The Vacation
by counterparts199
This is fantasy. Duh!
Week One
I can't believe this is happening. The ocean is so blue, and the sky so wide,
as if mocking the true purpose of my visit. Over the edge of the peer,
seashells are clinging for life to the shallowest rocks and rotting wooden
supports. It's a perfect day for the vacationers. I suppose that means it
looks like a perfect day for me too. I don't know. I suppose so, it being the
fulfillment of some of those dreams in the back of my head. The Mexican sun is
so perfect, and the sound the of the waves are hypnotically musical, like me,
autopilot.
There, off to the southeast comes the boat. It's red, and I know that's my
ship. Everything I own is in my duffel. Inside several pair of socks are sixty
thousand dollar in relatively small bills; the sum of my worth, and more; a
shoebox of laundered money passed on to me by the contact. I didn't look inside
to find out how much was in the shoebox; I didn't want to know. Good thing it's
easier getting out of America than in.
--------------------------------------------------
I'd read about the Mistress in a femdom magazine. In fact, several of them had
the ad, which ran for several months. To be accurate, the ad itself never
mentioned the ship; that came later. Some lady was offering a 7/24 femdom
experience on a farm in Kentucky. I remember seeing an ad nearly like it a
decade and a half earlier. It could have been the same lady, because her new
picture was very middle aged, which added to the sense of reality in my mind.
I'd always thought a down home ad like hers most likely to be real. I mean, a
woman who has found herself in charge of a farm by her lonesome would definitely
be compelled to search out cheap labor. Most farms are at least a two person
enterprise. A farm just seems the perfect haven for a practical femdom
relationship to develop, assuming the owner was able to overcome the more
conservative mindset of most rural people.
I'd just gotten over another failed marriage, and was looking for something
completely unconventional. It was my third. I'd always wanted both things; a
steady, loving relationship to save me from the kinky sexual moments. At first,
that's the way it was, but then in all three marriages my kinkyness was
gradually redefined as in the way. I'd compromise, and try to hide my
compulsions more each year until the end. I guess a person either has one or
the other, I was thinking when I answered the ad, though half expecting just
another hooker reply to discard. I'd had half a life of normal, along with the
turmoil of my fetishes being in the way. If that was such a failure, it seemed
only right to just let the other side take over. I wanted to be a slave - not
all the time - but if that was the best I could do, fine. At least when I
wanted to be a slave, I thought I wanted to be one all the time, so maybe it had
at least as much of a chance of working as the other thing.
The reply came with an offer for some weekend trials. Another hooker, was my
first thought, but then the expenses seemed too low for that. I was to pay my
transportation, and then only pay for my room and board, a modest fifty dollars
for the whole weekend. There wasn't even a menu of kinks. I was just to show
up and be ready to work. No call was necessary. If I showed, I showed. If
not, no problem. I was kind of amazed. She sent a picture. The lady wasn't
very good looking in the plain paper copy picture she sent. She was kind of odd
shaped, to be honest, a little round in the middle, with large thighs, and
everything else thin. She was only five feet two, and dressed down in jeans.
Her face was a little wrinkled, and definitely over forty. I thought, wow, this
is so unprofessional. I loved it. I just decided then and there I was going to
go down to her place and check in, Kentucky being only one state south.
I followed the map, ending up down a mile of dirt road before finding her place.
It was, incredibly, a farm. She had tons of corn, about a foot high. Off to
the side, an acre of tobacco showed off its fat leaves. Imagine, I was about to
bang on a female dominant's rickety wooden screen door, and I was thinking how
immoral tobacco was. Well, I countered to myself, last time I checked, femdom
hadn't killed four hundred thousand Americans a year. She came to the door in
jeans, plaid shirt and an apron, drying her hands.
"Yes?"
"I'm here from the ad. I responded last week. Jackson," I said, not sure if I
should be specific in case this was some former lover's idea of a bad joke.
"Oh yes. The prospective slave with the interesting comments about being
married three times. Well, come on in. I don't bite ... at least not yet.
Here. You might as well go ahead and take this for starters. I've been working
myself to death lately," she said plainly, but with a decidedly Kentucky accent.
She removing her apron and handing it to me. I took the gift, thinking her
really comfortably informal as I was guided into the dining room and offered a
seat.
"Why do you want to be a slave?" She asked when we were seated.
