(WARNING! This story is a FANTASY; in real life, human beings are never property or sex objects and informed consent is always MANDATORY.
If you've read the previous episodes of this story, you already know that the slave at its center is a man rather than a woman. In this instalment, that slave experiences something rather different from what his female counterparts encountered.)
(Dan Martinson's story, continued)
Monday morning, 8:30 a.m. A week ago, I had been a well-educated, successful, and wealthy guy of 36. The only thing I did not have was the hand of Laura Simmons, a beautiful and brilliant lawyer whom I loved to distraction. Laura liked me well enough but refused my marriage proposal because she thought I was too entitled, too spoiled by my wealthy background. That attitude was too grating to Laura, who was a self-made success. My solution to that critique was either the most romantic or the most stupid thing I had ever attempted—perhaps both, although at the time of which I write I emphasized the stupid part. I had put all my resources into a blind trust and enslaved myself to Laura for one year, stripping myself of all my advantages so that she could retrain me to focus on service to others.
At Laura's insistence, I underwent all the indignities of public enslavement, beginning with her parading my cuffed and naked body through a government building and then shipping me kneeling in a dog cage, gagged and bound, to the Long Horn Slave Market. There, I had made so many blunders during my slave processing that I got two major electric shocks, four stripes across my butt, and a mouthful of strap-on dildo worn by a large female slave handler. I was bound helpless, voiceless, and spread-eagled for public slave viewing and grading, an experience I now shared with the millions of college and home loan applicants who had to be graded as collateral for their loans. (I couldn't help wondering how many of bankers would undergo the same degradation, where they would be gratuitously deprived of even their voices.) My new owner Laura rescued me from these embarrassing experiences, driving home with me hog-tied in her trunk. Once there, she was determined to establish discipline over her slave, so the next day she whipped me (briefly) and lectured me (extensively) on the fact that legal slavery allowed me no escape—I would have to cooperate fully for the next year. She was correct, as usual—I had painted myself into a corner.
All this happened between Monday and Wednesday, the first three days of the interminable year for which I had indentured myself. After that, Laura went back to her law partnership while leaving me long lists of daily and weekly household tasks to perform as her resident slave.
If you're wondering, yes I knew how to do basic cooking, which was all the culinary skill I needed. On occasion, Laura would let me finish the left-overs of her dinner, but since she ate sparingly herself, that only meant small amounts of fish or chicken to supplement the baked and stewed vegetables she specified for my diet. I didn't carry much fat to begin with, but this diet, as well as the treadmill and other exercises she had ordered, promised to slim me down even farther. Most of the time, she ordered food on-line to be delivered while she was at work. The first time that happened, I was deeply embarrassed to open the door for the delivery, especially because it was made by a woman. Apparently, she had seen so many strange things in people's homes that she barely glanced at me.
It was now the third workday of this new routine, in which my entire apparel was a slave collar, a frilly apron tied to my body at neck and waist, and a chastity cage. (In case you can't picture that, it meant that my butt was fully visible to the delivery woman. No modesty for slaves.)
Laura had the slave market put that cage on me and she had already warned me that it might be a while before she removed it. In fictional accounts of female domination, chastity belts reduce their male victims to mindless begging in a matter of hours. I won't pretend that it was THAT bad, but it was irksome, to say the least. Not only did I have to sit down whenever using the toilet, but my cramped morning "wood" woke me up long before the alarm clock. And yes, I would have liked to have sex even with myself, if only to relieve the boredom of my new existence.
I was already highly motivated to please my owner—why else would I have given up everything for her?—so the cage seemed like unnecessary icing on the cake. Still, she was the boss, and perhaps she was right that depriving me of my cock was one more way to strip away my ego and make me focus on serving her. While she was at the office, I sublimated my horniness by focusing on household duties and working at a rapid pace. That kept my mind off the problem between my legs for most of the day, although I was still uncomfortable when I had to hand-wash her lingerie or when I caught a whiff of her scent while washing the bedding.
The chastity cage was much more challenging on evenings and weekends. I was more than willing to accept some cramping down below when—as happened on many evenings—Laura had me kneel to tongue her while she watched TV. That service not only brought her off but gave me a quiet pleasure both in serving her and in being so intimate with her. Just feeling her stroke my hair in post-climax bliss made up for much of my suffering, and sometimes we talked together as friends. The rest of the time when she was at home, however, her presence was a real challenge to my composure. When we dated, Laura had been habitually modest about covering herself except when we shared a shower or bed. Now, she casually undressed in front of me and wandered around in various stages of nudity. I'm sure she was deliberately teasing me (she had always had a teasing sense of humor), although she often pretended to be unaware of my presence in the same room with her. She also enjoyed ringing a little bell at least once an hour to summon me for some trumped-up assignment, but I was so glad to have human company that I didn't mind.
