Certified Penile Arousal

(This story is set in a world where legalized, non-hereditary slavery is commonplace for serious crime, unredeemed debt, or voluntary self-indenture. Eighteen years of age is the minimum for anyone in this world to be enslaved or to have any intimate/sexual contact with slaves. Thanks to Belinda for her suggestions about this character; any resemblance between Melinda and Belinda is purely . . . intentional if fictional.)

(

Melinda Moody's perspective

)

Being an accountant has always been both easy and difficult for me. A single college semester course will cover the rules for debits and credits, although it may take decades to understand all the nuances. That was fine by me—I'm naturally good at math and enjoy the detailed work of interpreting laws and regulations. By age 35 (three years before these events), my reputation as a Certified Public Accountant (CPA—the UK term is Chartered Accountant) was attracting so many large business clients here in Texas that I had become a partner in a large accounting firm. I've heard the jokes about the boring life of CPAs making them appear to live longer, and all I can say is the truth is rarely funny.

The difficult part is not the actual accounting but rather convincing other people that your interpretation is correct. Clients naturally want an interpretation that is more favorable to their bottom line, even if that interpretation may not be allowable if they are audited either as a business or (for personal income) by the Internal Revenue. That means I have to be stubborn, because for me to go along with their "solution" would be unethical and possibly illegal. I don't like arguing with people under the best of circumstances, but in the male-dominated world of business, "pushy" females like me are much less welcome than "assertive, confident" males. For a lot of men, any woman—and especially any young woman—who refuses to "go along" with what some good ol' boy wants is labelled with a word that begins with a "b" and rhymes with "witch."

That kind of confrontation was particularly challenging for me because, to be honest, I was a socially-handicapped introvert with significant doubts about my attractiveness. Other women had the self-confidence to hold their own in the office, but not me. I was a late bloomer with no hand-eye coordination, constantly stumbling and staggering, all of which meant that I had very little experience in social settings and found physical exercise almost impossible. My roommates in college insisted that I was at least cute and perhaps sexy, but that's not what I saw in the mirror. Five foot five, 120 pounds, mousy brown hair with C-cup breasts and a well-padded tush; I should have thought myself at least pretty if not more, but my social ineptitude and self-doubt hung on for years after I graduated college. I had sex half a dozen times and gave hesitant blow-jobs to three guys I dated because it was expected of me, but I was still very inexperienced. The stress of working in accounting drove me to the gym, where regular exercise tightened everything up so that even I had to admit I had a toned abdomen and shapely legs. But I still felt at a disadvantage whenever I had to deal with beautiful women, let alone powerful men.

OK, deep secret time, and don't you dare repeat this. I was pretty sure that I was submissive, that I wanted to just shut off my brain and surrender to whatever some impossibly-masculine, opinionated guy told me to do, preferably involving wild sex. I know, I know—how could an educated, successful woman want that? I wasn't stupid enough to want to be an actual slave, but the image of being some (probably ignorant and arrogant) male's collared sex toy was enormously appealing, as if I needed a man pounding my brains out to validate myself as an attractive, sexy woman. Even admitting that desire in private is still humiliating, but I could not and cannot resist the idea. My guilty pleasure when I stayed at home nights was reading the Hillary Rodham Clinton paperback novels, all of which have the same theme: smart, beautiful but shy woman becomes enslaved only to fall in love/lust with (not necessarily get freed by!) a masculine man who protects her but also objectifies her and stuffs all of her openings as his designated "love toy." I'm still disgusted to put those words on paper, but I had been longing for such a situation(violation?) for two decades. And it wasn't an occasional thought for me—for the past three years before my troubles I had been working out to slave yoga videos. I would carefully pull all my shades down, strip down to undies or, when I felt really wicked, to bare skin, put on a training collar, and then watch in a mirror while I contorted my body into all those lascivious positions shown on the video, repeating the submissive slave mantras—most of which involved begging for a master's prick to violate my openings—all while imagining that I was a real slave about to be bred ruthlessly by the man or men who controlled my body and my life.

