Same Old Halloween Costume

(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, and no actual slaves were harmed in the making of this story

. This is fiction; no one should ever be deprived of free will nor used sexually without his or her uncoerced permission.)

(

Janice Harris' viewpoint

)

Being a public defender sometimes means challenging the (usually) well-intentioned prosecutors and police officers who just want to "lock the scumbag up and throw away the key." To be honest, many if not most of my clients really deserve to be incarcerated, but it's my responsibility to give them the best possible legal representation. Period. Just last week, after I cross-examined Deputy Roberts and established that evidential chain of custody had been lost on a weapon, I heard Roberts mumbling under his breath about what a "tight-assed bitch" I was. In a way, that was a compliment, acknowledging that I was doing my job by keeping him honest—but as you'll see, the deputy's frustration came back to haunt me.

Anyway, like many other young professionals, I find my life both rewarding and stressful. Regular visits to the gym keep me toned and work off some of my nervous energy, but life is still a (mostly self-induced) challenge. Fortunately, my fiancé, Brian Holden, makes my life more than bearable. Not only do we have common interests and political beliefs, but our love affair and especially the sex is fan-frackin'-tastic! Early on in our relationship, Brian wormed my hidden weakness out of me—I'm a closet submissive who enjoys being dominated and used sexually. More specifically, he knows that the idea of being a slave, "forced" to service strong attractive men like him, both terrifies and excites me. I know that's a stereotype—the high-energy, assertive woman who (in her free time) reaches inner balance and peace by yielding total control to males—but in my case, at least, it's true. Ever since I went to the Big D Slave Market to be graded soon after I reached age 18, I have found the idea of sexual slavery, of surrendering power to an owner, to be a great stress reliever. Most of my masturbatory fantasies center around being a naked, bound, sex object, something that in reality I would find frustrating and horrendous.

Brian, as I've indicated, helps and in fact forces me to live out those fantasies of surrender and submission while still cherishing and respecting me. When he proposed to me, five months ago, we even talked about some kind of Free In Name Only contract. If you're not familiar with that idea, I could legally obligate myself to serve him (whenever we were alone) for up to five years at a time. Still, we thought we'd wait until marriage (which is constantly delayed by our two high-pressure careers) before we went through the formal procedures of a FINO, such as getting a slave psychiatrist guardian, and so on. Just the thought of such a contract makes me moist! In the meantime, though, Brian frequently surprises me with private role playing—I'll wake up on a weekend morning to find myself collared and hog-tied, or sometimes locked into the bedroom cage and brought out only to perform block moves (aka slave yoga) until he gets so turned on that he orders me to "Slave 4s" (elbows and knees) before teasing me some more. Eventually, I beg him to ravish me in every way possible—cunt, mouth, ass, between my prominent breasts, whatever he feels like doing. Fortunately for me, Brian finds these sessions as arousing as I do, maintaining a magnificent erection for what seems like hours at a time. Eight inches of sexual lollypop—what more could a slut want?

Since I've confessed to being a wannabe sex slave, I guess I should tell you something about my appearance. Ordinarily, I dress like a career professional, although my skirts tend to be rather form-fitting and just slightly too short, teasing every guy who encounters me. Only in private does the "real" me, the slave wannabe, come out to play. Five foot nine, green eyes and chin-length auburn hair, and weight about 140 pounds (most of which seems to be concentrated in what Brian likes to describe as tits and ass). When I was slave-graded at the end of high school, I was graded as Prime Minus, but no, I was never "Miss Sandyfoot" in the slave market's magazine. I've been told I have a cute face and a voluptuous body with breasts somewhere between C and D cup, but I DON'T think I'm all that, and try to be kind and considerate, not arrogant, as much as possible.

At least when I went for slave grading at age 18, I had given my best girlfriend the power (because I was too chicken) to authorize branding if I graded high enough, so I got a large cursive "D" etched half an inch deep into my left buttock. It hurt like a mother at the time, but now I'm vain enough to flaunt it on the rare occasions when I wear a swimsuit or (in private) play slave for Brian. He loves to run his fingers over it as he mounts me from the rear, all the time telling me what a slut I am—which is the truth, of course! One more detail that may be relevant: to support my favorite fantasy, I keep my pudenda completely hairless, as most slaves are required to do.