"I've tried regular relationships, and haven't been very good at it. I mean, to
me I think I treat women well, but they just see that missing part of me, and
rebel against being dominant. Women think they aren't wanted if they offer
themselves up as equal lovers and it's seemingly not enough for them just to
take on a more one sided basis. So that just widens until there eventually is
nothing left. Well, that's a theory anyway. To be honest, you'd be doing the
world a favor taking me out of circulation before I ruin some other woman's
Cinderella dream. I mean, they all hate me, and I'm a peaceful person down
inside, so that hurts to feel like I do about how I've changed them, if you know
what I mean."
"That's really interesting that you've looked at it that way, and given it so
much thought. Most men just want to have things done to them, you know, whips,
heels, wax; stuff like that. I'm not promising anything specific like that,
other than that I'll be the one in control. That's the boring basics and it's
not negotiable."
"Sounds delightful."
"Well, OK then. Let's get started. I'll show you around, and clue you in on
some of the work. You can call me Mistress Christina. I'll just call you slave
fifteen. We'll see how things go," said Mistress Christina, getting up and
signaling that negotiations were done.
I was ready. I got up and followed her around. She'd been doing dishes, and
said that's why I needed the apron, and that was where I'd start. She showed me
the cleaning supplies, and then the barn. There were tons of things to do in
the barn, and she implied that, that was where she really needed the labor the
most. I'd been right, I told myself; this was a practical setting for a woman
to make good use of a man like me.
"What happened to slaves one through fourteen, Mistress," I asked a few hours
later when she came to inspect my work mucking out the horse rental lofts.
"Don't worry about that. It's enough to know that those were the guys who made
it. Maybe I'll fill you in when I decide that you're equally competent slave
material. Fact is, most men do this for a day and just get in their cars and
leave. They're married, or just looking for a new thing to do. If you do that,
the next guy is slave fifteen too, cause I don't want to be calling anyone slave
four hundred, sixty-three. It's kind of ridiculous. Just like everything else,
you have to earn your number for keepsies around here," said the somewhat
delightful Mistress Christina. I mean, I just loved the way she was so
comfortable with this, and not all showy like some plastic professional on a
video.
None-the-less, I never stopped wondering about where slaves one through fourteen
were. I mean, I couldn't be the only guy serious about this; the ad had run too
long in too many papers. And she was so easy to get along with, comfortable
like a wife Mistress, my own prospective on utopia. I did suspect she'd been
that same lady of a decade and a half ago. I guess they just got tired of it,
or she of them, I convinced myself, tiring as well after a long first day of
hard labor.
There was a bedroom for visitors, clean as was everything else, so I sacked out,
and tense as ever, got up with the sun. She'd not spent any time on anything
sexual, so I put on my apron, and went to work cleaning the already fairly tidy
kitchen. After awhile I looked up and she was yawning at the kitchen door. Her
hair was off to one side, and she was in slippers and a housecoat. Very cute
for a lady who was at least as old as I was.
"You still here then?"
"Yes, Mistress Christina, as long as it's OK with you?"
"Oh, sure, slave fifteen. I've just had a run of bad luck. You really can't
tell who will or who won't. I've seen every kind stay and every kind go. No
FBI profiles on the physical first impressions when it comes to slave material,
as far as I can tell. So, did you like working for me yesterday?" She asked.
"Oh yes. You know what I like the most about you ..." I started to ask, being
interrupted.
"Don't get all mushy, lovie dovie on me, slave," she warned.
"Oh no. I was just going to say, Mistress, that I like the way you are casual
about it. It's a very turn-on aspect for me personally," I confessed.
"Hum. Well then, fix me some eggs, and bacon, and two pieces of toast with
butter. And a Coke. I hate coffee. I'll take it in the living room," she
said, unleaning from the door, and walking away.
Oh god. This felt so perfect. I made her breakfast, and served her with a TV
tray.
She said, after eating the first bite, "You have a little gut on you. All
you'll need is some toast and water. I'll see if you have initiative and can
figure out what on the list of things you did yesterday needs doing again today.
After that you can get a rope, go down in that old well out back, and start
cleaning that out. There's a flashlight in the shed. Oh, and lose the pants.
I like watching a man's busy butt."
"Yes, Mistress Christina," I said, going to a second day of labor.
I worked in my socks, shoes and shirt, feeling ridiculous, but comforted by the
fact that I was in the country at least. Then, that night, just before supper,
she handed me my pants.
