Changing Status Pt 04

Changing Status, Part 04

(This story is set in a world where legalized, non-hereditary slavery is commonplace for serious crime, unredeemed debt, or voluntary self-indenture.

All characters who are enslaved or have any intimate/sexual contact with slaves are 18 years of age or older

. This is fiction; no one should ever be deprived of free will nor used sexually without his or her uncoerced permission.)

(

Suzie/Wally's viewpoint

)

I didn't get much sleep that night and was nervous all the next day. What the f___ had I done? I mean, it was bad enough that I had to take a gender-bending pill and self-indenture my new, female body for five years as a slave slut (that's what we're called; don't criticize me for using the slang term I hear every day.) I did that to hide after I witnessed Hugo Hernandez murder another drug dealer, then have his minions gun down the three Deputy U.S. Marshals assigned to protect me. Now, I was in my final year of getting regularly screwed in all three openings as I was pimped out by my owner, Harry Herring, local sleazeball and whoremaster in Corpus Christi, Texas. A few more months of forced frantic fucking and I could regain my freedom if not my dick. Yet I'd been so angry that I had risked not only my own survival but that of the unrequited love of my life, attorney Eleanor J. Hastings, by using a John's cell phone to send her a text, signed with my real name ("All My Love, Wally," something I'd never dare say to her in person) to pass on what Hugo had bragged about to Harry while they were spit-roasting me over the latter's desk. I knew that it wasn't probable cause to just tell someone that CBP agents had been blackmailed to let a panel van full of drugs pass through the checkpoint at Brownsville, Texas, but I hoped that somehow that shipment would get stopped without exposing E.J. or me. Yeah, I said to myself the next morning, fat chance of that, you oversexed stupid bitch!

Thank heavens I persuaded the den mother of our little brothel, fellow slut Janey, to give me a Valium so I could "mellow out," although I didn't tell her why I was "nervous as a cat in a room full of rocking chairs," as she put it. I went back to flirting with the lunch crowd at the brothel, and even (this is embarrassing) got some endorphins out of having one of the regular Johns pound both my lower openings before he unloaded into my rectum. That should tell you how low I had fallen after four plus years as one of "Harry's whores"--even though I spent my first 26 years on earth as a heterosexual guy, I was now so completely feminized that I actually ENJOYED getting my pussy and ass fucked by a male dick who paid my owner to penetrate my body. Yeech--I hope you can see why I was so angry I took that risk to strike back at the two guys who did this to me.

After we both got our rocks off, I showered and put on another brief and revealing pink shift that barely covered my estrogen-enhanced boobs and my branded butt. Then I went back down to the main lounge where the other girls were hanging around. We were waiting for the 5 o'clock rush of guys, flush with paycheck cash, coming to spend it on a quick piece of slave ass. (As I've already mentioned, this often literally cost me MY ass!) The TV was on in the background, and about 4:30 that afternoon I heard the news I had been waiting for, although I tried to pretend I didn't notice--two CBP officers at Brownsville had been busted when somebody tried to drive a truck full of cocaine through their checkpoint. I hope they got a good lawyer, poor guys; they were just as much victims as I was.

Not 20 minutes later, I heard doors banging and a loud commotion, with two angry male voices in Spanish. Now I didn't have to pretend not to care; I immediately hid behind one of the sofas. Just as I crouched down, I heard two gunshots, which brought back bad memories of Hugo's thugs ambushing the U.S. Marshals after his trial ended in a hung jury. The other girls were screaming and yelling, while I just cowered out of sight. A few minutes later I began to hear sirens.

Janey later told me what had happened--Hugo had accused Harry of ratting him out, shot him and then rushed away; police and EMTs arrived promptly, but too late for my former boss. I didn't have to pretend not to be worried, but I think Janey suspected. She of all people knew that I only acted the part of a dumb broad, and I HAD been in the office the last time those two hoods spoke to each other before the shooting. Good thing I had always pretended not to understand Spanish.

All the girls were very upset, but that evening, with nothing better to do, we resumed our normal habits. Three guys got to screw my brains out that evening, and one of them gave me a $40 tip. Despite the workout, I had a hard time sleeping. Not only was I worried about being found out, but for all his faults Harry didn't deserve to die. Get branded and butt-fucked as he had treated others, yeah, but not killed. Oh, well, too late for regrets now.

