Going Around to Cum Around

(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.)

For eight years, I had worked as a wrangler in the HCI Slave Market in Houston, processing newly-enslaved, naked and terrified human beings into bondage. At the end of that time, my no-good ex-boyfriend Mason the Moron stiffed me with the mortgage on the house we had bought, leaving me no choice but to self-indenture myself—in effect enslavement—for five to seven years to pay off the loan. My new owners, Beth Sullivan and Lily Russell, were kind women who had once been enslaved themselves, but that background didn't change the fact that they were pimping me out to the XYZ Bank as a slave whore—that was their way of repaying the loan, secured by my body, which had allowed them to purchase me at auction. They argued, with some justification, that this life was preferable to some of the more extreme fates suffered by slaves, but that didn't make it easy or just. Sucking off government officials who prioritized bank business, offering my openings to judges and investors, and rewarding superior bank employees with wild sex were all in a week's work for me. Worse still, for me, was the total humiliation and lack of freedom, being naked, on a leash and cuffed in public so that everyone who saw me knew that I was reduced to sub-human status with no rights, for the sole purpose of satisfying (mostly male) selfish lusts. I had learned how to PRETEND to be a horny, mindless bimbo, but I hated the whole situation and, by extension, loathed most of the men who used me as well as all forms of sexual intimacy. Sex is all about dominance and submission, not physical or emotional pleasure. If and when I ever regained my freedom, I intended to spend the rest of my life alone without sexual release.

Why did I loath men? Let me count the ways (joke.) Seriously, though. It was not that they used my body casually, humiliating me and taking their pleasure without any concern for mine so that I ended up frustrated. I mean, they did that, but as a slave I expected nothing more; in fact, lots of guys treat FREE women that way, right? No, it was the deliberate little indignities they added. Take their cum, for example—PLEASE take it. (I don't buy all that bullpucky about semen being nutritious—as a slave, I had to swallow gallons of the stuff over the years, and all it did was upset my stomach.) If I deep-throated them, the slimy goo went down my esophagus without any effort or even much foul taste for me. Most of these "macho men," however, had such micro-dicks that their jism ended up on my tongue rather than in my throat, and then the "protocol" was that the slave had to stick out her tongue to display this fine trophy, swallowing only when the guy directed. Demeaning, but I could live with that, too, although I'd rather not. And I didn't mind TOO much having to lick their dicks clean of their own discharge. But then there were the guys who enjoyed "painting" my face (aka a facial) and breasts with their magic elixir or, worse still, using my hair to wipe it off. Since I was usually visiting them in their offices when this occurred, they were condemning me to wear this smelly mark for hours. Why? Just to feel powerful because they could "mark their property" like the juvenile dogs they were? How much of an achievement was it, really, for them to get a slave to suck them off? A lot easier than getting a free woman to do that willingly, I'll guarantee you.

Sorry for the rant—I forgot to re-introduce myself in case you haven't read the previous increments of my sad tale. My name is (or was; officially slaves are referred to by the last four digits of their ID number, which in my case were 0002) Cindy Jackson. Five foot ten inches, 135 pounds (eating slave food and cum while exercising regularly kept me taut and muscular), blonde hair and blue eyes. I had an associate's degree in business and was reasonably conversant with current IT systems, not that anyone ever valued a pleasure slut for her mind. On the day I was sold almost three years earlier, I had been classified as Prime Minus, two steps down from the ideal highest classification. I would never get any higher grade if only because I was not really "slave hot" as all pleasure slaves are supposed to be—as I said, I had learned to pretend and even have occasional orgasms, but I hated the entire business. I was just suffering in silence, hoping to survive my indenture and then move far, far away from any slavery. At this time, however, I faced as much as four years of additional servitude because Lily and Beth still owed about $80,000 on my purchase loan, which translated into an ungodly number of blow-jobs, butt-fucks, titty-rubs, ass-frottage, and other demeaning sexual acts.