*****

Which is why what was about to happen when this tale begins was so ironic—and unlike Alanis Morrissette, I DO know what the word "ironic" means! You see, some unknown person—probably another accountant, perhaps even one of my business partners—went to a lot of trouble to frame me for felony tax fraud, as if I were Al Capone or something. How else did a faked-up double set of books for one of my clients mysteriously appear on my home computer, right next to all that female enslavement porn, when the DA just happened to serve a search warrant on that computer? And this morning a judge would almost certainly enslave me as punishment, because in modern Texas "felon" (especially female felon) equals "slave," and "slave" (again especially female slave) equals "naked whore." I didn't know how I could survive the public exposure, let alone what I would do for a living afterwards, when I wouldn't be allowed near any form of accounting. Who would want to hire a crooked ex-accountant?

"Defendant will rise. . . Having been found guilty of a felony, I sentence you to five years' criminal enslavement. Bailiffs: strip the slut, take her for branding and then, after one week for medical recovery, sell her at the contracted slave market." Even knowing that this sentence was unavoidable, I was still in shock when a bailiff jerked me to my feet and used a sharp knife down my back to quickly, almost casually, cut through all my clothing, even my bra and panties. The remnants fell away in a heap while my male defense attorney tried in vain not to look at my body . From a clothed defendant I was suddenly reduced to a naked piece of property in front of several dozen people, including the jury that had just convicted me.

"Kneel, slut." Came the calm voice of a bailiff. I knelt down amidst the remains of my clothing, so that the defense table in the courtroom momentarily shielded my blushing body—or at least my breasts—from view. Then came the inevitable instructions to "collar" (holding my chin-length hair out of the way so that a basic slave collar, not unlike a dog collar, could be wrapped tightly around my neck) and "back hands" which led to my wrists being cuffed behind my back. Two bailiffs lifted me by the elbows to my bare feet, once again giving the judge and jury a full frontal view of my body, then frog-marched me out of the courtroom through the throng of spectators, all of whom appeared to be leering at me. With breath-taking speed, I had gone from fantasizing about slave life to living it! My horny libido was in shock, as embarrassment and sexual arousal struggled for control of my brain. The latter apparently won, as my nipples stood erect and I became aware of a damp buzz between my thighs. These visible indications that I actually ENJOYED being a naked slave only increased my shame and blushes.

Any doubts I may have felt about whether this wet dream (you know the kind of dream where you're naked and everyone else is clothed) was real came to an abrupt halt five minutes later, when the circle star of a convicted felon was fried into my formerly unremarkable but unblemished butt. The pain was so intense that I fainted and probably lost control of my bladder.

When I regained consciousness, I was face down on a paper-covered bench, with three simultaneous sensations on my upturned, bare butt: a deep throbbing pain, a chilly feeling because something cold had been applied to that rear end, and finally alarm because some unknown person's fingers were pressing down firmly around the edges of my new burn. Eventually, my mind realized that these fingers were pressing the adhesive of a bandage to cover the wound that had already been treated with a cooling antiseptic and analgesic spray. I didn't know whether to be grateful for the care or outraged that someone was feeling me up, but I quickly remembered that I was now a criminal slave with no choice about what happened to my body, so I quietly groaned a "thank you" without moving. Then I was placed upright on my feet by the same two (male) bailiffs, who each took the opportunity to heft and squeeze a breast. And my treacherous, horny little brain actually enjoyed the fondling—despite my misery, my nipples erected instantly!

Looking back on that dark time, I try very hard to forget what happened to me in the jail where I spent the first week of my sentence. Instead of discrete events, I remember constant pain that gradually declined while most of my conscious hours seemed to pass with embarrassment about my nudity interrupted by frequent demands that my tongue entertain bailiffs of both genders and even the judge and his (female) secretary. When criticized for my oral efforts, I replied honestly that I'd almost never sucked cock (or licked pussy) before in my life, and some of my tormenters gave me some basic instruction about how to use my mouth, if only to improve their own pleasure. I just kept my head down and my mouth open, doing what I was told and sometimes enjoying the new sensation of getting a mouthful of cock and/or cum. I must have provided fifty or more orgasms that week, but in contrast to my submissive fantasies I got little thrill out of being a slave.