The next day, Janey called everyone together and told us to continue working on our knees and backs while Emilio, the bookkeeper who was also (apparently) an officer of Harry's shell corporation, tried to run things and sort out the finances. After a couple of days, José even began delivering me to hotel rooms to entertain rich businessmen and oil drilling workers again. At least I got a change of scenery and a few tips--both dick-tips and monetary ones.

A week later, the TV news reported the discovery of Hugo's bullet-riddled body. His "business associates" had buried him somewhere out in the countryside, but a hungry dog or coyote had dug him up and a border patrol had come across the body. The speculation was that he owed the cartel big money for the loss of that shipment. I can't say I cried for him, just felt relieved. If I could keep a low profile for my last year in a collar, maybe I could get on with my life. If. . .

Not much changed after that, except that Emilio ran things and Janey suddenly lost the collar she'd worn ever since I met her, and began wearing real clothing. When I gingerly inquired what was going on, she said that Emilio had freed her and made her his junior partner, supervising the in-house operations. Works for me--I just went on whoring and tried to enjoy the little things in life, sexual or otherwise. I didn't even really mind being tied up and whacked on my ass in the dungeon--that usually meant a fat tip and a day off for my butt to recover, even if I did have to sleep on my front. Besides, Janey charged them so much for a "whipping girl" that most of the Johns preferred to just rent me and bang me.

Six months passed and I began to count the weeks remaining before my indenture would expire. I spent a few of my tips buying normal, non-slutty clothing including a couple of business-appropriate outfits, hoping I could look for a job doing something OTHER than "entertainment" when I regained my freedom. And I packed up a roller suitcase with my better, less-revealing clothes in it, waiting for the magic day.

*****

A month before my fifth anniversary of enslavement, Janey suddenly told me to strip the bed, dress nicely, and bring my stuff down to the office at 11:00 a.m. When I arrived, she smiled and even Emilio acted more pleasant than usual. They led me out to what had been Harry's best limousine, still driven by José, who took us to the local office of the state Department of Agriculture, which among other things administered slaves because they're considered livestock.

Twenty minutes after we walked in, I had traded my well-worn collar for a certificate of manumission and a new ID card, with photograph and description, that declared that Susan J. Twining was a "Free citizen of the State of Texas." And I didn't even have to suck off the manager to get it! Emilio told me that he'd decided to start freeing the slaves a little bit early in recognition of good behavior. "Just call me Abe Lincoln," he chuckled. Now that's what I call an incentive program! For the first and only time in five years, I spontaneously embraced my (now former) owner, kissing him soundly even if he was a weedy, horny little man. He took advantage of the opportunity to squeeze my boobs and goose my butt, but I didn't begrudge him that--he could have used me anytime he wanted in the past several months.

Janey said they would drive me anywhere in town; I asked to stop at my bank and then go to the bus station on Staples Street, only a few blocks from I-10. At the bank, I drew out $300 in cash and got a cashier's check for the rest--more than $4000--which check I tucked away. They both hugged me (and this time Emilio did NOT feel me up, although I did kiss José out of gratitude for all the times he protected me as a call girl.)

An hour later I was on the bus rolling back towards Dallas. When I arrived there, I looked up the offices of Morris, Kingsley, and Simmons, Attorneys at Law. Feeling like a mad spender, I had a cab take me there, where I created a minor stir when I walked in, pulling my little roller board suitcase. Despite my conservative clothing, after five years of trying to entice men I probably oozed sex appeal; I noticed several hard-ons pop as I passed guys. By the looks of things, even the receptionist was a slave gurl, a transgendered, large-bosomed slut complete with collar, stylish suit, and heavy makeup. She/he was somewhat startled when I asked to speak to one of the paralegals, Virginia Hazzard (I was proud of myself for remembering that name after almost five years.) I think the receptionist would rather have called the cops, but instead (s)he made a telephone call and I sat down to wait. "Whom should I say is asking for her?" "Tell her Wally," the name that E.J. had thought of to identify me five years earlier.

I barely recognized the woman who got off the elevator four minutes later--I'd only met her once, when she notarized the power of attorney selling my body in the great State of Texas. That had been a momentous occasion for me, but I'm sure she had no recollection of it when the receptionist pointed at me.