Then came Donald Trevelyan, who joined the board of the XYZ Bank by the simple (if you're rich) act of buying 12 percent of the bank's stock, which at the time worked out to $2.8 billion and made him the second-biggest investor on the board. I'm not entirely sure where he got the money—someone in the bank's IT section (where I worked between fucks) told me that Master Donald had made his initial stake in a technology start-up two decades earlier.

He came across as a wannabee, one of those guys who thought that having exactly two days' beard growth on his cheeks made him look masculine. Objectively, I suppose that he wasn't BAD looking—maybe three inches taller than me, dark brown hair, dark eyes and a body that, for his age and occupation, wasn't too paunchy. Bank President and CEO Pamela Williams (who was my real owner even though she used Russell & Sullivan, Slave Merchants, as a cut-out) said that he seemed sensible and even innovative in board meetings. I wouldn't know; the only innovations I ever saw him exhibit were in advanced bondage and humiliation for pleasure slaves.

*****

Although the bank's board of directors met at least quarterly, its annual retreat was a much more elaborate proceeding, usually lasted for two or three days at a five-star hotel or resort. Part of the proceedings were one of Ms. Williams' famous dinner parties, extended affairs featuring the best available food, liquor, and pussy. By this time, the slave kennels of Russell & Sullivan offered a variety of sluts—not only me, but also Clarice, Maria, Charlotte, and Helen. (Because Maria—lucky girl—was approaching the end of her four-year indenture, Lily had recruited two more women as pleasure slaves—Helen, a brown-haired, voluptuous young woman, and Elena, who was still at the Pearson Pussy Farm for training. Like me, they had indentured themselves to avoid far longer slavery sentences for debt, I think family medical expenses.) Given the importance of the annual retreat, even Lily and Beth "made themselves available" for the party, wearing French maid dresses and bending over just as they had when they, too, had worn collars for Ms. Williams. This wasn't an absolute requirement of their jobs, but they voluntarily helped the boss keep the herd entertained. I know that, at least in Beth's case, Ms. Williams had taken a financial loss by freeing her before her debt was completely redeemed, so I guess Beth felt she owed her. Being at some level horny submissives themselves, Beth and Lily seemed quite happy to perform for the VIPs several times a year. At least, their example made it harder for the real slaves to complain.

After dinner, the sharks began circling us—not literally, of course, but they certainly checked out the merchandise. A few members of the board, including the two female members, weren't interested (or at least didn't want to be seen indulging), while others liked the exotic opportunity to share a woman with another member of the board. As I've remarked before, many of the directors focused on Beth and Lily because there was some weird male drive that found it more titillating to bed a free woman rather than a slave. Yet, within five minutes of our serving dessert, Donald Trevelyan decided that he wanted ME for dessert. Humoring his obvious intentions, Ms. Williams smiled and waived for me to follow the newest board member to his hotel room.

The advent of slavery had drastically reduced the prevalence of prostitution by free citizens in the southern states (legally, nothing a slave did was prostitution, because a slave had no free will to refuse sex.) That said, I can empathize with free women who sold their bodies for money, not only because I, too, had to accept intimacy with loathsome men but also because I felt extremely vulnerable whenever an unknown "Master" first used me. Society has usually been unconcerned about violence against sex workers, but violence against a slave was subject only to the rarely-invoked statute of animal abuse. While Ms. Williams was very protective of her "service girls," a board member could get away with anything short of murdering me (which in the case of a slave was equivalent to involuntary manslaughter anyway).

Being bent over some self-important guy's desk so that his admin assistant could hear him rutting into me had always doubled the humiliation I felt when I arrived to perform as a public whore; it was even worse when the clown insisted that I loudly beg to be used and then praise his performance (as a general rule, the smaller the cock, the more likely he was to demand such "proof" of his "prowess.") Some of these dickheads even left the door open to be sure everyone could hear—but at least that meant that the secretary and/or one of my mistresses could hear and intervene if he became too violent. Now, however, I was going to a soundproofed hotel room where no one would know my fate until the housekeepers cleaned the room the next morning. To say I was uptight would be an understatement.

