealth and advantages so that I could re-train him as a human being who focused on the needs of others rather than himself.
I tried to warn him that this could destroy our relationship, and I'm still afraid he will come to hate me as his mistress (in the sense of owner, not lover). I told him that, at least initially, I would use him as a domestic slave to free me from routine chores so that I could focus on my law partnership. Later I fully intend to feminize him and farm him out so that others, including his friends, would see him as a slave and probably a slave in skirts. (In case you're wondering about the feminization, it's not some random attempt to humiliate him. I hope that getting him in touch with his nurturing side while putting him in the traditional female service roles—maid, waitress, secretary, childcare worker, etc.—will force him to focus on serving and pleasing others.) And I even told him one of my secrets—unlike Dan, I was not the product of wealth, so I had put myself through law school in part by being a dominatrix who charged men money to "make" them act as slaves or transvestites. That meant I knew how to manipulate him, although I would far rather be the "fun" dominatrix instead of the bitch queen.
He persisted, claiming that he understood the risks of giving up all rights, but that this was the only chance he had for a future with me. He said he trusted me to use my absolute power over him to retrain and not destroy him. Even the strong possibility that other free people would abuse him sexually—something that happens to many slaves—wasn't enough to deter him. He was determined to make it work, I thought it MIGHT work, and so I reluctantly agreed to the plan. And he tried so hard to please me—sometime over the last weekend of freedom he got his body denuded of all hair below the eyebrows because he knew I intended to petticoat him, something he was not at all excited about.
Of course, after he came up with this slave idea, it reminded me of the fun I used to have manipulating my submissive clients. So, I had a little fun with Dan. I persuaded the judge—whom I knew—to classify him as a pleasure slut rather than a general worker. When I led his bound and naked body out of the state office where he surrendered his rights to me, I tied a leash to his erect cock rather than his new collar, and I made sure to put an extra wiggle in my butt as I walked in front of him. I deliberately shipped him to a distant slave market—the Long Horn in Houston—so that he would have to experience the terror of slave transport to an unknown destination followed by being at the mercy of slave handlers overnight. (Us non-rich people often had to appear for naked grading at slave markets to establish ourselves as collateral for college or home loans, so I thought it was time for Dan to have a similar if not scarier experience.) I also inserted a small, lubricated butt plug into his butt just before he crawled into a dog cage for shipment to Long Horn.
But when I saw him sitting on his haunches in that shipping cage, forlorn, nervous, but determined, my heart went out to him. I don't know whether I was too soft with him, because I patted his head like a favorite pet and told him that I would see him at the market. His expression changed to one of hope.
I think the next year will be as much of a strain on me as it will be on him. I have to walk a fine line. On the one hand, I want to encourage him to empathize with and help others. Particularly when he first arrives at my home after the slave market, I will HAVE to be tough on him to establish discipline, to convince him he really is a slave. That means that I will have to hurt him at least once so he understands that I own him. On the other hand, I don't want to hurt him at all, let along break him psychologically or leave him hating me forever. Either of those outcomes would make his grand gesture meaningless for both of us.
My former boyfriend will now be living with me full time, but I can't permit him unlimited sex or I'll lose control over him. Still, I have the normal sexual needs of a woman in her thirties. Dan's a great lover, but I have to meter any sexual contact so that he stays focused on pleasing me. It's like we're already married, with the difference that, if his conduct does not justify sexual rewards, I will probably look elsewhere for sexual satisfaction, at least for the next year. In theory, a slave has no right to expect any sexual favors, let alone exclusivity, from a master or mistress. Yet, I'll feel as if I'm cuckholding Dan at the very time he's given up everything to earn my love.
It's early morning on the day after his enslavement, and I've just driven my large sedan to Houston and arrived at the market. I checked in and displayed the legal paperwork proving that I was Dan's owner. Boy, that still sounds so odd. The public address system and electronic billboards just announced that it was time for buyers and merchants to inspect the first lot of slaves for the day. Time to see how my pet is doing.
(Dan Martinson's story, continued)
The morning after my disastrous night in the Longhorn Slave Market, an unfamiliar slave handler took me the toilet and fed me more kibble and water. I was waiting as I should be, my fingers interlaced behind my neck as I knelt naked with widespread thighs, when the handler who had begun my processing yesterday, an imposing Black woman named Florence, showed up to finish that job. Predictably, she pretended to be upset that I had gotten in a fight the previous night, so the night shift had forced me to prove that I understood my lowly status. The "proof" that they had demanded was that I first requested permission and then used my mouth to "suck off" a large strap-on dildo worn by Florence's sister, Josephine. (The guy who started the fight ended up being pegged by an equally-large strap-on worn by an equally-large woman, a fate I didn't want to risk.)