The constant haze of pain and blushing had almost come to an end when, seven days into my servitude, I was connected by my collar to a coffle of five other naked slaves and then marched, with my hands zip-tied behind my back, down the sidewalk of a busy city street from the jail to the Longhorn slave market. My breasts bobbed and my thighs were damp the whole way. I'd heard of prosecutors who scored political points by making arrested white collar criminals do a "walk of shame" or "perp walk" in front of news cameras, but at least those people had clothes on!

*****

"Epiphany" is too fancy a word for what I experienced on that sidewalk, but suddenly I awoke fully from the shock of being enslaved, stripped, and branded. What did I have to be embarrassed about, anyway? Yeah, I was slave naked and bound in public, but that wasn't MY fault—I was the victim of a miscarriage of justice. In fact, I had no moral obligation about the fact that I would spend the next five years as an IMmoral slut—that judge had actually freed me from all the restrictions of my former, very uptight, life. My new existence actually REQUIRED me to be naked and eager for sex, so playing the horny whore was just my duty as a convict. I'd spent decades dreaming about being a sex slave, and now the opportunity had been presented—no, forced—upon me, so why not enjoy myself as best I could? Instead of staring at the sidewalk in front of me, my head came up and I began to look boldly at the free people around me, all the while swinging my hips like the worst type of slut I had ever imagined—which is what I was now, so on with the show! When I noticed my reflection in a store window, I looked like the perfect skank—maybe a little bit old, but in good shape and obviously eager to serve. Where had I read that women in their 30s and 40s often appeared more ripe, more womanly than fresh-faced adolescents? Apparently it was true, at least for the slut-formerly-known-as-Melinda.

I didn't let up when we reached the Longhorn. For the first time in my life, I was performing slave yoga, butt naked and collared, in front of an actual audience, most of whom were young, muscular slave wranglers. OK, I still blushed a little, but I had no option. Now, repeating those filthy come-ons about wanting to be used was REAL—I was terrified yet aroused by the thought of one (or more!) of those young studs pinning me down and "forcing" me to service their lusts in any opening they chose. Even the slave wrangler who was guiding me through the market, a guy with a nametag reading "Ray" who may have been 20 years younger than my age of 38, noticed how turned on I was, remarking,

"For an old bitch, you're really gaggin' for it, ain't you? Keep playin' with yourself while I give you sumthin' to dream about." He sat down at his data-entry station, whipped out a dick that flattered me by how erect it already was, and told me to get him off. Having seen very few male members before I was enslaved, the one he produced looked impressively big to me, although I later learned it was just kinda average. No problems—I eagerly fell to my knees and stuffed my mouth full of him, licking and sucking while my hands gently massaged his scrotum. My jailhouse lessons in fellatio must have paid off, because this young, muscular god (or so he appeared to my fevered imagination) unloaded down my throat in less than five minutes, then patted me on the head as if I were a female dog and told me, "if nuthin' else, you have a great future suckin' cock in a Glory Hole, darlin'." I felt as happy as if I had won an academic prize in school—I was a success at servicing horny young men, the "career" I had dreamed about for decades; the pay for that career is low, but the "tips" are fantastic. (Of course, I'd much rather take a hard pounding in my—excuse the expression—cunt, but at least I would get some kind of sexual use, rather than being relegated to mindless labor because my owner thought I was too old to be worth—apologies again—fucking.)