"Mizz Hazzard?" I asked, and she nodded so I continued, speaking softly. "I'm sure you don't remember, but we met five years ago when you notarized a power of attorney for me. My name's Suzie Twinning--I think you're holding a file for me?"

Her face cleared and she actually smiled. "Suzie! So glad to see you again" she said, enthusiastically. Then she continued, in a much quieter voice "with your clothes on and collar off." We both giggled. "Come on," she urged me--let's go get that file and I'm sure that Mizz Hastings will want to see you again."

"She's still here, then?" I asked, hopefully. I really wanted to see the love of my life but had no clue how to find her.

"You better believe it," she replied. "Only, she just made partner and is buried in court cases."

Upstairs, the new partner, dressed to kill in a fancy suit, was indeed up to her elbows in paper and open law books when Ginny knocked on the door and announced: "Look who's back after five years?" E.J. whooped and danced around the desk to embrace me.

"I'm so glad to see you--I was worried after that text I got a few months ago?" She looked a question at me, with an eyebrow raised, to which I quietly replied "Later, please."

Ginny found my file, which included both my (fake) social security and driver's license--now nearly expired--and a statement showing I had slightly over $81,000 in my bank account (if you're wondering, my self-indenture had raised $85,000, of which ten percent went to the Longhorn Slave Market. That left $76,500 that had accumulated interest for about five years. I didn't see any indication of legal fees being charged, and Ginny had even filed income tax returns for me.)

*****

I waited about 20 minutes while E.J. came to a stopping point, then she drove me back to the same apartment where I had begun the adventure on the last day (before this one) when I owned my body. "Sooo," she began as soon as we arrived in her parking garage. "I got this really weird text a few months ago, telling me about some drug smuggling in Brownsville. I happened to have a friend in DEA to whom I could pass the information along, but the message seemed to be from my best friend forever, a great guy named Wally Haniford who disappeared about five years ago, after he testified against Hugo Hernandez. I thought--wow! Wally is still alive! But then I remembered that I'd given you Wally's name to identify yourself when you self-indentured as a slave."

She looked straight at me, very serious. "Naturally, I'm wondering, who was it who sent that text? Wally or Suzy?"

I started laughing until I noticed that she was getting irritated at me, so I stopped abruptly. "What if the answer to your question is 'Yes'?"

"You mean YOU'RE Wally after taking one of those pills?" She whacked my left arm. "And you let me . . . I mean, you and I . . ." She sputtered to a halt.

"Yup," I replied, popping the "p" at the end of the word. "It was almost worth giving up my manhood to finally make love with you, E.J."

She was in shock. "You always called me 'E.J.' when we were in school. Why the HELL didn't you tell me who you were?"

"I didn't want to increase the danger you were in by helping me--this way, you didn't know anything about what happened to Wally."

She pounded her head on the steering wheel. "Oh, crap--and after all those years of friend-zoning, not wanting to let sex interfere in our friendship, I let WALLY go to bed with me, and sleep with me, and . . . AAAGGHH!" she ran out of words. "Yeah," I agreed. "Like I said, it was worth it, worth even years as a slave whore--and you told me you know what that's about, right?--Just to spend the night cuddling with you."

She gritted her teeth. "Well, I WAS going to offer to cuddle with you again this evening because it was so much fun the last time and I know you've been through a lot of crap. But I don't know if I want to spend ANOTHER night sleeping with WALLY--how do I know you won't try to corrupt me?" She seemed torn between anger and humor.

"Relax," I replied. "Since then I've been to bed with so many guys that I'd be overjoyed to just have a quiet evening sleeping with my best friend--no funny business unless you want it. Besides, the last time we did this you were the one wearing the strap-on--YOU took MY virginity, not the other way round, remember? So you're safe--if you need to, you can wear that thing again!"

"Oh, God," She replied. "You know, both of us have spent so much time entertaining sleezeballs that it WOULD be kinda fun to go to bed with a good friend instead of a dickhead."

