"Carry out the lashes," came the dispassionate sound of the judge's voice. A second later, a line of fire burned across both of my exposed butt cheeks, eliciting an involuntary howl that was significantly muted by the bite stick. Like clockwork, about ten seconds apart, eleven more lashes from that rubber strap seared into my bottom--each one was exactly the same in force, but where one stroke cut across the path of a previous blow it inflicted much greater torment. I felt as if every inch of my once-beautiful (I'd been told so often enough) rump was reduced to hamburger. I'm sure my face was equally red as I sobbed and moaned and squirmed in helpless agony. Finally, that unseen strap ceased falling, and I felt someone spray my rear end with a cooling mist of painkiller. Thank heavens that was over, I thought.
Only that turned out to be just the opening act. The bailiffs untied my elbows and pulled me upright, paused for ten seconds to give the jury a full frontal look at my nude body and tear-stained face, then walked me out of the courtroom, past the gawking spectators and reporters and down the hall to a room with the ominous label "Branding." Up to this point, my mind had refused to contemplate the full horror of my enslavement, but now I recalled that the State of Texas always branded enslaved criminals on their ass cheeks! As soon as I was strapped down and immobilized, a guy wearing asbestos gloves and a leather apron showed me the iron he was about to use on me. Glowing white hot, the branding head consisted of a five-pointed star, similar to that on the state flag, but in this case the star was surrounded by a circle that made it look like a Western lawman's badge--the "Circle Star" brand that marked a convicted criminal slave. Cringing at the impending trauma suggested by this branding iron, my mind sought refuge in an irrelevancy--"Good thing I don't wear bathing suits very often," I thought, reflecting that my butt would be marred by that brand for the rest of my miserable existence.
The bailiffs hadn't even bothered to remove the bite stick from my mouth, since they knew that this brand, superimposed on the raw meat that had once been my tushie, would evoke an ever greater outcry than the strapping. I must have cried out, but I don't remember because I fainted from the intense pain, layered on top of my helplessness and hopelessness; fainting was the only way to escape, even temporarily, from a waking nightmare of pain and humiliation.
*****
I awoke some undetermined time later, face-down on a paper-covered medical bench. My entire rear end was screaming in pain, but the sensation of someone gently touching me back there caused me to twist my head until I saw a guy in a lab coat gingerly wrapping my lacerated buttocks in gauze.
I couldn't resist. "Usually, I get dinner before I allow a guy to handle my ass," I murmured. The guy working on me had the grace to laugh, but then another voice--which I recognized as that of the head bailiff--replied, without any emotion, "Don't worry, slut--from now on EVERYBODY gets to feel your ass and the only dinner you get will be slave kibble." That brought me back to the full reality of my plight. He was right--I was now nothing but a piece of (tenderized) slave ass at the mercy of any free person who controlled me. No more elegant dinners in business suits--hell, probably no more clothes--for the next eight years. I had to struggle not to cry again.
The slave vet, or whatever he was, finished quickly, but the head bailiff had more to say. "While we're on the subject of using your body, you need to thank the Doc by giving him a nice blow-job." He could see the shock on my face. "Look, slut, for the next eight years, most of your interactions with free men will involve you giving them pleasure on demand. You can do it freely on your knees, as a sort of thank-you that MIGHT earn you a little consideration when he treats you again, or you can do it with your body tied down and your mouth stretched around a ring-gag, which will make it more fun for me but not for you. This first time, I'll give you a choice--I suggest you learn from this opportunity."
Well, I guess my slavery was starting early, and the bailiff was right--I might as well be generous or they'd just force me anyway. I clumsily crawled off the bench and knelt in front of the vet, my butt still stinging. I knew the pose I was expected to assume--thighs wide, fingers interlocked behind my neck so that my arms pulled my nude breasts up, offering them (and the rest of me) to the guy. And smiling broadly.
"Thank you for taking care of me, Master. May I please suck your huge cock?" I know it will sound like bragging, but my whole life I've been considered pretty, sexy, you name it--blond hair, blue eyes, high cheekbones, prominent chest and tush. I doubted that any heterosexual man and only a few women would resist the sight of a naked blond slut offering her mouth and indeed herself to them like that. No surprise except the scope of my new meal--the vet unzipped his trousers to reveal a rather large dick, and I quickly impaled my mouth on it.
I'd never really liked giving head to guys, and usually did it only when I wanted to be especially nice to a boyfriend, such as when he gave me an expensive present. Some women will tell you that they enjoy being in control because it's their mouth and tongue that causes the guy to stiffen and come, but I still hated having to literally kneel down in submission before the guy, giving him a power trip that humiliated me. And let's not even discuss the lack of hygiene most guys display. But the SOB bailiff was correct--I no longer had a choice about whether I did it, and I'd much rather climb down there voluntarily instead of being forced to do it. I used my best technique to get it over with quickly, including smiling happily up into the vet's eyes as if he had offered me a tasty ice cream cone. He came in less than three minutes, and I had the presence of mind to remember that, as a slave, I could only swallow his jism after I stuck out my tongue and exhibited it for his approval. Like most average guys I had ever encountered, he seemed so thankful for my smiling services that the episode was all over in five minutes--although it occurred to me that I'd probably get a similar oral usage every time somebody examined and wrapped my new wound--which was starting to really throb, by the way. You ever hear the expression, "it left a bad taste in my mouth?" Whoever came up with that line must have been thinking about giving a blow-job as a slave.
The bailiffs told me that I would stay in their jail until my brand began to heal, then I'd be sold at a public market--the courts found they got more money that way than from hasty sales off the loading dock, even though a slave market took ten percent of the sale price. So I DID see the same veterinarian every day for the next eight, and as I expected that meant eight more blow-jobs. In return, I got very considerate, gentle care, so it wasn't a bad trade, not to mention slurping on a meat-sicle that distracted me from my other discomforts. Damn, that thing hurt.
Eight days in jail meant a LOT more than eight loads of cum down my throat or onto my face, however. Almost every interaction between me as a new slave and one of the bailiffs--male or female--involved oral service on my knees. I think a lot of these guys would have been happy to ram either or both of my lower openings, but there was a tag on my neck that, I gathered, warned people not to fuck anything below my cleavage while I was still healing. To add insult to injury, a little coin bank was clipped to my collar, and each person who used my mouth was expected to put two quarters into that bank. This tiny fee was supposedly to defray the costs of feeding a slut on the taxpayer's dime, but it really meant that a new female slave like me was also a VERY cheap whore, giving blow jobs and pussy lickings (for 50 cents per set of genitals) to absolute strangers who were NOT her owners. I mean, at least they could have charged $5 for each service to help repay the funds I'd embezzled, right?
I'd never had lesbian sex before, but at least the females in that courthouse tended to have better hygiene than the males. Two of those lesbian encounters were with the judge's admin assistant when I was summoned to his chambers. Each time after I licked her pussy to climax I got the added "honor" of sucking His Honor's legal shaft--so you could say that he shafted me every time I saw him. As I dutifully licked and swallowed, he casually inquired how I was doing physically and mentally, and I'm sure that somewhere my time kneeling between his legs was listed as a health and welfare inspection! It might have improved HIS mental health, but not mine. I still say it's corrupt for a male judge to sentence a female to slavery and then use her body whenever he feels like it. Plus, he insisted that, to maintain his objectivity, he couldn't possibly put coins into my bank, which just meant he got his "kicks for free," the cheap bastard. Oh, well, turns out I was right the first time--even as a slave, I DID get "dinner" in return for sex. I suppose a mouthful of sperm has a considerable value in protein, but it sure doesn't taste as good as filet mignon. Neither does slave kibble.
