Going Around to Cum Around

Going Around to Cum Around, Pt. 04

(These events occur in a world where legalized, non-hereditary slavery is common-place 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 be involved in slave business operations. This is strictly a FANTASY—in reality, informed consent is ALWAYS mandatory in any sexual relations.)

(

Cindy Jackson's viewpoint

)

How the FRACK did I get here? Thanks to my irresponsible boyfriend Mason, I had faced up to 15 years' enslavement for failing to pay off a home mortgage. I had mitigated that by a deal with the XYZ Bank, which held my note, in which I self-indentured myself—virtually identical to slavery—for the shorter period of five to seven years. To avoid becoming Mason the Moron's ass-slut slave, I had to PRETEND to be a horny bimbo who was graded Prime Minus and sold at auction for $120,000, more than his new wife would agree to spend—which just increased the amount I had to work off with my body before being freed. My former work partner Beth Sullivan, who had once been in the same situation because of unpaid college loans, had paid that exorbitant price, but she intended to have me serve, as she had, as a slave whore to entertain the bank's customers and government officials. Beth was honest enough to explain that my body was the security she used to borrow the $120,000 from the bank, after which she would pay it off by renting my body back to the same bank, one "piece" at a time. I felt as if there was no one I could trust, and certainly no man—when I had processed through the same slave market where I had worked for eight years, only ONE of my male co-workers had tried to protect me without exploiting me.

Beth had explained that she and her partner, Lily Russell, were both employees (and former sex slaves) of bank president Pamela Williams, who used their partnership as a cut-out in which the two bought and trained slaves, with Ms. Williams' backing, to serve as "contractor-furnished equipment" doing whatever the bank needed. Shudder. In preparation for this, Beth had shipped me to the Pearson Pussy Ranch. For six weeks, I had performed every imaginable sex act, for males or females, using all three of my openings not to mention friction between my boobs, buttocks, thighs, ankles—you name it. I never hesitated or refused an order, trying my best to be Bimbo Cindy the horny, mindless slut and just get out of this place. Unfortunately, the "trainer" responsible for my evaluation, Mistress Sophie, had seen through my act. She told me that I had to demonstrate not only skill but slave hotness, genuine mindless lust, if I wanted to avoid being declared untrainable and likely sold to a slave brothel.

My rational mind told me that she was just trying to frighten me, that Lily and Beth couldn't afford to take a big loss on the $120,000 they spent to buy me, not to mention thousands more for training at the Pearson Ranch. On the other hand, Beth had bragged about all the money they expected to make by renting out the ex-judge Roy Bean V for revenge taken by women he had exploited sexually, so I couldn't be sure. Maybe they COULD afford to take a loss on me. Meanwhile, I threw myself into my training, trying to prove how eager I could be.

*****

My first opportunity to "make good as a bimbo" was a weekend open house. The Pussy Ranch regularly invited its customers and other high rollers to an elaborate party-cum-orgy, with an emphasis on "cum." The most advanced "students" were the primary merchandise on display, dressed in revealing evening gowns with elaborate makeup and hairdos, fully expecting to be plowed in every opening and position conceivable. More junior inmates like me, already partly "trained" as sex objects, were the waitresses, wearing simple makeup and plastic aprons that did not conceal a single inch of our bodies and left us available for sexual use. After six weeks of frequent exercise and controlled diet, those bodies were optimized to look pretty darn good. In any random group of women, my blond hair, blue eyes, B cups, and taut body would have made me appear fairly attractive, but here I was just average in appearance. All I could do, and all I did do, was to psych myself out the same way I had done before my auction, telling myself that I was far hornier, far more sensuous than was really the case. Every clothed person I encountered at the party was the focus of my worshipful, breathless, submissive stare and eagerness. I knew I couldn't hump the customers without permission, but the other waitresses and I acted like lesbian sex robots with each other. Meanwhile, the guests kept fondling my body as I passed, apparently trying to upset me so that I spilled something. At least that groping contributed to my horny act.