That's pretty much what we did, after an evening eating delivery Chinese food and telling stories about what arrogant, clueless maroons (as Bugs Bunny would say) men are, bragging all day to impress a girl even when they're certain to get laid because they hired a slave for that purpose. We both almost died laughing, although talking about "Johns I have known" still got us both aroused. I know my nipples were on high beam just from being with my best friend, someone I no longer needed to act slutty in front of. Having observed slave hookers for five years to learn both what turns them on and what they PRETEND to do when they're trying to seduce men, I recognize a lot of arousal symptoms on the part of my BFF, and I know I'd never be half as attractive as beautiful, brilliant, driven Eleanor is. The thought that SHE was excited and enjoyed being with me was equally flattering and thrilling to me.

Then we took a shower together and--even better--went to BED together. We'd known each other for two decades, but this was the first time both of us indulged in the temptation to touch, stroke, and kiss whatever body part we wanted on the other. It was such fun, giving pleasure to somebody about whom I cared and receiving unselfish pleasure and comfort from her. Although we'd each spent years servicing male bastards (which is almost a redundancy), we had also learned how to worship female bodies--and it was simply fantastic to put that knowledge to work. "Pussy munching" sounds so crude--we got into a 69 position and just enjoyed thrilling each other. Eventually, she dug out that strap-on dildo and gently but firmly penetrated me with it, pumping slowly and rhythmically in and out while we kissed and nibbled and moaned and caressed each other.

Afterwards, when we lay beside each other slightly sweaty and catching our breath, I offered that, perhaps tomorrow, I might use the strap-on and try to pleasure her. She allowed that she hadn't dared have sex with a man, or any kind of penetrative sex since she regained her freedom almost a decade earlier--too many bad memories. Now, she told me that she had hated to screw me, but felt I needed to experience the penetrations before I went on sale. She also trusted me enough to let me try "doing" her. "It's a date" we said, nearly simultaneously, and then giggled quietly. We weren't sure how long-term the relationship would be, but E.J. insisted that I stay with her while I figured out what to do with my strange new life.

*****

While she went back to work, I tried to assemble a life, beginning with renewing that fake driver's license just before it expired. With regret, I decided that it would be too difficult to re-establish my identity as Wally Haniford. That in turn meant I had no recorded education, so I bought some practice workbooks and learned enough to take GED exams two weeks later. Then I tried to get an office job or something similar, but soon found there was no real work for someone without an employment history. On the rare occasions where I admitted to having been enslaved, male interviewers immediately wanted to "test out my skills." No thanks, mothers--I think I've had enough sex with males to last a lifetime.

Eleanor encouraged me to go back to the same community college I had once attended, although this time I knew some of the instructors so I was able to do better in classes, slowly accumulating college distribution requirements in English, math, social science, and so on. After talking with Ginny and E.J., I decided to go through the courses for Paralegal, because the law firm could always use an extra set of hands. I had enough money from my slave sale and my hooker tips to pay for tuition, books, and so on, and E.J. insisted that I could stay with her rent free. In my "copious" spare time, I volunteered for the Freedom Foundation, which helps former slaves recover mentally and economically.

I also found myself randomly searching the internet, reading about the pluses and minuses of gender conversion. The pill I had taken five years earlier was originally developed to help genuinely transgender individuals, but it and its counterpart, intended to shift a female body into a male one, were strictly controlled. Besides, there was no known track record of someone reversing her physical genetics back to the original--lots of rumors on the internet, but no gender dysphoria specialist was likely to authorize my taking such a course, which at best would leave me unable to prove my original identity and at worst might well kill me! I also explored the "old fashioned" way of gender reassignment surgery, but that would definitely involve long talks with psychiatrists who would NOT believe my story, not to mention enormous expenses and pains for a result that still wouldn't look like my original body. F___ it. Looks like E.J. and I would have to remain lesbian lovers, victims of PTSD--Post Traumatic Sex Disorder.

Once, at E.J.'s insistence, she got down on her hands and knees while I used a strap-on to mount her from the rear. I even got to reach around and fondle her magnificent breasts while I kissed her neck and poured out my love for her. Emotionally, it was the fulfilment of my adolescent daydreams of Wally making love to E.J., but all that kind of sex could ever achieve was a little wish fulfilment. Fun, but not really satisfying for either of us. Most of the time we stuck to more explicitly lesbian play like the BFFs we were and left it at that.