That moderate praise for my skills, in combination with the wrangler's dutiful efforts to keep me horny—although THAT didn't require much effort!—ensured that I was literally dripping by the time I made it onto the auction block. It all passed in a haze of stiff-nippled excitement and dampness. Gone was the introverted, college-educated accounting professional; now I was slave 3078, an oversexed bimbo determined to wear any master's cock out! Getting a long-term birth control implant seemed like receiving a license to screw. The experience of being graded, stretched naked, spread-eagled, and voiceless while anyone could feel me up, only fueled my excitement. I was in a fever of anticipation while awaiting my turn to be sold. Then, eagerly obeying the instructions of the auctioneer, I contorted myself on the stage, almost cumming at the thought of how exposed and helpless I was. At one point I got a little TOO carried away, and the auctioneer flicked my rear end with just the tip of his whip. All the bidders laughed uproariously when I emitted an "eep" and jumped three feet high, almost falling when I came down. Then it was back to exposing myself and begging for use, so thrilled that I actually came, almost fainting, when I heard that classic statement of human slavery: "sold to Number 34, for $32,000." (Which, pardon me for bragging, was a pretty steep price for what one slave merchant had described as "A wrinkled old bitch, well past its 'sell by' date." I may not have been Prime slut meat but I was at least Choice.)

The wrangler Ray took charge of me when I crawled off the auction block, still feeling faint from the powerful orgasm I experienced at being sold as a slave. He cuffed my hands behind me again and took me off to another cage to recover, releasing my wrists temporarily and giving me a water bottle to drink. But Master Ray insisted that he was never permitted to tell a new slave who had purchased her (or him). "What I will say, Brownie [alluding to my hair], is that your price went sky high for such an old biddy. There was some blonde-haired guy who looked like a football lineman in a fancy suit—I heard his name was Haroldson or sumthin' like that—who seemed determined to buy your ass, until one of the career merchants out-bid him and he gave up." My blood ran cold at the thought of how close I had come to belonging to Charles Hardison, another partner at my former firm with whom I had often disagreed at work, and who obviously intended to humiliate and torment me.

I was so concerned that I almost lost track of what the wrangler was saying: "That merchant who made the winning bid was probably acting as agent for someone else, who must have really wanted to own you. At least, after paying all that money for your cute butt, he should take good care of his investment. No sense asking me who your new owner is—all I know is that you're programmed for a month's training at the Pearson Pussy Ranch, so I guess someone wants you to be a high-class slave whore. Considering how well you suck dick, that should be easy for you."

Even

I

had heard of Pearson's, which runs intensive training to make female and "sissy" slaves into the finest courtesans that money could buy (or rent). I had long day-dreamed about being a sex slave purchased to pleasure rich and powerful men, but that had seemed impossible for a shy little woman who was long in the tooth and not particularly desirable. Now it looked as if that was what I would become—a living, nude, collared sex toy. What's the cliché about "be careful what you wish for?"

*****

To get to Pearson's, however, I first had to experience one of the humiliating "rites of passage" that all slaves either dreaded or enjoyed, depending on how submissive they felt—being shipped by "poodle express," bound and gagged on your knees in the type of cage originally designed to restrain and ship large dogs. Part of the purpose, of course, was to remind a slave that she (or he) was a sub-human animal, whose highest aspiration could only be as a caged pet for her/his owner. And before that could even begin, the lucky submissive b____ got the "privilege" of suffering whatever indignities the slave wranglers chose to inflict on her. . . Of course, when your libido was raging like mine, that might not be too bad a fate. (I know I just wrote "be careful what you wish for," but at the time my sex drive was thinking "throw me in that briar patch!") Far better to be used, however crudely, and have some fun than to be left unsatisfied, all lathered up and no place to cum.

Before I went into a poodle cage, Master Ray had to deliver me to the loading dock, which meant cuffing me and walking my helpless, naked body over there, guiding me (as he had all day) with one hand cupping my buttock, fingers goosing me with his longest one (you know the one I mean, the one that crude men stick up in the air by itself) gently rubbing my anus in a way that constantly reminded me of my function as a sheath for men's shafts. Now that the auction was finished, however, he had more time to play with me, and I guess he decided he should have as much fun as possible before letting me go. Once I was cuffed again, my temporary overlord took his time, massaging my boobs (might as well use the correct terminology—ladies have breasts but slaves have tits, boobs, hooters—you get the idea) as if they were two bags filled with warm mashed potatoes. And his fondling certainly made me warm! Or rather, kept me at the slow boil I had felt all morning since I'd been marched to the Longhorn in a coffle, a fact that he reconfirmed by finger-fucking my "twat" to test how lubricated I was.