Shannon And Sean Pt 03

(This story is set in a world where legalized, non-hereditary slavery is commonplace—usually as punishment for serious crime, foreclosure when a person pledged his/her body as collateral for a loan and was then unable to pay, or in this instance voluntary self-indenture. Eighteen years of age is the minimum for anyone in this world to be enslaved or have any intimate/sexual contact with slaves.)

(

Sean O'Brien's perspective

)

Once again, I was slave naked, collared, gagged, butt-plugged, and kneeling uncomfortably on the hard tray in an oversized poodle cage with my wrists zip-tied behind my back, after which they, along with my two ankles, had been restrained to the back of the cage. Worse still, from my perspective, was that this time my pierced nipple rings were also wired (with springs in the middle of the ties) to the door of the cage so that every bump in the road or unintended wriggle by me pulled on them, while the vibrator in my rear end periodically woke up and massaged my prostate. Not to mention that, instead of a chastity belt, this time my dick was locked inside a plastic tube that intermittently warmed up and began massaging me. All this after being self-indentured for the previous two months while my sister and I were trained to be horny human horses who would do ANYTHING for a chance to have an orgasm. Now, however, the butt plug and massaging tube had forced me to come at least three times since being put in this cage, and I began to worry if I would ever be able to do so again. Too much of a good thing was exhausting, but the vibrator and fleshlight wouldn't let me stop.

Once again, my sister was similarly restrained and teased in an identical poodle cage next to mine—the only difference was that, instead of a "fleshlight," she had a second, randomly-activated and very large vibrator stuffed up and tied into her birth canal. Her honey-blond hair, which the ranch had cut short to provide artificial "tails" for us as ponies, had almost grown back after two months. (Brothers are not supposed to notice how sexy their sisters are, but THIS sister was a curvy, high-cheeked cheerleader who had spent 60 days on a strict diet and working as a race horse so that she looked like a center-fold, a horny bimbo who would gladly yield any of her openings to someone who would let her orgasm. And I suspected that the technology and sensors for edging a female were more advanced than those for a male, which meant that she was less likely than I to actually cum while we were in transit. I loved my sister, so I couldn't decide which predicament was more sadistic—being a male slave driven by a vibrator and a "fleshlight" to shoot over and over again, or a female slave who was constantly edged by two vibrators but only rarely allowed to climax.)

We were shivering because our cages were located in the chilly cargo hold of an airplane, headed who knows where. And then we felt the solid impact of landing, and wondered whether this was our destination.

Forty minutes later, our cages were again in the back of a truck, slipping and swaying as the driver first leadfooted it down an Interstate and then turned off onto a winding road. It was still April, about one-third through our year of servitude, but already the air was dusty and slightly warm. Where the heck were we headed? I wondered, once again acutely aware of the helplessness of slavery.

I found out. Once again we went through the dance of being cut loose from our cages, told to crawl forward to a line, kneeling while new shock collars were installed, and finally listening to a canned orientation speech:

"You are at the Qualla Boundary Racetrack and Resort operated by the Eastern Band of the Cherokee People. You are here to perform a variety of slave functions, including but not limited to pony racing, housekeeping, and guest services. In addition to your shock collars, the staff members of this resort are authorized to use any and all means necessary to ensure that you do not escape and obey all instructions. If a guest tells you to do something that is contrary to your instructions from the staff, you should respectfully ask that guest to check with the staff; otherwise, your role is to make the guests as comfortable and happy as possible, without regard to your personal preferences. Do you understand these instructions?"

My sister and I eagerly nodded our heads, although our voice converters translated "Yes, master" as a series of quiet whinnies. Reading between the lines, we were about to perform the same functions for the resort, including pony racing and whoring ourselves out to the visitors, as we had at the Spinning Wheel Ranch. The only difference seemed to be that, in between playing pony and slut, we would also be making beds and performing other menial tasks that were considered beneath free people. I couldn't help thinking about our house slaves who, with the exception of pony play, had been equally exploited when we grew up—nannies and housemaids had done household chores plus (once we turned age 18) becoming our sluts. When I wasn't banging one of the collared house slaves she could expect to provide oral services for Shannon or me. What goes around comes around, and this time I would be the fuckee rather than the fucker, even if sometimes my penis ended up inside a free woman who wanted a living vibrator. No surprise there, but still depressing.