Fortunately for me, Master Donald was not Jack the Ripper, but he gave me an unexpected workout. The Pearson Ranch had introduced all its slave pussies to various forms of bondage including Shibari. This guy may not have been a licensed artist with rope, but he certainly knew what he was doing. He began by popping open his suitcase and withdrawing a large pile of pre-cut ropes—at least they weren't rough surfaced! After he ordered me to "back hands," he tied first my wrists, then my elbows, and finally my upper arms behind me—not so tight that he cut off circulation or dislocated my joints, but certainly enough to be quite uncomfortable for me while thrusting my boobs forward so that he could tie more rope around THEM. Next, he had me lie on my back, while he used further ropes to bind my ankles to my thighs, leaving me spread like a frog with my groin exposed. After playing with my clit and anus for a minute, he told me to roll onto my stomach. That at least took the pressure off my bound arms, but he proceeded to connect the ropes around my ankles and thighs to the tie at my wrists, placing me in a tight hogtie that nonetheless left all my openings available to him. Despite the tension of this position, I noticed that his knots avoided my wrists and other pressure points, so my bonds were immobilizing but not excruciating.

He had maneuvered things so that my body was bowed butt side up with my face near the edge of the bed. This position left my mouth conveniently available for his cock, which must have been six or seven inches long and rather fat. Without the use of my hands, bringing him off was challenging to say the least, but I worked even harder than usual, hoping that he would shoot off and release the tension on my body. No such luck—I brought him to full erection in only a few minutes, but then he walked around to the other side. At least, thank heavens, he separated my wrists from my ankles, but only so that I could bring my widespread knees underneath my pelvis and thereby accord him full access to my cunt. At first, he pounded away at me with little consideration for how well I could accommodate the invasion, but I have to give him credit for reaching around to toy gently with my clit and nipples. I hated the way in which he had reduced me to helpless, mindless slave meat, begging to be fucked harder, but my body appreciate his gesture, and convulsed after only a few dozen thrusts.

I fully expected Master Donald to ram into me until he climaxed himself, but he apparently wanted more. He suddenly pulled out, leaving my hips pumping against thin air. Thank heavens he untied my frog legs, but only to pull me to my feet. My cramped legs could barely support me as he marched me behind a padded chair, flipped me over the chair, and invaded my butt in one rapid motion. By now, I was very experienced at taking it "up the Khyber Pass" and had used enemas and lube to prepare myself before the party. Still, the sudden intrusion of a fairly-large cock into my colon was excruciating for the next few minutes. Involuntarily, I hissed in pain when he shoved it in, but he chuckled and made some comment about how a Prime pleasure slut should be able to take it up the ass without flinching. He did pause for 45 seconds or so, by which time the burn was fading. Then he resumed pumping. I don't know whether I enjoyed it or was just trying to hurry him up, but I began to meet his thrusts with my butt while moaning quietly. He must have appreciated my participation, because he again reached underneath to play with my clit while increasing the rate of pumping. Within a minute he was reaming me as hard as both of us could manage. I think I had another minor orgasm as he collapsed over me, still striving desperately to push the tip of his cock up to my throat from the inside.

When he recovered his breath, he climbed off, leaving me still bound and bent over as he wandered off to the bathroom. I was surprised and pleased when he returned with a warm, moist cloth which he used to wipe my two lower openings thoroughly. Finally, he let me up and untied my cramped arms. Once I had shaken out the kinks, used the toilet, and swallowed some water, he re-tied my wrists, much more loosely, in front of me. Then he acted almost as if I were his girlfriend, taking me into his arms as he sat on the bed, back propped against the headboard. He gently stroked me and praised my performance. I fell asleep, hands still bound, as he watched a movie on the TV.

Early the next morning, he released me to use the facilities, then demanded a more complete blowjob, this time with my wrists tied to my ankles in an x. At least he didn't "mark" me, although I did have to lick him clean. Only after that did he push me out the door with a gentle slap on my butt, promising to "use that ass" again the next time he had the chance. It took me a minute to figure out where I was in the hotel, then make my way to Lily's room, shivering naked in the early morning, air-conditioned corridors. My owner answered my prolonged knocking, obviously almost as well-used as I, and told me to take the other bed in the room. We collapsed again, and didn't awake until almost 11 a.m.