*****

All of this is by way of background to my Halloween costume this year—a costume that you're probably already anticipating based on my submissive self. A little more background (sorry):

Brian is not an attorney (thank heavens—I'd scream if we had to talk about law), but he IS a rising executive in a very lucrative investment firm. (Side note: No matter how much I may fantasize about being a collared slave, I have no desire to actually be one, BUT: given what I make as a public defender, I would never have been able to pay back my school loans (which were, of course, secured by chattel slavery on my butt!) were it not for my incredibly generous and wealthy boyfriend. And no, I did NOT ask him to pay off six figures worth of potential slavery; he did it on his own, first buying up my loan paper and then handing it to me while I was in front of his fireplace last Christmas eve! Of course, that gift allowed him to claim, whenever we were playing Master-and-slave, that he had bought the face/cunt/cleavage/ass he was busily skewering, and in a way he had. Damn, I love that guy, quite apart from his magnificent prick!)

He doesn't object to attending social gatherings among my peers (the public defenders), where the meetings tend to be Sephora Makeup or Tupperware parties with cheap wine because we all get paid so little! But every year there are several mandatory, high-bling social functions at HIS firm; the most risqué of these functions is the annual Halloween Party, which runs to sexy vampires and the like. Last year, we had gone (appropriately enough) as a gangster and his scantily-clad moll, which was kinda fun, but this year I was stumped for a costume idea.

You can see where this is going. I had recently told Brian about Professor Sarah Hollister's new paper on the social psychology of slavery—the idea that, when someone becomes enslaved, their former peers often don't recognize them because their appearance is so different. Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition, and nobody expects an adult friend or peer to turn into a slave. This is especially true, of course, for young women, as people tend to stare at the bare—bare breasts, pussies, and butts—and never notice that the face might look familiar. To be honest, I had whispered the whole idea of the unrecognized slave to him while we were playing Master-and-slave, because the thought of being naked and collared in front of my peers was simultaneously terrifying and arousing.

The next time I mentioned my inability to come up with a good theme for the Halloween party, he cut me off gently and said that he had solved the problem. Then he disappeared into our bedroom for a moment, returning with a small bag that he placed in my hands. "This is all you need for a costume, Sweetheart," he said.

Imagine my shock when I looked into the bag and saw that his idea of a "costume" was the toys we used in the bedroom—a tall, stiff leather collar and four leather bands with attached rings, each with a small padlock, that he could secure to my wrists and ankles! For my last birthday, he had added an engraved plate onto my collar, which included both my (actual, acquired years ago when I was graded) Slave Identification Number and an inscription as if I were a lost puppy (or perhaps bitch?): "199-55-4227, Juicy Janice; if found unattended, please return this slut to Master Brian Holden, telephone 214-XXX-YYYY."

At sight of my play bonds, I naturally started to protest, because up until now we had always kept our bondage slavery games strictly private. (Although he had occasionally threatened that he would cuff and collar me, then drop me off on a highway to find my way home!) Brian reminded me of Professor Hollister's hypothesis—so long as I acted suitably subservient and lascivious, it was unlikely that anyone who knew me would spend much time staring at my face, still less recognize the naked slave slut as public defender Janice. ("A slave isn't seen as a real person but rather as a set of servant hands connected to mouth and dick or tits & ass.") Besides, he told me, he knew of at least two other women—both of whom I knew slightly—who would likely wear similar "costumes" at the party. Doctor Nikki Sheldon actually enjoyed playing slave for her husband/owner, Paul Sousa. OK, that was a gimmie—of course a slave psychiatrist would be willing to play slave for her husband. But then Brian really surprised me.

"Do you know who Dan Martinson is?"

Now that was a sudden change in direction, I thought. "The computer guru? Have you met him?"

Brian nodded. "I just took over his investment account, so I got to meet him last week, right? Great guy, not stuck up or anything—turns out we were in Iraq about the same time. Because Dan's such a large investor, we invited him to the firm's Halloween Party and he wanted to know what it was like. Don't worry, I didn't mention your name, but I did tell him I was thinking about asking a woman to masquerade as a slave for the party. He thought that was just great and began laughing about the idea. He told me that his wife owes him a HUGE payback about playing slave—no, I didn't ask him what he meant—so he told me he would bring HER in a collar."

