Trying on a Collar

(This story is set 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—I do not condone slavery or forced sex in the real world.)

George Bush International Airport, May 17. I was the only one on the airplane who WASN'T in a hurry to get off. My sophomore year in college was over, as were the 10 days I got to spend with my parents in upstate New York. Now I was looking down the barrel of three-plus months of full-time "personal service" for my college roommate's mother, Anne Foster, here in Houston. And that personal service contract meant being Free In Name Only (FINO), wearing nothing but a collar while I served as a de facto slave in the household. Serving my roommate, Pam, was fine because she was affectionate, if bossy; serving her older brother, Jessie, was thrilling, because I loved being a submissive sex object with my considerate boyfriend. But serving the servants? Not fun. Worse than that, today was the day that the youngest child in the family, George, would turn 18, and guess who was going to be his sex-toy present? Shudder.

Pam met me at the baggage carousels. There was no real reason for me to bring bags, of course, but I couldn't explain to my Mom that her only child was about to spend the summer as a naked slut, so I had a full set of clothing that would stay in the bags. Pam hugged me and we walked outside the terminal, where Hugo the chauffeur picked us up. Hugo was very polite and efficient, putting my bags into the trunk, but as soon as we left the airport, Pam turned to me and gently suggested that I "get changed."

No sense worrying about Hugo looking in the rear-view mirror—he'd already seen me slave naked in March, not to mention repeatedly feeling me up and even once getting a blowjob from me. I gritted my teeth and pulled off my travelling clothes, which Pam put into a large tote bag. Finished, I knelt on the floor, which at least meant I was not visible from outside, while Pam buckled a slave collar around my neck. For the rest of the trip we had what sounded like a normal conversation between close friends—except that she was petting my head like a dog as I knelt next to her, slave naked in the back seat.

When we got to the house, she smuggled me quickly through the kitchen door into her room. The good news was that I would spend the afternoon there, out of sight; the bad news was that about 7:30 p.m. I would be delivered to George's room to await the birthday boy. In the interim, with Pam's permission, I took a nap in my cage, then lubed up both of my passages and planted a large plug in my butt, stretching me for the coming ordeal. (I had been wearing similar plugs at home for most of my vacation.)

7:25. Pam tied a huge red bow connecting the nipple rings she had forced me to get at school, then led me quietly to her brother's room. Inside, I "assumed the position" on the floor, facing the door—knees at a 45-degree angle allowing full frontal view of my body, fingers interlaced behind my neck, and a fake smile on my face. Pam also left a pair of handcuffs and a large supply of lubricated condoms on the bed behind me. George knew I had signed a FINO personal services contract, but he'd never seen me in slave mode before, so I wasn't sure how he'd react.

7:33. I needn't have worried. The moment he opened his bedroom door, a huge smile spread across his face. (What more would an 18-year-old guy want for his birthday, if not a naked sex slave, with C-cup boobs, kneeling in his bedroom?) Before I could lose my nerve, I firmly announced "Happy Birthday, Master. How may I serve you?" I tried to sound enthusiastic, even though I was dreading the whole thing.

He must have expected something like this--Pam had told me that his mother warned him not to mistreat his present. Anyway, he didn't hesitate any longer than was necessary to close and lock the door behind him. Then he pulled his desk chair in front of me, unzipped, and pulled out a prick that was already half-erect as he sat down. Perhaps it wasn't quite as big as his brother's but it was still substantial and (thank heavens) it seemed clean.

"Suck my cock, Slut." He said with only a slight tinge of excitement. Deep breath—time to earn my salary by providing some very personal services. I was awkward for the first few seconds, kissing and licking the head of his excited ram before taking most of it into my mouth while running my tongue along the bottom side. Then I dared to break position enough to cup his balls and the base of his cock with my hands—he groaned quietly and leaned forward so he could fondle my breasts. Somewhere, this young man had learned something about women, for he was much gentler than I had expected, drawing a matching groan from me, only mine was muffled by a mouthful of still-expanding cock. I would much rather have been worshipping his brother, but suddenly this evening seemed a lot more enjoyable.