"Josephine told me you screwed up last night, Pussy-Boy. I told you not to get in trouble, but you didn't listen. I mean, if you wanted to suck on a dildo, you should have asked me or Mo' [another sister who had dominated me in the slave showers]—we would have been glad to let you practice your cock sucking by polishing my plastic penis. But no, you had to make trouble for the night crew, so I had to listen to Jo brag about how she had dominated you. She said you looked so cute, bent over your bunk with your mouth full of her strap-on while you looked up at her pathetically. I said it the first moment I saw you—you're slave stupid! It's a good thing you gave up your freedom to your girlfriend, because you need a keeper, boy. Come on, we got things to do before the slave grading."
In minutes, she had me up on a practice slave block and was ordering me through the various slave positions. To encourage me, she said things such as "imagine you want Allie to give your butt another enema" or "Come on, beg Jo to peg you." (Allie had used an enema nozzle to milk my prostrate the night before.) The images might be weird, but the combination of performing naked for an assertive and well-build woman with the verbal taunts she added got me excited, and my cock showed it. Commenting on my erection, Florence remarked, "See that? You're turned on by the thought of some woman fucking you, aren't you, Pussy-Boy?"
Once she had me worked up, I had to pose for my official slave photographs to put in the national registry. In the first pose, I was squatting down, knees well apart, with my hands holding my hard cock and dangling balls on display. I'm sure my facial expression was horny and unfocused. The second pose was a rear shot, with me bent over, forehead to the floor, while holding my rear cheeks wide apart for a clear view of my butt and my dangling genitals. I'm embarrassed to think how demeaning and lewd those photos were; as I've remarked before, Florence really knew how to manipulate slaves.
While I was still worked up, Slave Handler Florence ordered me to open my mouth wide so she could spray my throat with a chemical to Devox it. Then she led me briskly to the display floor, where I had to lie flat on one of the special tables.
After less than 24 hours of indenture, I was resigned to being naked, bound, and placed in a submissive position whenever I was in the presence of free citizens. Even losing my voice wasn't that major an issue, because no one would have listened to my protests anyway. However, the display tables carried their own special horror. Once the slave's hands were tethered above his/her head and the ankles were restrained to corners of the table, handlers cranked open those lower corners and forced the slave's legs wide apart, giving the same effect that a spreader bar has for bondage enthusiasts. I know that women have their own profound reasons for wanting to protect the V of their thighs, but as a guy I was VERY uncomfortable about having my legs spread like that. The most vulnerable spot on a male is the genitals, and from at least the age of puberty every guy learns to protect that area from accidental or deliberate impacts. Now, absolute strangers could walk between my legs and I had no way to prevent them from doing anything they wanted to my cock and balls. Fortunately, the worst that happened was that a few gawkers—mostly women—played with my most vulnerable parts, and once again my stupid little head misinterpreted that fondling as pleasurable, causing a renewed erection. I was incredible tense for the first hour on display, sort of like bracing while a dentist drills you.
Then, half-way through my exposure, Laura appeared, smiling and complimenting me. "You look great, Danny," she began while gently stroking my cock. That was the second time she had called me by that name, whereas before I had always been "Dan." "Dan" is a good name for a boyfriend or a co-worker, while "Danny" seems more appropriate for a pet dog. Functionally, that was what I was to her for the next year. Unable to speak, I smiled, very glad to see her.
(Laura's point of view)
I had expected him to be naked and restrained, but he looked unnatural because he had removed all his hair last weekend. He looked a little bit soft, almost prissy. As an airbrushed centerfold for a woman's magazine, he would have done fine, but as a masculine slave up for grading he came up short—not feminine, perhaps, but a little androgynous. One thing was for sure—he now understood how ordinary people felt about slave grading to qualify for loans!
Yesterday, my lover had been stoic, accepting his sudden fall in status as something that had to be endured. Now, however, the sight of Dan, obviously stressed out by his helplessness, made my heart go out to him. Yet, I had to stay tough if his quixotic sacrifice had any hope of success for either of us.
(Dan's story, continued)
Her appearance gave me a sense that my time at the Longhorn was coming to an end. After her came the career slave merchants who evaluated me as a slave. Most of them seemed more interested in my teeth than my balls, which was fine with me. The two hours on display came to an end abruptly when Florence and another handler unstrapped me and led me back to a holding cage. While Florence sprayed my throat with the antidote to Devox, she said she had heard positive comments about me from the merchants. She left me with a bottle of water to recover my voice, and came back an hour later, smiling, to tell me I had been graded as Select, the third category, "Which is pretty good for a guy your age without any hair." She then led me to the toilet for a final chance to relieve myself.