My pretending worked, but only because I got some unexpected help. I had just finished delivering my second tray of hors d'oeuvres when Lily Russell hove into view, announcing that she wanted to try out my tongue. She ordered me to heel and led me off to one of the bedrooms.

I immediately prepared to service her orally, dropping to my widespread knees while putting on my best bimbo face, when she stopped me. "Never mind that, Cindy," she said, kindly. "After six weeks at Pearson, I'm sure you're perfect at pussy-licking. I just wanted to give us a chance to talk, and then fix up your makeup on the excuse that it got smeared servicing me!"

Thank heavens. As Ms. Williams' first recruit, she had been in my exact position almost a decade ago, so now she let me babble out my worries and frustrations. Although I already had makeup on, being a tomboy I'd never really mastered that aspect of womanhood. Fortunately, the beautiful Lily HAD studied cosmetology somewhere. Before she came to the party, she had considered my coloration (which was very different from her own), and brought an arsenal of makeup in her purse. While I talked, she tarted up my face, all while making sympathetic noises. Finally, she used ice cubes from her drink to bring my nipples up to high beam and sent me back into the party with a gentle pat on the ass and an assurance that I would do fine. Just the idea that Lily (and presumably Beth) really DID care—even if only to the extent of wanting to make me a successful sex slave—made a great difference for my mental well-being. My happiness apparently translated into healthy sex appeal, and even Mistress Sophie commented on it later that evening. Measured by the number of customers who sampled my body after Lily, I was apparently a success.

One evening's good performance didn't eliminate Sophie's suspicions, of course, but it earned me a breather. I still had to psych myself up, recalling how I felt that evening, in order to get through future tests.

Six weeks later, it was MY turn to be a slut star at another Pearson Pussy Party. By this time, my original chin-length hair was approaching shoulder length, and a slave beautician trimmed and curled it in preparation for the big evening. She did my makeup in a manner similar to what Lily had shown me. I also got to wear a dress, the first real clothes I had known in the three months since I had stripped to don a collar, although I knew I would probably lose those clothes in the course of the evening.

Soon after the party started, I was accosted by a real power couple. She was a tall, well-endowed, and self-confident blonde "of a certain age" (as the French would say) but still very attractive, in a dress that looked as expensive as his suit. She was clearly accustomed to get whatever she wanted, and I pretended to be flattered that she wanted ME. Her boyfriend (I think—neither was wearing anything like a wedding ring), referred to as "Jack," was handsome and even taller than she, but while by no means a wallflower he seemed content to let her call the shots. They took me off to one of the bedrooms and "sampled my wares." I knew this was another key test, and I tried to perform accordingly. He was actually rather gentle and considerate with me, seeming to care about my pleasure as well as his own. After I licked and sucked his cock up to full salute, I had to service the (as yet unnamed) lady with my mouth as he first fucked me masterfully and then, with great gentleness and skill, reamed my ass. I actually ENJOYED this man using me, something I hadn't felt in the entire three months I had spent at Pearson. There was no question that I was a sex slave, of course, but I came several times from the sense of SHARING sex with the two of them rather than just being a toy for their amusement. Hard to explain, but it gave me a temporary high.

I should have realized whose pussy I was licking, especially when the woman called me Cindy as she climaxed. Afterwards, she congratulated me on having mastered my skills, and finally announced that she was my ultimate owner, the president and CEO of XYZ Bank in Dallas!

I had to pretend surprise the next morning when Mistress Sophie announced that I had passed my final exam. I was still bleary-eyed when she told me this. After the luxury of an unfettered shower and five minutes alone on a slave toilet, I was soon kneeling, bound, and gagged in a dog cage, headed (I presumed) to somewhere in Dallas. Slaves have to be thankful for small favors, and in this instance, my final experiences at the Pearson Pussy Ranch included two such gestures: not only did the shipping clerk NOT fuck my face while he had me bound on my knees, but the canvas gag he installed in my mouth was new, and not (as so often in other slaving establishments) soaked in semen. I felt as if I had been upgraded to business class seats for slaves—again being thankful for small favors.