As if he could read my mind, he calmly explained that "I've had a lot of time to explore my girlfriend's boobs, but I'd never dare order her to suck me off. Besides, your tits are bigger!" I paused in my swallowing, backed off until my mouth was almost empty, and mumbled a smiling "Thank you, Master," before returning to my task.

For the next several minutes, both pairs of hands and my tongue and lips were busy causing mutual pleasure. For once, the "adoring look up into his eyes" really just an act to get the guy off-I was having fun, even if not as much a he. I could feel a pulse in his fully-erect shaft and I began rhythmically sucking on it as rapidly as I could—and was soon rewarded with a blast of salty jism. He ordered me to swallow and keep licking him. He never went soft! Within five minutes he was stiffening again—either he'd been avoiding masturbation for weeks, or the guy had incredible powers of recuperation/refraction.

"Five-minute break!" George announced. "Go use the new bottle of mouthwash in my bathroom, tinkle if you need to, and then get back here, on your back in the bed." How considerate, although perhaps he wanted to avoid smelling my cum breath. I was no longer acting when I replied, as enthusiastically as possible, "Thank you, Master" and rushed to do his bidding.

When I returned, he was still sitting in his desk chair, but had stripped naked, sheathed himself in a condom, and was playing with the handcuffs. I dutifully laid myself out on his bed, arms above my head, and was not surprised when he bent over me and cuffed my wrists to his headboard. Then for the first time George acted in the hasty manner I had expected of a young man, crawling on the bed and thrusting my thighs apart roughly with his knees. Even then, however, he paused for a moment, playing with my breasts and the entrance to my vagina for about a minute before ramming in. Inevitably, the first thrust was not quite lined up, causing me to squeak when that battering rod just missed my opening. But he recovered quickly, seizing my shoulders and rolling himself into me. In three quick pushes he plunged up to the hilt, then began tonguing my nipples as he quickly built up to a frantic pace. I have to admit that I was thrilled by his assault, but my body couldn't react as quickly as his could. It seemed like less than two minutes before he collapsed on top of me, obviously climaxing, which of course left me frustrated. He climbed off my helpless body, and I resigned myself to a disappointing ending after a promising start to the evening.

Until, that is, I saw him swallow a little blue pill! While he waited, he sat beside me, first wiping me off and then slowly, gently, fondling every inch of my body. Within five minutes, his cock began to rise again, which can't have been due solely to the pill.

"Slave fours," he ordered—with difficulty, because my hands were still cuffed to the headboard, I rolled over onto knees and elbows, head down and tush high in the approved Slave 4s position. Two sharp but not really painful slaps struck my butt cheeks. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him slide two condoms, one on top of the other, onto his prick. Then he was between my thighs, taking me doggie style. This time he was much more deliberate, pumping slowly while reaching around to my boobs and (thankfully) my clit. He lasted much longer, all the while telling me what a beautiful slut, fantastic fuck, and so on I was. It would have been flattering, except that I think he would have said the same thing to ANY woman who allowed him total access to her body!

Speaking of total access, you guessed it—after about ten minutes of steadily shafting me, he suddenly pulled out, reared back on his knees, and used a hand to push my lower cheeks apart. He plucked the black plug out of me and replaced it, abruptly, with the head of his cock. It stung slightly, but once he was inside, he showed remarkable restraint, slowly working himself up into my lubricated colon until I felt his thighs flush against my rear end. He paused for 30 seconds, all the time describing how tight my ass was—as if I didn't feel it! Then he began pumping in the same, slow rhythm he had just used in my front passage. I was soon out of control, giving out a constant slow moan and even pushing back to hurry his entrances. He had already gotten me most of the way to arousal, and now the sensation of being occupied so thoroughly while he played with my clit sent me over into a slavegasm—followed quickly by his own discharge. He was so far inside me that it felt as if, had he not been wearing the condoms, it would have surged out of my mouth!

For the next five or ten minutes, he remained collapsed on my back still firmly plugged into my innards, while we both struggled to regain our breath. Then he slowly climbed off me, shuffled off to the bathroom, and returned with a warm cloth to clean me off again. Finally, he uncuffed me, telling me to take care of myself and then return.