"I give up—who's married to Martinson?"

He grinned slyly. "I'll tell you, but you have to keep it quiet because he doesn't want to ruin her reputation—Laura Simmons."

Talk about out the blue. "Laura Simmons? The hot shot contracts attorney at Harriman, Kingsley, and Gaylen?"

"Yup," he replied. Mr. Martinson practically guaranteed she'll show up at the party wearing nothing but a collar, but you can't identify her in any way, got it?"

"Of course; I'm worried enough about being identified myself without 'outing' someone else."

"So, you see, Darlin', you won't be alone—a couple of VERY well known, good-lookin' women will also pretend to be slaves at the party."

"Crap. With women like that walking around, I'll have to worry about your wandering eyes, Bucko."

"That will be MASTER Bucko to you, slave." he smirked, "I guess you'll just have to be the sluttiest bimbo in the place to keep my attention, right?"

Gulp. I was still unsure about the whole idea, but it WAS tempting to pretend under his watchful eyes. "Oh-Okay."

*****

In the days leading up to Halloween, my love-hate (or more properly lust-fear) relationship with the idea of playing a sex slave kept distracting me. On the one hand, this was a fun way for my fiancé and I to indulge my kink and (presumably) have some great sex at the end of the evening. On the other hand . . . I shivered. Everyone—or at least every woman—would be doubly embarrassed in this situation—first to appear as a naked slave, and then to allow everyone to see all the little imperfections and not-quite-love-handles of her body.

I did what any woman might do to try to improve her image, blending in by looking like a REAL collared slut, a Prime Minus who would fulfill every guy's wet dreams. (You can say that such slaves take the pressure off free women to satisfy male lust, but they also create an impossible standard of sex appeal—a naked woman, rarely overweight because of slave diets and exercise, whose collar implicitly promises the total sexual control that most men and even many women desire, including any type of sexual service however perverted that a free person can imagine.) So, I doubled up on exercise sessions (including slave yoga) at the gym, and spent several sessions at the tanning salon, trying to get a nice overall tan with no sign of straps, since slaves are usually all naked all the time. I went to my favorite hair place, not only to get my hair and nails done but also a wax job (ouch!) to remove every hair from my body below my ears.

When I arrived home on the afternoon of the party, my handsome owner-for-the-night stopped me as I walked in, demanding that I kneel and accept his collar and cuffs as he locked them onto me. (He also told me that he had rented a chauffeur-driven limo to take us to the party, which would be relevant later.) An hour later, when I again knelt before him, freshly showered and enema'd, the only items I had added to my "attire" was evening makeup, a pair of simple low-heeled shoes, and an ankle-length, translucent dressing gown, to conceal me until we reached the party. I had wrapped that gown around my body and cinched the belt tightly, but I wasn't particularly surprised when, after securing my wrists behind my back, "Master" Brian undid the belt and left the entire front of the gown hanging open, which in a way was probably more enticing than if I had been completely naked—although I only realized that later, being totally humiliated at the moment. Whistling softly, he clipped a dog leash to my collar, ordered "Heel, slut," and led/dragged me out the front door, pausing only long enough to lock the door. For a moment, I was too worried about not having hands to stop me if I fell, but then the reality hit me.

Now I was outside at night, almost naked, with all my clothes and identification locked up inside a house under someone else's control. But my fulltime lover and temporary Master, who was obviously enjoying my public submission, upped the stress to eleven (if Spinal Tap was ever in the slave trade) when we reached the limo, where the uniformed driver was holding the rear door open for us. Brian brought me to a halt just in front of the driver (who was already enjoying the sight of my barely-concealed boobs and thighs), then abruptly uncuffed me, removed the gown entirely, and resecured my wrists in front of me! The young driver, whose nametag read "Carlos," looked like a cartoon of Roger Rabbit as his eyes bulged towards me; I couldn't help noticing that his uniform trousers suddenly became very tight below his belt. I was blushing furiously as my "owner" casually ordered me to crawl into the back seat and kneel on the floor, after which he climbed in behind me. He could tell I was freaked out, so en route to the party he encouraged me to lean my head against his leg while he petted and calmed me.