"See you next week if you like. If not, it would upset me, but I'd get over it.
Just remember, it gets more interesting as it goes along, slave fifteen. There
have been fourteen guys who can definitely vouch for that. Oh, and the fifty
bucks. Here's my gas bill. Pay it instead," she said, showing me out the door.
I walked to my car, fidgeting with my belt, and opening the gas bill. It was
for forty-three dollars; the budget plan. She definitely wasn't in it for the
money. Then again, what exactly was I in it for? She'd not shown one inch of
unorthodox flesh, and not even smacked me with a ping pong paddle. Just plain,
Kentucky blue grass work. This was just so different, I had to think about it.
Maybe it wasn't for me? I drove home, to my peaceful, now bachelor, pad, kind
of glad to be home.
The Vacation
Week Two
All week long I thought about it, and then found myself back on the highway
south early Saturday. In Cincinnati I called her, and told her I was coming.
She seemed a little happy to hear that, so I drove on, bingeing out on sweets
all the way because I knew how one sided she had been with the good food last
time.
"Come on in, slave fifteen. I thought you might be back," she said, already at
the door; same jeans and shirt, but her hair up in a bun.
"How did you know that, Mistress Christina?" I asked, taking the apron and
tying it on.
"Well, because you made the whole two days for one. So, let's have a talk,
shall we?" she offered, leading me to through the dining room this time, and
into the smaller and less formal kitchen. The place was not nearly as tidy this
week, I thought as I walked through the rooms.
"Oh, take off your shoes, socks and pants. There you go. Oh, and the boxers.
Hee. There we are. Lift the apron, will you, I want to see what you have."
This was a whole new side of her, I thought, lifting my apron, and immediately
feeling embarrassed at this close range of scrutiny by this lady whom I was
beginning to understand had several undiscovered gears in her.
"Not much there, I'm afraid. Huh. Well, let's sit and talk about what is
happening," she offered, sitting down across from me at the little two person
table.
"Uh, well," I began, when she didn't, and still a little embarrassed about the
'not much there' comment.
"How much do you want to be a slave, fifteen?" She said when I paused.
"I, well, a lot, Mistress," I said.
"I am recruiting a man who is willing to become a slave, body, mind and soul.
Do you have any thoughts on that, slave boy?"
"You want the whole package; maybe someone you can trust, and who will be there
for you, and who is willing to do everything you ask," I rambled.
"Very cliché. I have read about people who tell their Mistress that they will
do anything for her, and then the story rambles on about beatings or oral sex,
or bi experiences. Sometimes watersports. I read some of those papers I've
advertised in. I might be the only woman who ever has, but I do," she said.
"What do you think about them," I asked curiously.
"Well, they're nice, but it's kind of silly. Really, it's just women doing
things to guys; things that are turning them on, regardless of how much they
propose to be protesting. It's like every one of them is some kind of whore or
john, if you ask me, not that I don't find some of it titillating."
"Good observation, if you don't mind the thoughts of a slave, Mistress
Christina."
"So, what does it mean to be owned bodily then? Try thinking about a good
answer, and leave the bullshit in the book," scolded Christina, perhaps the
harshest thing I'd heard her say so far. I felt heat, as if her personality did
a shift.
"I would have to leave that to the Mistress, but for me, I'd imagine it means
that my flesh was hers to use. I mean, like when blacks were enslaved in
America's south. The body was there. It had to be. It couldn't just walk off.
Maybe for the strongest of the slaves, they kept their minds to themselves, but
there weren't a lot of laws there to help their bodies very much," I said.
"And so, what does that have to do with you and me?" She asked, apparently
unwilling to take the heat off of me just yet.
"Do you have a desire to own me bodily?" I asked, punting the ball back onto
her side of the field.
"I already told you. I want a slave who is willing to be my slave, body, mind
and soul. All I want to hear is how much you're willing to give me. I want to
hear an offer; what you are willing to hand over right now. Be practical. Be
real. Talk about now. Maybe later I'll ask for more," she said.
"Oh god. Well, Mistress Christina, I'd love to be worked on your farm this
weekend. I'd be willing to let you use my body like any farm animal. I want to
feel how incredible it can feel to let my flesh fall under someone's complete
control, and for someone else's total gain. I want it to be real, and not to be
just some kind of sexual moment. I don't even want to be able to leave until
it's time to go," I confessed.
