Circle Star Slave

Circle Star Slave 02

(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.)

(Previously: Convicted of embezzlement, former bank executive Erin Hutchinson was butt-branded with the circle star insignia of a Texas criminal when she was sentenced to eight years in a collar. The good news was that the wimpy accountant who bought her, James Dillon, not only cared about her but protected her from her lecherous former colleagues and empathized with her problems. The bad news was that the only way Master James could afford her was to pledge her body for a loan and then rent her out as a pleasure slut, where she had already met and been ravaged by one obnoxious guy who had known her when she was younger. And even if she survived years of slave whoring, what would she do when she regained her freedom, since she could never return to her career in banking? Besides, she was developing a combination of slave mind and hopeless crush on James... )

(

Erin Hutchinson's viewpoint

)

I hated being on display, but I was meant to hate it--Master Hugh, who was in effect my pimp, had decided that I had been a disobedient slave who needed to be humbled, and my owner, Master James, had agreed with him. They had arrived at a punishment that both benefitted the temporary agency SlutsRUs (whom I served) and humiliated me. Prior to this experience, I would have told you that the only thing I still feared was being ravished and debauched by my former peers at the bank, but although he never said so I knew (or at least hoped) that Master James cared too much about me to permit that.

So instead, I was on display in the window of "my" branch office of SlutsRUs, where any prospective customer could see me and (for a nominal fee) use me. The only "clothing" I wore was my slave collar and a pair of high heels; the latter didn't do me any good because they dug into my rump while I was on my knees with naked boobs and spread thighs on full display. All four of my limbs were locked into a kind of stocks behind my back, holding me immobile with my chest thrust forward. Plus, two VERY large dildos were strapped into my lower openings, where they vibrated in a random manner that would arouse me without (usually) bringing me to climax. Oh, yeah--my mouth was held firmly open by a ring gag, as if I were begging for oral use.

Periodically, the turntable on which I was kneeling in the window would be rotated 180 degrees, turning me to face into the front office/show room, where either Master Hugh or, more frequently, a new customer would casually fuck my face while toying with my nipples. Which just increased my sense of subjugation and helplessness, after which I would get a drink of water before being rotated back to stare out the window while my open mouth drooled a mixture of saliva and semen.

In truth, that was one of the less extreme uses to which SlutsRUs put me. You can imagine most of the others: chained on my knees to give anonymous blowjobs at a glory hole; lap dancing, swinging on a pole, and occasionally being used in the private rooms of a strip joint; street-walking to be picked up and used by cars full of young men; delivered to a hotel room as a call girl to indulge whatever perverted desires a visiting businessman or oilwell worker wanted; strapped into a pair of stocks on the back of a flatbed truck while a hot tub full of young people used me sexually as the truck cruised the downtown streets; delivered bound in a dog-cage as live entertainment for a bachelor party, a fraternity or BDSM dungeon--you name it, I probably had to do it. Or rather, had it done to me.

*****

Before I knew it, six years (three-quarters) of my sentence had passed. At the time, much of my existence seemed to be a continuous stream of dicks attached to dick-heads: being a slave whore was at best uncomfortable and frequently disgusting and frightening. Let's face it, guys who hire prostitutes are mostly selfish and inconsiderate to begin with, and guys in the South, where SLAVE prostitutes without legal rights are common--guys like that seem to lose all humanity and decency. Two of my "sister sluts" got severely cut up by such bastards, and even when the assailants were caught all they had to do was pay our owners something for medical expenses and "temporary loss of revenue"--not for any of our suffering.

There were exceptions, of course, especially when an inexperienced young adult hired an older-looking gal like me, a situation that made me want to give the guy (or very occasionally gal) a really memorable, pleasurable time. Most of my encounters, however, were much more squalid. I came to value speed over anything else--the guy (it was usually a guy) hired me including handing over the money, he pawed me a few times, then discharged into one of my openings, and I hurried back to my corner (or my pimp), relieved to avoid injury and moving on to rent my tits/mouth/pussy/ass to the next customer. In other words, I became the stereotypical hardened sex worker who just did what I needed to in order to get on with life--or in this case, get on with my sentence as a criminal slave slut. Which just gave new, ironic meaning to the phrase "HARD time."