*****

(

Shannon's perspective

)

Our first days at our new location were very similar to our existence at the Spinning Wheel Ranch—we were treated mostly as horses in the sense that we were kept bound most of the day, except when confined to spartan stalls, and exercised regularly pulling sulkies either on a racetrack or over country paths. The only difference from the ranch appeared to be in what happened AFTER each race. Any pony who lost a race, even a practice heat, was likely to find himself or herself bent at the waist over a low section of fence, with arms still secured behind the back and booted ankles zip-tied wide apart. Three guesses what happened next. The wranglers (for a practice heat) or some frustrated high roller (after an official race) used any of the pony's openings they felt like having. I wasn't too comfortable when someone substituted his prick for my tail plug, but by now I had come to enjoy submissive sex so much that it didn't seem like much of a punishment to get spit-roasted after losing!

I rarely got the chance to talk to my brother, but I could tell that this treatment, especially the prospect of some free male sodomizing him, disgusted him. Fortunately, the first time he lost a race, he only had to suck one dick while a female wrangler used a strap-on to milk his cum. He was much more interested in the reward for winning: When a pony boy won his race, he was sometimes (not always—the old intermittent reinforcement trick) allowed to mount a pony girl, either on a mounting rack or as sloppy seconds/thirds/fourths for the girl who had lost a race. I was terrified that Sean, being as blindly horny as I was, might shaft me! I don't know whether it was by accident or because we were so obviously related, but somehow we avoided incest. At least, I THINK we avoided it—sometimes I was so pre-occupied by the guy face-fucking me that I wasn't sure who was taking either of my other holes . . .

Of course, I've never heard of actual racehorses who were also used as sex objects, and in my case gang-banged by the attendants, customers, or other horses. I certainly did NOT experience any of the kindness I had occasionally encountered at the Spinning Wheel. These wranglers treated us as true sub-human animals. Although they never said anything, I couldn't help feeling that some of the minority group people simply regarded it as their right to play with the Caucasian slaves, especially females like me. I can't say I resented that attitude, but it was uncomfortable to say the least. ESPECIALLY when some big-dicked fucker corn-holed me.

Fortunately, I guess, I had learned to run fairly well and my brother and I each won several races, first in training and then in front of crowds. That, in turn, seemed to earn us better treatment—I still got fondled and fucked occasionally, not to mention being casually described as slut, whore, bimbo, etc.—but at least they seemed to allow us sufficient sleep to perform well. The insults no longer bothered me; truth to tell, I was so eager for sex and so deep into slave mind that most of their terms accurately described me!

Apparently, whoever operated this resort rotated the inventory to stimulate patron interest in the races. At least, I guess that's why, after several weeks of constant racing and intermittent spit-roasting and face-fucking, one day all the tack (except the shock collar) was removed and I found myself cleaning rooms and making beds in the casino hotel. By this time, I had almost forgotten that I COULD talk, and tended to stomp my foot for "yes" even when the head of housekeeping gave me instructions. He didn't mind that, because I was so well-trained by then that, at a single gesture or command, I would kneel down to suck him off while looking up worshipfully into his eyes as if I enjoyed his magic sausage and tasty jism. (Yeah, looking back at it the thought of how submissive I had become is somewhat embarrassing. On the other hand, I know a sure-fire method to get almost any guy to do what I want!)