"There you go. I like it when you let go. You have it in you. That's a good
start. We'll talk more about this next week then. For now, give me your shirt
and other things, and put this on," she said, reaching over to the cubbard under
the sink, and coming away with a belt with loops in it.
I took off my shirt, and handed her my clothing. Grabbing the belt, I buckled
it the only place I could imagine it went, around my waist.
"Come over here!"
I did as she commanded. Christina pulled at the belt, putting the buckle in
back instead of front. "There. Now hold out your slave hands." I did as she
commanded, and she produced a pair of handcuffs, securing one cuff to one of my
wrists. Then she looped the other cuff and chain through the loop that once had
been directly in back, but was now right under my belly button. She cuffed the
second hand, and I no longer had much mobility with my arms beyond a foot or so
right in front of my waist.
She got a second pair of cuffs from under the sink, but this pair had a four
feet of chain separating the cuffs, and the cuffs were bigger. Mistress
Christina cuffed one ankle, and then threaded the cuffs through the same big
metal loop at the front of my belt. She spun the chain around itself as she
moved it down, and then cuffed my second ankle. The spun chain going down to my
ankles looked almost like one thick chain then. I could raise my hands up only
a few inches before I felt some tug on my ankles, but if I held my hands down, I
imagined I could walk fairly competently if it wasn't fast.
"Now you can't leave until I say you can. Now ... I own your body until I
decide when or if I let it go," said Mistress Christina with a wicked little
smile on her face. "Even if your mind thinks otherwise, or your soul has some
lingering moral objections to whatever I might imagine. I'll leave you to think
about that awhile, slave fifteen. Stand in my corner over here, while you
ponder the hopelessness of your new condition," said Christina pointing the way.
I stood up, my stomach fluttering with excitement. She came over close so she
could guide my first virginal chained steps.
"I don't expect to hear a word from you. You know, I can't remember if Kentucky
was a slave state or not? Could have been, and I don't think I have a calendar
in the whole house. Yes, I think it is a slave state, after all." She leaned
right up to my ear, touching her body up against my whole side. "I mean, for
every practical purpose, it could be nineteen-twenty too, way back here in these
parts. Yes, nineteen-twenty in this slave state, and you've gone so far into
debt you've had to sell yourself to a woman. Tisk, tisk. I should feel sorry
for you, but I'm surprised to find out that I don't. In fact, the idea of using
you for my own personal gain excites me."
My chains jingled as I walked the last steps to the corner like a schoolboy.
When I'd gotten to my place, she left the room so I could think alone. My cock
was raging, a tent pole under my apron, but I managed to fight the torment and
leave it dangling inches below my hands.
I stood there until my knees hurt. My hard cock had long disappeared. Any
sexual context waned in the wings. I could see the morning pass altogether out
the window a few feet to my side. The Mistress was in the other rooms, doing
things that I tried to make out when in earshot. Then I sensed the afternoon.
Someone knocked at the front door, and I heard Mistress Christina saying hello
to a new slave. I shuffled my feet, trying not to make the chains jingle, and
feeling the very real potential for a completely new sense of embarrassment.
They'd gone to the dining room, one room away, but out of sight of me unless you
stood on the other side of the room from the table.
"So, why do you want to be a slave?" Asked Christina to the new man.
He gave a bullshit answer. I could tell in ten minutes he was one of those who
wanted to please a purely sexual fantasy. It was pathetic, but the Mistress
gave no clue that she was about to boot him out the door, as I suspected she
really wanted to. After about twenty minutes of his transparent bull, she had
him get up and take off his pants. Once that was done, she had him put on some
kind of leather cock restraint, and then led him through the kitchen by a leash
attached to his penis. He seemed surprised to see my back, though I only
chanced a quick and embarrassed glance. Mistress Christina acted as if there
was nothing unusual, not even offering a comment, when the man mentioned he'd
not known someone else was here.
When they'd gone, I cheated and watched them disappear into the barn. Christina
came out ten minutes later, and walked back into the kitchen, right by me, and
back into the main of the house, all without a comment. Oh god, I was thinking,
I'd just rather be working than standing here.
