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.