A few minutes later, I dutifully knelt beside the bed to await further instructions. He wasn't interested in such formality, however, but directed me to crawl into bed with him, where he spooned behind me. He was actually very sweet, apologizing if he had hurt me. I knew that slaves were always supposed to flatter their masters' performance, but in this case he had done remarkably well for a first timer. I murmured various affirmations about his prowess as we drifted off the sleep, his hand slowly playing with my hair.

Needless to say, my night was interrupted repeatedly. Just when I seemed to be well asleep, I found myself awakened by a gentle screwing one time and instructions to blow him another time. He finally released me about 8:00 a.m., and I dragged myself into the kitchen expecting to be put to work as a cleaner. Instead, Stephen showed a rare bit of humanity—he took one look at me, told me to eat breakfast (which the cook had kept warm for me) and then go sleep in my cage for the day!

I was still in love with George's older brother, but had to admit that the young guy was a good fuck buddy. The problem, of course, was that as the house slave I was in theory available to him all the time, and he was fascinated with his newest toy. Over the next week, George commandeered me as a sex toy at least four times, in each instance for several hours. I said nothing, but Stephen understandably objected to losing my services as household worker—and I dared not tell Jessie what his little brother was doing to me! Fortunately, their mother Anne finally issued a Solomon-like decree that gave me to Jessie every Wednesday (for his 24 hours off from the night shift at the slave market) and to George every Saturday night (when the staff didn't have to get up early on Sundays.) I certainly got a workout from both of my Masters. Occasionally on other days, George would demand a blowjob in the afternoons, after the rooms were cleaned, but that gave my other openings time to recover. I wondered whether other upper-class guys in Texas got the same access to nubile slaves when they turned 18. Once again, the "little Yankee girl" of modest parentage felt like she was through the looking glass as a FINO slave in the South.

At least, the open secret that the two sons of the family were both plowing me at every opportunity put a damper on the staff using me as a plaything, although occasionally, when the family went out together, Stephen would declare an oral night where I got to service all comers (pun intended) of both sexes. They weren't cruel about it, giving me lots to drink which helped keep up the saliva level. And, once I'd been handed around between their bedrooms, the three women and two men were much kinder to me for the following ten days or so.

For the next six weeks, I fell into the odd rhythm of being the house slave—little oral Shirley, Wednesdays with my boyfriend and Saturday nights with my new master, in between cleaning and submitting to everyone. I do NOT subscribe to the myth that most woman want to be dominated by men. Heck, besides me, the only woman I'd ever discussed such ideas with was Pam. She was much more assertive than I, and would probably castrate anyone who tried to "tame her," although even she had confessed to occasional daydreams of submitting to a guy for an evening. Nor could I discuss my situation in detail with her—no young woman wants to hear about how her brothers perform in bed! What I do know was that working as a naked maid five long days a week seemed like a fair trade to me: I got to spend evenings relaxing with my BFF, who occasionally wanted me to act as her personal maid but was always friendly and kind. Almost every Wednesday was a 24-hour pass from the huge house, spending time with my romantic boyfriend who, in between making love to me, had intellectual discussions and marathon cuddling sessions. Then on Saturday nights his Ever-Ready Bunny of a younger brother fulfilled many of my fantasies of sexual bondage, restraining me in innovative positions after which he pounded each of my openings until my few slave brains dribbled out. Wow—I learned the real meaning of "slave stupid" while storing up a lifetime of masturbation memories.

Occasionally, Mrs. Foster would take me out in public on a leash when she wanted to play grand dame in some upscale shopping mall or social locale. Being left in the slave waiting room at her country club was always nerve-wracking, because the newly-18 year old scions of the rich families sometimes came by to fondle the slaves who were cuffed and leashed there, but I learned to smile and live with it. Once George accompanied his mother and her slave to the club, where he proudly showed me off to his friends, insisting that I service him orally while they watched. At least he didn't share me with them! I daydreamed about a future in which I was married to Jessie—how would I ever face George as his equal? Would other people recognize the newest Mrs. Foster (or rather, Shirley Thompson-Foster) as the naked slave meat they'd toyed with?