The afternoon slid by, and my stomach started to protest. Every ten minutes or
so I'd flex my legs, doing knee bends or leg lifts. When the sun was at about
twenty degrees off the horizon, I heard the front screen door open and bang
shut. A car started, and there I was, still standing in the corner with some
stranger in the barn. I peeked out the window, and saw the man in the barn
doorway, peeking down the driveway. He had a pitchfork in his hands, and I knew
he'd been working. He scratched his head, and then sat the pitchfork aside. I
lost him when he started walking around the house, so I stepped back over to my
corner. The front door opened and shut. I heard his belt jingling, and then
heard the door again. A few seconds later a car motor revved, and I suspected
the man was on his way back to wherever he'd come from.
Afternoon merged into evening. Car lights gave a light reflective haze to the
back window. The car engine stopped, and the door opened and shut. The
Mistress came into the kitchen, and put down some groceries.
"Put these away, slave. Then go back to your corner!"
"Yes, Mistress," I said in a voice that cracked from a whole day of neglect.
Then she was gone. While putting the groceries away, I could see her feet up on
a stool in the living room, just beyond the adjacent dining room. A television
glowed, and her hand periodically grabbed at a fast food drink. She'd brought
back fast food, I realized, and was doing some TV time. I got done, and went
back to my corner, hopping from leg to leg, and feeling as if just the sight of
that drink had made me suddenly in grave need of the toilet.
I got desperate, and once managed to pee into my hands, the worst part of which
was stopping myself before I overflowed. I risked going to the sink, and
carefully dumped the chained handfuls of urine, and then, after letting it drip
as much as I could, wiping the hands off on the inside of my apron. I wanted to
do it again, but felt naughty enough, opting instead to bear what had become
painful.
When the first show was over, another started, and then a third. Halfway
through the third show she was at my back in the kitchen. I'd not even heard
her coming until she said, "You've been very good. I'd have expected something
from you by now. I mean, almost everyone says something by now, even the good
ones."
"Thank you, Mistress Christina," I said, feeling relief that she'd found my
efforts good.
I waited for her to say something else, but nothing came. After a few minutes,
I risked looking around, and she was gone. I leaned over, and saw her feet back
up on the stool in the living room. Oh god, I thought. My whole body was
shaking. My legs were like fire. I had to pee horribly. I cupped my hands and
peed again, again spilling the hands into the sink. It didn't help, so I did it
a third time, and felt some relief for that. The sink smelled, so I turned on a
slow stream of water, and flushed it, then went back to my corner, hoping she'd
not heard any of that because it would ruin so much effort towards perfection.
It was late when I heard her getting up and walking back towards me. "You've
really outdone yourself. Now, if I was to tell you that I want you to do some
work tomorrow, what would you say, slave fifteen?"
"Oh god, Mistress. I'd love to be put to work. I feel so useless right now," I
begged. I mean, anything was better than wasting a whole day of a life standing
in the corner.
"I thought you'd see it that way. You know, there are worst things than being
worked, aren't there slave; and I don't mean beatings either. It can be just as
simple as making you stand in the corner."
"Yes, Mistress."
"That other man was a loser. I doubt he got much done at all. Not like you. I
can tell you're going to go all the way. I can tell that you're going to make
it just like slaves one through fourteen. I wasn't too sure, but now I know. I
can sense when the issue is resolved, and the slave wannabe has that potential
to pass something real, like ownership maybe. Well, go get your toiletry items,
and move them into your room. I'm going to let you keep them in the closet, so
you won't have to keep moving them between visits. You can have some food
first, and then go to bed. I'll expect my breakfast ready by eight," said the
Mistress, leaving the kitchen. I turned around, still in chains, and heard her
turn off the television, and move on up to the bathrooms. I found some food and
cooked up a little something. My stomach had shrunk though, and I was nerves in
my chains as I ate. I remember thinking, if nothing else, this was going to be
good for my diet.
I spent the next day doing chores. When I'd finished outside by afternoon, she
had me strip to just an apron and clean the main rooms of the house. By
midnight I was back on the road north, and feeling very used. It was crazy, but
I had both nothing but regrets for the two days of my life I'd wasted, as well
as a clear understanding that this time it wouldn't take until Saturday morning
for me to make up my mind that I was coming back. I was definitely slave
material by then, the concept already a pattern in my mind.