In addition to the possibility of violence, my main fear remained encountering someone who had known me in my previous existence. No matter how deeply I had suppressed my humiliation, I still feared such an encounter because it would reopen all my emotional and psychological wounds. Fortunately, I guess, my appearance changed as I aged. Master James insisted that I get plenty of exercise and healthy food, not to mention tinting my first grey hairs, but my face and body were aging. Even with artful makeup and the low light levels of an urban sidewalk at night, I expected that my sex appeal would wear out before my enslavement was up; at that point only the most demeaning forms of sex service, such as glory holes and ass-and-mouth restaurants, would remain. Master Charles never told me how much he still owed on the loan he had taken out to buy me, but I dreaded being repossessed when my body could no longer earn enough money as a slave prostitute to pay the loan (You know you've really reached rock bottom when street walking is the BEST scenario you can look forward to, and your "pimp" keeps all the money you make.) More and more, the time I spent with my owner was the only thing that made the rest of my existence bearable.

That sense of aging only increased my long-term anxieties. I still had no idea what I was going to do when I regained my freedom, since I clearly couldn't work anywhere in finance--or indeed any form of business--after a criminal conviction and enslavement for embezzlement.

When I was conscious and at "home," by which I mean my owner's apartment, I was able to hold those worries at bay. It was almost as if Master James and I were in a dominant/submissive marriage, because we each tried to please the other while I happily assumed any bondage or position that he wanted, thrilled to be having sex for affection and pleasure rather than money. Although he was clearly in charge, I was equally aware that he really cared about me. Beyond the basic necessity that I become a slave whore to pay off the loan, he was as loving as any guy could be, looking out for me physically and psychologically. Even when I was doing routine cooking and cleaning, he would grab a feel or a kiss or (sometimes) flip me over the back of a chair and ravish me. Bliss.

Then, six years after my enslavement, Master James got a promotion. I was happy for him and tried to congratulate him. Trouble was, I couldn't leave well enough alone. Having worked in that bank for years, I had a detailed knowledge of the organization and staffing levels, so I pestered him to tell me what his new job title was. I should have kept my mouth shut; finally, he sheepishly told me that he had MY old job as a junior vice president!

That news put a pall on our conversation and reminded me again that life was passing me by while I walked the streets at night. Finally, I shook off my depression, apologized for bugging him, and seduced him with a strip-tease. I ended up on my hands and knees on the floor where he took me doggie tyle and thoroughly occupied first my birth canal and then my colon! I asked him that, if I ever again asked too many questions, I would appreciate it if he just gagged me, preferably with his dick! After that, I avoided any discussion of the bank, and went back to being his aging bimbo slut, who always greeted him with a smile and open orifices. Much more comfortable, even if sometimes I lay awake in his arms, unable to sleep because of worries concerning my future.

*****

A few months later, my owner suddenly announced that the loan secured by my slavery was paid off ahead of schedule--I suspected that he had used his own expanded salary to finish repayment, but he refused to admit it, and fucked my face when I tried to persist. As a criminal slave I still had to serve out the remaining 20-plus months of my sentence in bondage, but he emphasized that henceforth he would only rent me out a few days every quarter, when SlutsRUs had periods of high demand around holidays, football championships, and the like. My master claimed that these occasions were meant to remind me that I was still a slave slut, but I didn't buy that. (After I regained my freedom, I found out that he used the intermittent payments from SlutsRUs to justify paying both halves of the minimum self-employment tax for every quarter of my eight years in a collar, thereby qualifying me for Social Security benefits. Did I mention that he was superb accountant, famous for debatable tricks like that?)