My heart rate rebounded to coronary attack levels when we arrived at the party venue and Brian strode inside, casually leading me by a leash as if he took a slave for a walk every evening. For the next hour or so—I was too overloaded to keep track of time—he led me from place to place while I kept my eyes downcast to avoid making face-to-face contact. I lost count of how many total strangers of all genders casually squeezed by breasts, goosed my ass, kissed my mouth, and otherwise toyed with me as I walked around the room with my hands cuffed. Each time Master Brian stopped to speak to someone, I acted as his docile slave bitch, kneeling down with thighs spread and cuffed hands hooked behind my head, smiling frequently and—if he ignored me for a moment—nudging his leg until he absent-mindedly petted me as if I were, indeed, his horny female dog!

Most of the guests were the kind of high rollers whom I had never met and who (I hoped!) would never recognize me if we met when all of us were wearing clothes. But some were so famous that I had seen their photos repeatedly. Doctor Nikki Sheldon's image had appeared on the covers of numerous books, although this time she was so obviously excited—wide smile, erect nipples, damp thighs—that there was no doubt as to why she was so effective at understanding slave psychology; the only question was why a woman so obviously "born to the collar" was ever allowed to be free! She did everything short of humping her "owner's" leg to get his attention that night. Meanwhile, Dan Martinson, a handsome, self-confident hunk who could have been a fashion model in the $2000 suit he wore, was instantly recognizable from news photos, but the nude, very nervous dark-haired woman who (like me) was heeling as his collared slave was a different story. I had met Laura Simmons and listened to her speak at a number of legal societies, but she looked so different butt naked on her knees and wearing her husband's collar that I'm not certain even her own mother would have recognized her. One of the male "slaves" at the party clearly did know her, however—I don't really know who he was despite our intimacy (see below) although I heard the red-haired, extremely-poised woman who held his leash call him "Rich." Whoever he was, he seemed to know both Dan Martinson and Dan's slave-for-the-night, Laura. The strange slave smiled and nodded his head when he made eye contact with the Martinsons, but at other times (when he thought no one was looking), I caught him staring at Laura with a slight smile on his face—not a "serves her right" attitude of revenge, but at least a "now she knows how I felt." If I ever met him separately, I'd have to ask gently what the heck was going on.

*****

As you can tell, there were a number of wannabee, pretend slaves (with expensively-clothed "owners"), mixed in with the superheroes and ghouls at the firm's party. After about an hour of chit-chat, someone decided that a "slave off" competition was in order to decide who was the most convincing slut—of course, none of the temporary slaves like me had any say in the matter! First, we had to practice our slave yoga (actually termed "block moves" if you're a real slave), dancing lasciviously in various exposed positions on the direction of someone who had (he claimed) once been a slave wrangler. That meant moving smoothly from one obscene pose to another on command while repeating dirty mantras that entreated the assembled masters and mistresses—the rest of the party—to, for example, "Please ram your monster dick [or strap-on] up all my holes as hard as you'd like." When I caught sight of the erections in some of the guests' pants, I shivered at the possible outcome of such a request (The words from the movie "Top Gun" came to mind, "Your mind is writing checks that your body can't cash.") But this impromptu round of slave yoga was fun and arousing—the floor where we "performed" was kind of sticky when we finished. By the way—I don't know why it turned out that way, but only "Rich" and I had actual brands on our butts, which probably helped us gain points if only for verisimilitude. The other "contestants" had a mixture of bare butts and temporary appliques.

I'm sure the rest of the party enjoyed the show, too. Because most high schools teach "Slave Yoga" to 18-year-olds as part of the elective on slave studies, plus many young adults (mostly women) take classes in the subject as a thrilling form of aerobics, the pseudo-slaves at this costume party could perform pretty well. For Nikki and I, it was more horny method acting than anything else, although the unknown male slave "Rich" was really good at it, too; the only disconcerting part was that he repeated his slave mantras in a high-pitched, feminine voice! Other participants, like Laura, had a more difficult time, being too inhibited to flaunt themselves; it was no surprise that Nikki, Rich, and I were declared the "winners" of this lewd contest.