*****

It was a long trip with my cage the only one in a panel van. After perhaps three hours at highway speeds, the driver pulled in at a rest area. He released me from the cage and let me squat, shielded from other travellers by the side of the van, and pee in the gutter. After two months at the Pearson I had lost all modesty about performing bodily functions in front of a master. As I finished peeing, I half expected that I would have to pay for emptying my bladder by giving him the usual blowjob, but then I remembered that, just as when Lily had shipped me to the HCI Market, the Pearson Ranch had put a shipping seal on my gag! This prevented him from using my mouth without detection, and I guess that fucking me would have put him behind schedule. It was nice to think that my new owners were looking out for me, even if only to protect their investment . . .

The next time he opened the van doors and released me from the cage, we were parked in front of a palatial home with broad, green lawns. I had no idea where I was, but presumed it was in some upscale suburb of Dallas or Fort Worth. The driver led me on a leash, hands still zip-tied behind me and gag firmly in place, up the front steps of this magnificent house. For a moment after he rang the doorbell, there seemed to be no response, and I worried about being left in some warehouse until called for. Then, I was overjoyed when a smiling Beth Sullivan opened the door and signed for me.

I had knelt on the steps while she did this, but as soon as she got me inside she released my hands and mouth and aimed me at the nearest restroom. Much relieved, I returned and knelt in front of the chair in which she sat. She explained that this palace was Ms. Williams' newest acquisition, and for now I would live there along with Lily and Beth. I would still kneel the first time during the day I met any of my three hosts/owners, but otherwise the rules of slave behavior would be relaxed somewhat. Much to my relief, she also gave me five sets of transparent B-cup bras in my size, telling me to wear them at home or at the bank where we all worked, to provide support without actually concealing my girls. I would have to go "bare front" whenever I was meeting customers or business associates, however.

Long story short, Beth explained that I had three basic jobs: At home, I was a maid/server, although Ms. Williams had finally hired a Latina lady, Mistress Juana, to cook for daily dinners and business-related entertainment. At the bank, I would do routine IT service functions, such as answering trouble calls or resolving lock-outs. And, of course, Beth, Lily, and occasionally Ms. Williams would use me in my primary function as resident slave slut, rewarding government officials who gave priority to bank business or entertaining major investors and members of the board.

Beth took a deep breath, then launched into an unavoidably crass discussion. "When you're working at the bank, Russell and Sullivan, Slave Merchants, will bill the company as if you were an entry-level IT person working 25 hours per week. One-half of that pay goes towards redeeming your debt to us while the other half covers our overhead in taking care of you, such as weekly STD tests, periodic veterinary exams, legal fees, interest on your loan, and so on. The REAL way you work off your debt and get free is by providing sexual services. I'm going to be blunt—every week we'll total up the value of your services and bill the bank for them. Because you're a Pearson Pussy Ranch graduate, we have to include the cost of your training as part of your debt, BUT that training lets us bill the bank at a higher rate for your services. Every act of oral sex is $40, every vaginal fuck is $75, and every anal penetration is $150. Other services, such as getting spanked or rented out for an evening, cost more. If Lily or I don't witness a sex act, please let us know at the end of that day so we can bill the bank and give you credit for it. I know that what I just said makes you sound like a prostitute, but Ms. Williams followed the same accounting rules with us, and you'll be surprised at how quickly you begin paying back your costs. Believe me, the MOMENT you pay off what we've disbursed—which is about $150,000 including the Pearson training—the moment you pay it off, as I said, we will free you and help you arrange future employment—either with the bank or elsewhere, your choice."

"Furthermore," she continued, "Lily and I don't make more than a nominal profit on your body—we'd be too appalled to do that. Whatever the bank pays us for your services, other than one-half your pay as an IT worker, is credited directly towards the debt. Speaking of the bank, you need to know that Ms. Williams has recently introduced a mandatory code of ethics that includes fair treatment for everyone, even slaves. As you move about the headquarters the free personnel of the bank may fondle you and address you as a slut—that, I'm afraid, is inherent in your condition. Executives may require that you service them orally after you fix their computers—but be sure to tell us about each instance of that, which is still billable. However, no one is permitted to humiliate you, cause you pain, or (without permission from Ms. Williams or H.R.) to penetrate your lower openings. Nor can an employee keep you from doing your job—which means that no one is allowed to tie you up or order you to stay in his or her office. If any abuse like that happens, don't resist—just suffer through it and then tell Lily or me, OK?"