The first Saturday of my service, she made good on a joking threat she had made when I first broached the idea of enslavement—she had me mow the lawn wearing nothing except collar, cage, and safety boots. She "supervised" by sitting on her front porch with a cold drink and waving at passing neighbors. She did "introduce me" to the couple who lived next door, which meant that I had to shut off the mower and stand mute while they talked, complete with her boasting about how much time she saved by having a slave to care for the household. Since slaves were far too expensive for the average middle-class household, she told them that a friend had given her the slave in his will—which was pretty close to the truth, since I had no legal existence for this year! The look that the wife of this couple gave me suggested that she thought I shared my Mistress' bed—no such luck. Once again, I told myself that Laura was enjoying herself while showing me off, so I controlled my breathing and got through it. At least she hadn't (yet) exhibited me wearing a feminine-styled apron; I was sure that and worse was coming.
Sunday afternoon, she had me remove the apron before taking me to the home of my best friend, Jim Mayhew, and his wife Terri. (Jim was a smart, hard-working African-American, while Terri was a pretty blonde Caucasian—race is only relevant here to explain why they were unlikely to ever own slaves even though Jim could well afford them.) In preparation for my self-indenture, I had told both of them of my intentions and asked them to support Laura in however she chose to treat her new slave. Laura had been very clear that she would show me off and probably lend me to Terri to do housework, so I knew this was coming.
Again, Laura locked me in the car trunk for the drive to the Mayhews', although this time I was only handcuffed rather than hog-tied. Arriving at the house, she led me, cuffed, leashed and essentially naked, up to the front door. As soon as Terri let us into the living room, Laura released my wrists but ordered me to "kneel," which meant fingers interlocked behind my neck, thighs spread wide apart, eyes downcast. For a moment, I was relieved because Terri mentioned that Jim was out golfing. But then she focused more clearly on me:
"Oh, he looks just darling; I have to get a picture." Her tone of voice was warm rather than condescending, as if she were meeting a small child or a pet. She pulled out her cell phone and snapped a photograph of me and said she was sending it to Jim. On reflection, I realized that this was a softer approach, getting Jim and me used to my new status before we met in person. Then, Terri repeated, almost verbatim, the same sentiment I had heard from so many women at the Agriculture Department and the Long Horn Slave Market: "There are times when I'd like to have Jim like that, with his dick locked up and him on his knees, waiting to obey me." Whoa. She had never before given me any indication of such frustration, although every marriage probably has some stress. I guess it was true that people would say anything in front of a slave.
Laura replied, with a proud, gentle smile, "He's certainly more obedient this way. Perhaps we can start a trend and persuade Jim to become your slave!"
Terri was not particularly religious, but she giggled and replied, "From your lips to God's ears."
That was only the first surprise of the afternoon. I was prepared for Laura to brag about my skill as a servant—in a way, that bragging proved that I was focusing on her needs and happiness rather than mine. As she had warned me, Laura promised to drop me off at Terri's house the following Thursday so that I could spend the day cleaning for her. This raised the specter of encountering Jim, but I was resigned to that happening eventually. Then Laura floored me by confiding in Terri how great it was to have her new slave "kiss me—down there" and know that she could have me do it as often and as long as she wished. Terri remarked how lucky she was to have such service, because Jim would never lick her for more than a few minutes. Of course, Laura decided to push the envelope, urging Terri to "try him out," by which she meant having me perform cunnilingus on my best friend's wife! Again, I had heard that women were frank about sex when talking with each other but was astonished that they would say such things in front of me. At the moment I was a slave, but what about a year from now?
Eventually, they finished talking and Laura led me back to the car trunk and thence to her home. Laura knew that I was troubled, so after I served her dinner and cleaned the kitchen she again ordered me onto my knees between her legs as she sat in front of the TV.
"All right, Danny, out with it—you're worried about servicing Terri like you do me, right?"
"Yes, Mistress. I want to obey you, and Mistress Terri is a nice person, but I'm afraid it might cause trouble between her husband and her."
"Well, let's try to settle this." She picked up her phone and telephoned. "Hi, Terri? Did you talk to Jim yet?" a pause.
"Well, you showed him the photograph, so he knows that Danny's little thing is locked up, right? Ask him, I'll wait." My embarrassment reached new depths from the way she talked about me.