On the whole, it had been one of the easier assignments I received as a slave, and the guy treated me better than average. Still, his fascination with immobilizing me boded ill for any future tryst, where I might lose whatever tiny freedom and flexibility I had. That turned out to be an understatement.

*****

I should have known I was in trouble when, prior to Ms. Williams' next party for the board, Donald Trevelyan not only "reserved" me, but said he would send a special costume for me. I'd worn all manner of slutty, revealing outfits to satisfy VIPs, so I didn't think much of it until an hour before the party began, when Lily summoned me to her bedroom in the boss's mansion and showed me what I had to wear. It was a costume, all right—a CAT costume! First came a kind of furry sweater with holes to allow my boobs to breathe. The ears (on a hairband) and even the butt-plug tail were OK, but then I realized that Trevelyan had bought special "legs"—triangular-shaped fabric sleeves that zipped up, holding my ankles against my butt and my hands close to my face while I had to "walk" on knees and elbows. Once Lily put the costume on me, I was absolutely helpless with my limbs already cramping up. OK, when one of the board members lifted my front up so that I could suck his dick, my hands were still available to fondle his balls, but that was about the only function for my hands. I couldn't get out of the sleeves, but was condemned to hobble around the room like an inebriated shorthair, eating food or lapping water from a bowl like a kitten.

And yes, when I went through the Pearson Pussy Ranch, for several weeks we had been forced to walk on hands and knees like dogs—but we still had the use of our hands, and could always stand up if there were a fire or something. Moreover, on the ranch I had been one of eleven women reduced to four legs—here I was the only animal, literally at the feet of everyone in the party, including the other slaves. I was "looking up" at everyone from the level of their boots and high-heels, which gave me a crick in the neck. Once, one of the guests at the party didn't see me and tripped, causing a painful fall for both of us.

I tried to focus on why I was here—to entertain the VIPs. My natural instinct was to sulk about my loss of human status, but that would only increase my misery while reflecting poorly on my owners and the bank. The only alternative was to play along, to act as if I were enjoying the "joke" of being an animal. So, I decided that I would not only be a cat, but a cat in heat, yowling and rubbing against people's legs, eagerly performing any sex act required and licking shoes at every chance. It wasn't much, but I preferred to think that people were laughing with me rather than at me.

My act seemed to please Master Donald. He clearly enjoyed walking me around on a leash, having me crawl under tables to suck dick or lick pussy, or just kneeling beside his chair while he played with my butt, cunt, and clit, all the while calling me a pretty kitty. Needless to say, all he wanted to hear from me was "Meow," "Purr," and "slurp, slurp." Eventually, he walked me into a bedroom, locked the door, and lifted me onto the bed so he could (literally) fuck his pussy's pussy. By this time, my act of being a horny bimbo—in this case, a horny feline bimbo—had succeeded in arousing and lubricating my body. Feeling this guy plunge his good-sized cock into me, holding my bare hips while he slammed repeatedly against my butt, imagining I was a cat on the prowl, actually gave me a slave-gasm. It helped when he leaned over me and reached underneath to fondle all the right parts—I purred in response and wagged my stuffed butt against his groin. Even more surprising, I got at least some enjoyment out of him removing the tail to fuck my ass in the same way—not perhaps a full-scale orgasm, but at least a pleasant buzz that enabled me to forget for a moment my abject subjugation and powerlessness.

When he was done, he again showed some concern for me as his partner, mopping me off, giving me a drink through a straw, and praising me as he petted his "pussy" (on both my head and my cunt.) Unfortunately, he was so in love with the image of me as his subservient animal that he couldn't bear to ruin the image by setting me free. Instead, he tied my leash to a closet doorknob, well out of the reach of my teeth and hobbled hands, took several photos on his cell phone, and then simply left me there! Fortunately, as soon as the party dwindled down, Beth and Lily searched the house until they found me and removed the $%&@# cloth legs of my costume.