The Vacation
Week Three
I was probably more nervous than ever when I pulled into her drive that third
week. I'd started the drive early, and it was still a little dark when I got
there. I sensed she was ready to ask for a commitment, and I didn't have an
answer. I mean, unlike the sex tabloids, there is a decision there. Most slave
wannabes have this illusion that making a 7/24 commitment is something you just
go along with. That may be fine in the middle of a beating off session, but it
is certainly a different thing for real. I mean, it wasn't like this was some
beautiful woman who lived right down the street, where the risks were a few days
under which you could crawl away. This was middle aged Christina, out on a
sparse farm, living in a jobs poor setting. If I gave everything up to live
with her, as she'd implied, it was a major thing. My job and fifteen years
seniority would be gone, my possessions, everything. It would take me two days
to get back to a decent sized city, and maybe two decades to get back to being
secure. By then I'd be old, and a decent retirement - forget it. I'd probably
retire on little more than social security. I was a little younger than her,
but no spring chicken.
This was maybe yes or no. That's very binomial in nature, considering how grey
any kind of relationship is. I took a breath, and hoped she'd not ask right
away, making my way to another Saturday of pure slavery, as if the fact of my
weekend slavery were the trivial matter.
She took her time coming to the door, but it was a treat. She'd come dressed in
heels, stocking with garters and a corset, all very black. I'd never seen her
like that before, her always being more the home type in dress. It took me
awhile to focus, or maybe I should say I took the time I was compelled to take.
"We're not going to stand in the doorway and be a rude slave today, are we?" she
asked in the plural.
"No, of course not, Mistress Christina," I said, making my way into the living
room. She led me to the kitchen, and put me under her spell by having me take
my clothing off. My apron was draped over the chair, and I soon had it on.
"Wait in your corner. I have something I need to have you try on," she said,
leaving for a minute. "OK, turn around, and try these on," she said when she
returned.
I took the panties that were in her hand, and blushed, stepping into them and
pulling them up over my hard penis. The head of my penis poked out of the top,
though the off-white panties weren't bikini. When I looked up, she was holding
a matching bra, very skimpy and maybe sized A. I took the bra, and somehow had
the sense to adjust the straps for maximum room before hooking the hooks,
turning it around, and then putting my arms through the straps. It was tight,
but covered my tiny, hard nipples.
"You look good in that. What do you say, slave fifteen?"
"Thank you, Madam Christina," I said, my head bowed with shame.
"Good. I have another slave coming to do the outside work today. Later, after
you've made my kitchen spotless, you will be put to work as a maid. If you get
done before I come to get you, just wait in the corner. Oh, and if the other
slave comes, let it in. Have it wait in the brown chair in the living room. Be
sweet. You're dressed for it, so I expect you will manage. I don't want him
scared away before I meet him," instructed the Mistress, leaving the kitchen.
I'll have to admit a fetish for panties, and I'd always considered a bra the
most humiliating garment for a man. So, my penis was kind of happy as I washed
the dishes and started taking things out of the counters to dust. The more I
worked the more I felt like it was so right for me. I mean, what was the
difference between a man having to work the house over and a woman? I'd never
bought the validity of the excuse that it was just woman's work. Dressed as I
was though, I imagined just that, that it was just woman's work, and that I was
that woman, a natural house cleaner, something dictated by a normal, socially
endorsed convention. In distant rooms I heard muffled noises, as my Mistress
went about her private life. I had a bucket of soaped water and was starting on
the hardwood floor when someone knocked on the front door.
It struck me that this was the new slave the Mistress was trying out. It was as
if she had a revolving door, always trying someone new, and that I was just a
little old hat. How that could be though, considering my suspicion that she'd
been at it for maybe a couple of decades, seemed bare contradiction. The door
banged a second time, startling me into action least the Mistress be bothered.
I walked to get it. When I opened the door, I met a well dressed man whose eyes
became saucers once they adjusted to me. "Come in, Sir," I said, opting for
overly courteous.
"Well, I don't know. I was told a lady lived here," he pined suspiciously.
"She does. I'm just helping in the kitchen. She said to wait in the living
room." I started to worry that he'd run, and Madam Christine would blame me.
"Please. I've work of my own in the kitchen. I'm just to let you in."
"Well, OK then," he managed, walking into the house. Out at the driveway I
noticed a 'this year', black Cadillac with gold trim and white leather interior,
and sensed the man more uneasy than I about the rustic abode.