*****

Then came the Fourth of July weekend. The staff spent the entire previous week preparing for a huge garden party and cookout, which meant even more undesirable tasks for the collared slut, including cleaning under and behind all the appliances in the kitchen and then climbing on a step-stool to dust light fixtures (which left me conveniently displayed when a servant or George passed by). The day before the party, I got a brief reprieve, as Mistress Pam took me on a leash to have my hair and nails done at a shop for beautifying slaves. I should have felt odd, being led around in public by my BFF, but by now I was inured to most of this strange existence. On the day of the party, I was told to wear a clear plastic, full-length apron—it didn't conceal anything, of course, but did protect me from the hot stove in the kitchen and ensured that I didn't drip on the food I served.

Mrs. Foster had also contracted for two rent-a-slaves, similarly aproned, to help serve her many guests. I'm not being catty when I say that these two middle-aged Latinas, while perfectly presentable and genuinely nice people, got a lot less attention than the 20-year-old Anglo slut.

If I thought it was distracting for Hugo the chauffeur to feel me up, that was a walk in the park compared to the dozens of male guests, ranging in age from barely-18 to 80-plus, who seemed to line up for the privilege of grabbing, goosing, slapping, and generally teasing my body while I tried not to spill drinks and hors d'oeuvres. At least the apron made it somewhat more difficult for them to reach my vulva and breasts, although they certainly tried.

The biggest offender was one Richard Hartwick, a fifty-something chief executive of an oil company whose bulk was exceeded only by his voice and his ego. You know the type—reasonably intelligent and effective, but thinks he's God's gift to the entire world, always trying to one-up people as if he were in a locker room instead of a boardroom or (in this case) a drawing room. Evidently, Mr. Foster had invited him to the party because they were in the midst of a major negotiation, so Mrs. Foster tried to be cordial even though he was clearly too brash and uncouth for her (which is saying something, recalling that she had been a slave lap-dancer in a club when she was young!).

I had never seen Mr. Foster drunk, but I have to assume he'd had one too many drinks that day, because of what happened next. Hartwick was enthusiastically and graphically describing what he wanted to do to me, inquiring where the Fosters had bought me. If he weren't such a complete anal orifice, I would have been flattered when he inquired whether I was a "Sandy Foot Girl"—by now, even I knew that "Sandy Foot Girl" was a trademark of the Big D Livestock and Slave Market in Dallas. The Big D always claimed that its livestock were the finest pleasure sluts in the state, so for mousy little Shirley to be described as one was quite surprising. Still, since he had repeatedly fondled my ass, he should have noticed the absence of a "D" brand there.

But then Mr. Foster made the mistake of telling him that I was actually his daughter's college roommate, a FINO woman on a personal services contract. That tore it. My slave psychiatrist, Doctor Sheldon, had written that too many guys were determined to bed women who were free—even if only nominally so. In a world where attractive "slave pussy" [sorry, that's what it's called] could be bought, sold, and ravaged without remorse, there was a certain zing for guys who still wanted the "thrill" of "conquering" free women—which often meant sexually harassing female subordinates and blackmailing them into sex. So, the fact that I was contractually obligated to "put out" for anyone my employer wished just made it easy for Hartwick to get what he wanted. How often does a 50-something guy, however powerful, get the chance to sexually assault a college girl without fear of repercussions?

I had work to do, so I couldn't hang around to listen to supposedly-private conversations. The next day, however, I was dismayed but not surprised when Mr. and Mrs. Foster summoned me to their home office. He was still under the weather, and she was obviously upset that he had blabbed about my contract. Long story short, Hartwick had told him that he wanted a sweetener if he was to agree to the contract they were negotiating—and I was to be the sweetener. Mr. Foster began to apologize for the whole thing, wishing he could find some other way. I politely tried to interrupt him:

"With all due respect, Master, please don't concern yourself about it. I know that slaves are often used as sexual favors to expedite business, and of course I am at your service. I'm nervous about the whole thing, but I knew this might happen when I signed the contract, and I trust both of you to do what is right. May I have permission to lubricate myself beforehand?"