Lily came home soon thereafter, and greeting me affectionately; Ms. Williams had a business dinner somewhere that night. Beth introduced me to Mistress Juana, who was very pleasant so long as I obeyed her. I served a low-fat, vegetable-heavy meal to them and got to eat my own share of it. OK, I was on my knees in the breakfast nook, but I still felt far more human than I had since I self-indentured. I gathered from dinner conversation that I was only one of the ASSets of Russell and Sullivan. Apart from the loathsome ex-judge, who was apparently a very popular rental item, there were several other Pearson-trained sluts, all of whom worked for the XYZ Bank in various offices or were still undergoing training. I would meet them when Ms. Williams called us together to serve (and service) a large business-related dinner or cocktail party.

After supper, Beth allowed me an unheard-of luxury—a long, relaxing bath in private with no one telling me what to do. Afterwards, she went over the usual schedule at home, such as changing bed linens, doing laundry, scrubbing toilets, and mopping floors on the weekends. She also explained that her partner or she would put me through slave block positions, treadmill practice, and light weight training several times each week, starting the next evening. Finally, every week I would douche and every morning give myself an enema, then lubricate those openings so I was open for business if called upon that day.

Later that evening, she showed me the large, padded pet bed on which I would usually sleep, located in her bedroom, although there was also a cage and a bondage rack if someone decided to restrain me. Finally, my owners told me, in a friendly manner, that I had to get up about 6:00 a.m. the next day to accompany them to the main office of the bank.

*****

Six a.m. came as early as it always had when I was free. As we bustled around, getting coffee and eating toast, it almost felt like a normal workday, except that I was nearly naked. I say nearly, because Beth had told me to wear one of my new bras, a semi-transparent rain poncho, and a pair of flip-flops. When we arrived at the bank offices, Beth drove to the rear of the building where Lily led me inside while Beth parked. I felt honored and yet off-balance because my owners didn't cuff or leash me, although they warned me to expect those formalities when we went out in public.

I had almost forgotten that Lily had first introduced herself to me as the deputy head of Human Resources for XYZ Bank. Now, I was literally a resource that she had to get in-processed. A new photo-ID badge was soon clipped to my collar, identifying me as "Contractor-Furnished Equipment" (the photo showed not only my head but my bare chest, as if my boobs would help identify me!) Lily left me with the Information Technology people, first to get a password and computer logon (

Conslave0002@XYZBank.com

), and then to assess how much I knew about routine computer systems. Like a lot of people in my generation, I was reasonably proficient at such things, which was obviously a relief to the experienced IT folks. Within two days, they were sending me around the building to handle routine trouble calls, which allowed them to focus on more interesting things. After two months of being treated as an animal, just being trusted to perform routine mental tasks was a thrill.

Having worked around slaves for years, I understood that the reality of slavery was far more mundane than the lurid images in film and fiction. Yeah, female slaves like me were often used as sex objects, but except for full-time slave prostitutes, lap-dancers, and the like, even pleasure slaves often spent much of their time doing routine work so that free people didn't have to. This was a great relief for me: after three months of thinking and practicing sex morning, noon, and night, I had some semblance of "normal" work, even if I was virtually naked (wearing just the bra indoors) and all my "co-workers" were clothed people whom I had to address as Master or Mistress. Few of them insisted on much formality about that. Yeah, the younger guys liked to stare at my boobs and butt, but they never even touched me without asking permission, and often had normal, work-related conversations with me. The head of IT even told me to sit on the chair at my desk, since the usual kneeling stance of a slave made it difficult for me to operate my computer. Amazing how such minimal consideration made me blossom, almost getting back to the upbeat Cindy I used to be B.C. (Before Collar.)