Being a slave whore remained a disgusting and sometimes risky activity, but at the rate of about one night per month, I found it much more enjoyable--in a slutty way--than doing it full-time. I could feel like a sort of hot wife/slut getting her kicks on the wild side before going home to a loving and dominant spouse who would exact sexy revenge for being cuckolded. Not only that, but the dominant spouse got paid for renting me out! Besides, I was sometimes able to reconnect with other slave bimbos who had shared street corners and similarly sleezy venues with me for six-plus years. They made no secret of the envy they felt for me because I only had to entertain ONE guy most of the time.

That said, my owner made sure that neither my hands nor what he called my "tight twat" went idle for very long. By this time, seven years after my arrest, almost no one in the bank's central office remembered Vice President Erin Hutchinson, and I looked rather different anyway. I was older, thinner, and wore more makeup and (when not street-walking) less expensive business attire that included pushup bras, thigh-high nylons, garter belts, and short skirts I would NEVER have worn when I was trying to be taken seriously as a career banker. The sexier clothing was chosen by my affectionate owner who still professed to find me the "hottest piece of ass, slave or free," that he'd ever seen. Bless him--that attitude went a long way towards repairing the ego shattered by my enslavement and repeated debasement. He had also changed my hairstyle twice: when I became a slave whore, he insisted that I shift from a low maintenance brunette bob as a banker to large-volume curly dark blonde hair that looked like some lover had messed it up in a fit of passion. Now that I was only rented out a few days each quarter, he had opted for a simpler hairstyle that was still blonde and curly: the brainless, cock-crazy whore look, which was at least truth in advertising (Sometimes he even hung a shiny "Slut" sign around my neck). I told him that my new hairstyle and color had lowered my I.Q. by 20 points, to which he replied that intelligence didn't matter when I was entertaining a man! At that point I tried to portray the original, brain-dead blonde bimbo who cared for nothing except cock. Being taken by the guy I loved after years as a rental slave cunt, playing a dick-hungry bimbo didn't take much acting. If I didn't know better, I would think he was giving me an IV of horny juice.

*****

I tell you all this so you can understand why Master James thought he could get away with re-introducing me to the same offices where I had once worked as a free woman. Almost none of the same executives remained there seven years later, and I looked very different from the confident young businesswoman who had ruined her life, but I was still petrified with apprehension.

First, on two occasions he told me to portray the horny young wife trying to surprise her husband at his work. It's almost a cliché: I took an Uber to the bank while I was wearing NOTHING but makeup, heels, nylons, and a garter belt underneath a ladies' formal raincoat; Master James even gave me written permission not to wear my collar. Once at the bank I had to talk my way into his office, at which point he could use me for the rest of the afternoon--first kneeling underneath his desk to fellate him, then bent face down over that desk, gagged (didn't want anyone to hear me moan) with hands cuffed behind my back while he plundered both of my lower passages. Neither of us ever mentioned that this had once been MY desk, although that humiliating thought made me feel somehow even more subjugated, vulnerable, and turned on. Long after everyone except the cleaning crew had departed, my master walked me out to his car with my mouth still gagged, wrists still cuffed, and coat buttoned over my nude body. He removed the gag in his car, but only so I could suck him AGAIN on the trip home.

After that success, my master revealed his more ambitious plan to use me as administrative assistant--not full time, but to relieve his paid assistant, primarily on Friday afternoons and when few of the senior staff (who might recognize me) were likely to be present; anyone who WAS working would presumably be focused on finishing their work rather than looking for someone to harass.

Yes, a big part of my "service" was sexual; I'll get to that in a moment. First, though, Master James really did benefit from my presence in his office. As I've said before, he was a brilliant accountant, but running a large bank required additional skills and experience that he didn't necessarily have but I did. I freely admit that I was way off base in the ill-considered investment that cost me my freedom, but there were other areas of investment and real estate where I could help him. In fact, over about a year my advice probably netted the bank more than my embezzlement had lost seven years earlier. No, I'm not trying to justify what I did--the strapping and branding alone taught me never to try THAT again, and I'm genuinely remorseful. Still, I do think I repaid the debt. Just trying to reach a mental balance at the scene of my crime.