On the way through the living room I glanced up the stairs and saw a third man
moving from a bedroom to a bathroom. The man I'd let in hadn't noticed, and
took his seat. I went back to the kitchen, wondering about the company she'd
obviously been with all morning up in her room. Then, as I worked, the man from
upstairs walked right by me, opened the back door, and started walking down the
rows of corn to a distant farm. Not a word, nor a look passed between us. I'd
not thought of Madam Christina as someone's straight lover until then. But, why
not, I reasoned. She'd never asked for sex. In fact, she'd insisted upon some
distance. I felt like I was a little more in the picture, and a little more the
slave, pure, simple, in a platonic, and thus almost classical sense. The thing
felt so real like that, and contradictorily, my cock get harder thinking about
it.
Almost immediately after that Christina was in the living room instructing the
new wannabe in the fine arts of her rather informal introductory day protocol.
Stripped of only his pants and jockeys, the man was a sight, still in the top
half of his suit, complete with tie, highly polished black shoes and thin black
socks - hardly work attire. He, like me a couple weeks earlier, was led through
the kitchen, and directed to the barn, where I doubted he'd last as long as the
man from a week back. Sure enough, before I'd finished the kitchen, I saw him
sneak out the barn door, presumably leaving without his pants.
Christina had the timing down, and walked into the kitchen just as he was
walking out the barn door. I dropped back to my scrubbing, and the compelling
flesh of her legs was right beside my face where I worked nearer the floor. "I
guess we need to talk," she said when his car had gone.
"Yes Madam Christina," I replied, the words natural by then.
She had me sit across from her at the dining room table, the feel of the panties
under my weight immediately unusual. It took her some time to collect her
thought, during which I struggled with what answer I'd give if she should ask
for a permanent committment. I didn't think I was ready.
"Those other slaves. It's like that. I can't always tell if a man will make
it, but I can usually tell, when some men come here, that they just have no clue
- which is usually the case. They get off on it, and then leave. The last guy
probably went into the barn, shucked his wad and left as soon as it landed and
poluted my property. You've only seen two men like that, but I've seen a
lifetime of them. What do you think about that, slave fifteen?"
"I think it's unfortunate, Mistress, that they can't at least give you a day of
labor for your trouble," I said.
"So you don't think they should be punished, or made to live up to the ad then,
fifteen?"
"There is an adjustment period for any relationship, my Mistress," I said,
wanting to be honest, and maybe pave the way for my own uncertainty.
"Huh. I see. You are right, you know. I just wanted to see if you were going
to be full of shit; in fact, I expected it - even from you. Of course, a day of
labor would have been justice, pure and simple. On a practical level, no slave
is worth much if he's here by force. It has to be willed. It has to grow on
you and become natural. This racket is kind of like vampires; the victim needs
to invite the living dead into his house before the vamp has a right to take
blood. Heh. I like the way you say what you feel instead of babbling the lines
you find in every femdom comic book. It makes me feel very powerful to have an
intelligent victim under my thumb. Someone who has thought about it awhile,"
said Christina, sitting back in her chair, and studying the way my bra stretched
ridiculously over my hairy chest.
"Thank you, Mistress," I said, genuinely honored, though embarrassed by the
victim analogy.
"I told you once that I was looking for someone who wants to be a slave, body,
mind and soul. Have we made progress, slave fifteen?"
"Yes, Mistress. I am your slave."
"I didn't say anything about being my slave. I said something about being a
slave. There is a difference, a whole level of thought from one to the other.
I mean, you did come here with your fantasy complete. First the desire to be a
slave, and then years later you met me, no more than a catalyst for the chemesty
already in place. I'm the Mistress, but that's not the point now is it? Of
course it isn't. But, we'll get to that some other time. As for your
insistence that you are a slave body, mind and soul, I doubt it. I doubt you
are even my slave bodily, yet. As for mind and soul, the mind is just coming
around. Maybe we can work on the body a little today, and bring you along the
path I imagine you taking. That seems easy, don't you think? How do you feel
about having your body hair removed, slave?"
"I don't know, Mistress. It would itch horribly, but if you wish," I said,
leaving her to fill in the blank.
"See. If you were my slave, both body and mind, you'd simply had said, "As you
wish," and left it at that. You hedge, slave, just like you did with your
commitment answer. Oh yes, I noticed. You aren't even to that body part of
things. But, we can change that. I know that I have neglected you, testing
your desire. Now that I know what you want, I feel better about giving it to
you. We will remove your hair. And, from now on, you will live without it. Of
course, the hair on your head will be allowed to stay, since I imagine your
karma is really that of a cunt, and any good whore needs some hair up there,
like feathers for enticing her customers. Can you say that for me, slave? Say,
I am a cunt,"
"I am a cunt, Mistress," I said, my cock again responding to the verbal
humiliation.