After perhaps four months (total, in two locations) as a pony girl, I had become accustomed to being "dressed"—if you can call it that—like a pony, with three-quarters of my breasts on display in a bustier-kind-of-thing, most of my well-tanned butt sticking out, and no use of my arms or hands. But suddenly I was restored to almost human level, wearing nothing but my collar and a very short, almost transparent apron as I moved throughout the hotel cleaning rooms. It was OK most of the time, when the halls were largely empty, but occasionally I'd encounter a guest who couldn't resist the opportunity to plow a well-built blonde, often in holes that were off-limits on his wife or girlfriend. I welcomed the sex itself, but that usually meant re-making the bed after I had just changed the sheets! Still, I was so deep into bimbo slave mind that I usually enjoyed getting more dick, even if some of these guys couldn't keep it up long enough to get me off. Besides, the head of housekeeping, Master Bill, periodically reminded me (usually while painting my face with his less-than-appetizing spew) of the standing instructions for all slaves, to "make the guests as comfortable and happy as possible, without regard to your personal preferences."

(

Sean O'Brien's perspective

)

Like my sister, after months as a racing pony it felt odd to resume the ONLY slightly-subhuman status of a slave working in housekeeping. At first, I missed the opportunity to mount young women whom I had bested at racing, but soon discovered that there were more than a few female visitors who admired my pony-hardened muscles. Apparently, some women suffer from the gambling equivalent of "golf widows," where they husbands bring them along to gambling resorts and then in effect abandon them for hours of (usually fruitless) gambling. After taking in a few shows and trying out the buffet, the ladies start to notice the abundance of slaves available to entertain them. Within my first two weeks working as a housekeeper, I encountered four occasions where a female guest demanded that I bring her off orally while she was lying in bed or even getting a massage. One ripe, middle-aged woman, as soon as her hubby departed for the gaming tables, boldly grabbed my dick and led me into her bedroom for a fast fuck. Master Bill, the head of housekeeping, knew what was going on and told me that he would do his best to protect me if any guests complained about my sexual service, but the smart money was for me to get in, climb on, get her off, and leave as quickly as possible! If I got a little enjoyment in the process, it was fine with him. I had a few close calls but generally got away with servicing the ladies.

There were downsides, as well, of which the least important was that it was difficult for me to service some of the older and (to be blunt) uglier guests. Eventually I learned that almost every woman had some attractive attribute—smile, eyes, voice, butt, or boob—on which I could focus and psych myself into being aroused enough to lick or dick her to climax. I soon felt like a slave gigolo, and recalled with chagrin how I had casually used our house slaves when I was an inexperienced teenager who got himself off roughly without caring whether he left the unfortunate slut frustrated and humiliated.

Things were even worse when, on fortunately-rare occasions, I became the target of MALE guests. Most of the male visitors were eager to dominate and violate good-looking female slaves, to the point where I almost cold-cocked some arrogant bastard who demanded that poor Shannon kneel down in a public hallway and swallow his come.

Naturally, it got worse when some clown wanted to make himself feel like a "man" by dominating and emasculating a handsome young slave (me, sorry about the arrogance but that's the way I was often described). I'm not talking about love between gay people, who are entitled to happiness so long as it's consensual. Rather, there were bullies who at least CLAIMED they were heterosexual but wanted to express their dominance by imposing themselves on defenseless slaves. I understand that many rapists attack women not primarily for the sensuality but rather to assert the same kind of perverse control, forcing their victims. Yeech. I quickly realized that all women and all slaves deserve some basic human dignity regardless of their helplessness.

Having to suck a guy off or (worse still) offer my ass to him was one of the most abhorrent things I have ever done, and thank heavens it didn't happen more often. One pair of "he-men" kept taunting me, making me beg to be sodomized at both ends by their (frankly puny) cocks. I had to do it, even though I practically retched in the bathroom afterwards. I memorized their faces, and if I ever meet them after I regain my freedom they will end up in a hospital if only to protect other slaves.

*****

(

Shannon's perspective

)

Our supervisor, Master Bill, often tapping his own gilt-edged name tag while advising us, "When in doubt, always obey someone wearing one of these name tags." That applied even more when, on rare occasions such as weekend evenings, the management decided that it needed more drink waitresses and just plain decorative sluts inside the casino itself. The only difference in my appearance from maid to waitress was that I got a tiny loincloth and a pair of pasties to conceal my private parts in case any minors wandered through (plus a pair of four-inch heels, which weren't too bad after months in horseshoe boots)—which didn't prevent any of the customers from groping, goosing, and finger-fucking the half-naked, collared slut as she tried desperately not to offend them nor to spill the drinks on a serving platter.