For the rest, my time as a "slut-retary" was a tightrope between exposure and thrilling sex. I never quite lost my fear of exposure and torment by my former peers. As far as I know, none of them ever caught on, but the bank president's long time executive assistant, Mrs. Sheffield, was not so easily fooled. I had always been respectful of her when I worked there, so I knew of no reason why she would remember or recognize me now.

For six months, during which she saw me at least once a week, she gave no sign of recognizing me. Late one Friday afternoon, however, she was repairing her faultless makeup at the ladies' room mirror when I came out of a stall and washed my hands. OK, I was a little disheveled after giving my master his afternoon blow-job--more about that in a moment--but I don't think I looked that bad.

"I'm glad to see you doing so well, Erin," she said quietly. I froze in horror. "Don't worry, girl, nobody around here has recognized you; I'm sure someone would have mentioned it to me if they did. I just meant that, despite your conviction, you seem much happier now. When you were a vice president here you seemed so driven and unhappy that I felt sorry for you."

"Thank you for not exposing me, Ma'am," I almost whispered, but I realized that she was right. "And you're correct, Mrs. Sheffield--despite the disaster of my life, I think I really AM happier than I used to be. My main problem is that I've almost finished my sentence and I don't know what to do with what's left of my life."

She smiled, quietly. "I know nothing about your life, Erin, but I do think you should figure out WHY you're so much happier, and then build on that. Good luck, Sweetie."

I found myself remembering that conversation over and over. The only thing I told Master James wasw that Mrs. Sheffield had recognized me but seemed unlikely to "out" me. Just the thought of my potential exposure made us both so horny that he used all three of my openings while I was bent over his desk!

*****

Meanwhile, the anniversary of my enslavement crept closer and closer. As much as I wanted to be free, I dreaded having to make my way through life without my beloved master. I didn't say that out loud, of course, but he could sense my apprehension.

Master James did what he could to reduce that worry and prepare me for freedom. He had me take a number of on-line courses to ensure that my office and computer skills were up to date, then bought me some less risqué, business-appropriate outfits. He figured out how to get copies of my birth certificate, social security card, and college transcripts. He even discovered a little-known change in Texas statutes that permitted a slave within 30 days of manumission to take a driving test and get a license without any indication of enslavement; the same applied to a limited credit card and bank account (which he filled with my last few nights as a slave prostitute). A new cell phone went on his contract, and he promised to pay for it over the next several years. Best of all, he found me a receptionist's position at a non-profit organization that was used to hiring ex-cons, then located a nearby studio apartment I could afford on that limited salary.

When my latest birth control implant reached its expiration date, he sincerely sought my opinion. Although I had no desire to get pregnant, at 38 I was acutely aware that my biological clock had almost died, so I asked for and he supplied a prescription for "ordinary" birth control pills to keep my options open.

On my last day of slavery, Master James took me out, fully clothed, for a nice dinner and to see a movie. We had already moved most of my clothes to the new apartment, and now we had a final, torrid bedroom scene in which we did everything he most enjoyed doing with and to me. The next morning, we took a shower together and then he drove me to the local Agriculture Department Office. He had a certified copy of my criminal conviction and my sale at auction. In 20 minutes we were done, and I was the proud possessor of a "Free Citizen of Texas" ID Card. Neither of us had much to say while we ate lunch afterwards, and then he drove me over to my new job site.

I gave him a hard hug and kiss, ending with "Thank you for everything, Master James."

He corrected me, "Don't call me 'Master' when you're not my slave. Good luck, Erin." I watched as he drove away, then spent 20 minutes in the woman's restroom putting myself back together before I began my new job.

The people at the non-profit were really nice; once they realized that I didn't have two heads (hell, I'd given so much head over the past eight years I was lucky to still have a mouth), we got along fine and sometimes went out to lunch together, although we all had to watch our pennies on the salaries we made. I soon got a handle on the job and received a good 90-day review. I enjoyed helping people, and there was a lot less stress than when I had been a banker, but by the same token there wasn't much opportunity for growth in either the job or the salary.