The first time, I got about 10 minutes (each) of instruction from a (free and rather arrogant) head bartender named Jake and an older, worldly, and MUCH more clothed, brunette-haired bar waitress who told me how to describe a drink order in a standard sequence (type, glass or container, special liquor, decorations) to the bartender and then deliver the drinks to the customers and collect the fee without either offending the customers or losing the money. Without pen and paper I had to memorize drink orders and keep track of what was owed—NOT an easy task for someone like me who had never been a waitress and was terminally handicapped by being a nearly-nude slave. When I had been a free, clothed woman, I had had no trouble controlling guys who tried to get too physical, but now I could neither resist nor criticize.

To be honest, Ruth the waitress was a big help. I eventually learned that she had started out as a slave waitress, but when she regained her freedom she decided to stay on doing the same job except that now she raked in monetary tips instead of the dicks (both penile and dick-heads) that the slaves had to deal with. Late at night, when we were finally done cleaning and could put our feet up for a few minutes before she returned me to my kennel, Mistress Ruth admitted that some of the testosterone-driven customers found it a greater challenge to talk a free woman into bed instead of simply ordering slave girls to service them. She rarely cooperated, usually choosing handsome and polite guys over rich but obnoxious high-rollers.

*****

Of course, some horny guys were happy to settle for the "sure thing" of a slave slut like me; This was one of the many times during my year in a collar that I privately regretted being the well-built blonde that so many men sought out to make up for their high school inability to date a cheerleader! Almost inevitably, on my third weekend as a slave server, I encountered someone I had known myself in those days, a guy from two classes ahead of me. Back then, Mike Lefkowitz hadn't been a nerd, but neither was he a handsome sports star whom I might consider dating. And he knew it, too, keeping his distance from the cheerleaders. The moment I recognized him, I frantically searched my memory as to whether I had ever turned him down for a date or otherwise insulted him. I couldn't recall any specific interaction, nor did he remind me of any specific incident. Nonetheless, he recognized me immediately and wouldn't accept my stumbling attempts to deny our acquaintance. Besides, I noticed that he wore one of the gilt-edged management name tags (reading simply "Mr. Mike Lefkowitz"), so I had no choice but to be obedient and yielding.

"Oh, come on, Shannon," he said with a calm self-confidence I didn't remember. "We both know you were the hottest girl in your class, two years behind mine. I wasn't the type you would ever date, but we were even in homeroom together, so don't bother to deny it." Glancing at my mostly-exposed breasts, he continued, "I'm happy to see more of you, even if it is under strange circumstances."

"No, Master," I dutifully replied, lowering my eyes to the level of his nametag. "How may I serve you?"

"THAT's the right attitude," he replied, chuckling. "I'm a management intern here for the summer, so just assume that I'm doing research on our personnel ASSets," he remarked, gently cupping my butt cheek as he finished the sentence. I stood there, frozen with indecision, when fortunately, Jake the head bartender intervened, having seen that someone wearing a management nametag was clearly focused on me.

"Has this slut offended you or failed to provide proper service, sir?" Jake asked very respectfully, being careful not to assume that just because the suit was very young-looking he was unimportant.

"Not at all, or at least not yet," Master Mike replied, just a hint of disapproval in his voice. "Can you spare her for a few hours so that I can interview her in depth?"

Having seen too many slaves diverted to such personal "interviews," which usually involved using their mouths for something other than talking, and examining them to a "depth" of 8 inches, Jake had a visibly hard time not rolling his eyes, but managed to keep a straight face. "Not at all, Sir," he replied. "Will an hour be sufficient, or do you want to check her out until tomorrow at 8 a.m., when she's scheduled to clean guest rooms?"

My erstwhile equal, looking remarkably handsome and in charge, pretended to ponder the question before allowing, with a twinkle in his eye, that he probably needed until tomorrow morning. After that, there was no more to be said, as he led me to a small efficiency apartment in the neighboring staff building. There he offered me a drink of water and politely asked me to kneel down in front of his chair.