"Yes, you liked that, didn't you. Say it again."
"I'm a cunt, Mistress."
"Now leave out that Mistress part. Just tell me what YOU are."
"I'm a cunt. I'm a cunt!"
"Yes you are. Don't think I didn't notice what happened to your penis when you
put on those panties. Soon you will have no secrets because I am that
observant, mind reading dominatrix, you have probably been searching for your
whole life, though now that you've found me, you may not like giving up the
things I see, but that's OK. When we get there it will just be too late for my
sad new cunt. Anyway, I am quite committed to having a success this month. You
seem to be my best bet, considering the pickings. For now you can delude
yourself into taking that as an honor. Now come along. We have some shaving to
do, so we can bring your body a step closer to becoming my possession," said the
Mistress, taking my hand and leading me up the stairs to the big bathtub.
The Vacation
Between Weeks Three and Four
Oh god. I was driving home from that third week hairless. Under my clothing I
still wore the bra, and had a fresh pair of panties. The temperature outside
seemed a few degrees colder than reflected by the reports, my hair no longer a
factor.
Except for a couple of hours in the barn, I'd worked in the house almost all
weekend, doing the equivalent of spring cleaning. Every so often Christina had
walked by, insisting upon perfection. Instead of moving around me, she'd bump
me, seemingly thrilled to rudely shove me at any moment like a bully in a
playground. I got used to finding the corners to wedge myself into, yielding as
much of the room's space to her as I could manage, though I cherished the bumps,
human contact with her body, at any cost, a pleasure.
Then, when it was time to leave, she came in with some deep red lipstick, and
painted my lips before sending me out to the car with my clothing in my arms.
I'd managed to put the things on while on the freeway, but she'd told me to
leave the lipstick on until just before I got to work the next day. I wanted to
please her. Thinking that, I started to understand what she'd meant by it being
my fantasy. She wasn't there on the drive home. I was lipsticked, and in a
humiliating state. I could have taken it off. But, it was my fantasy. I was
doing to to myself. She'd insisted, but my compliance was me. I drove home,
and then went to bed thinking of myself as not her cunt, but simply as A cunt.
I felt that thought growing inside of me, filling me. Who was I to pretend that
I wasn't a slave? I was. It was me. How convenient it would be of me to blame
it on someone else. Anyone willing to take a creature such as myself on was
blameless and a saint. By fighting a committment, it was as if I was accusing
her of something falsely, lying to both myself and her. Through yielding to it
completely, I wasn't giving up a thing; I was simply allowing myself to be who I
had always been forced to hide. In light of my revelation, so called normalcy
was the true slavery, the true threat to my sense of self.
The first thing I did was call in sick at work. Then I spent the day boxing up
all the packrat things I never used anyway. I called Goodwill, and left a stack
three levels deep of boxed up junk out by the curb. Then I stripped to my
panties and bra and sat down, watching television from my couch. The place was
roomier; only things of necessity or real value left. I liked it like that.
Licking my lips, I tasted my lipstick, and imagined it Christina's mouth on
mine.
I went to bed early, back in panties, bra and unwashed lipstick after a shower.
I started playing with myself, and thinking about why I'd been so compelled to
throw out two thirds of the things I owned. Then I got this rush of
understanding; I was making myself ready to commit. I was making it easier to
let go. I felt so doomed to something inevitable. It just seemed so much
easier to physically do it if I were asked, and had to say yes. The fantasy was
becoming real. Oh god, I swam in the thought of this being reality, exploding
cum all over my stomach. It didn't seem to help ease my horniness, so I scooped
up the cum and dropped it into my mouth, for the first time tasting a whole
load. It wasn't really homosexual, I told myself; after all it was mine. I
swished it around, like mouthwash. My whole mouth felt so sticky and smelled of
man. I imagined myself sucking on a cock held at the base by Christina's hand,
my Mistress some sort of transexual. I wasn't gay. I didn't like men's bodies
at all. I even had a bad habit of gawking at women to excess, this never the
case for men whom I'd not imagine gawking at. But there I was, my face a cunt.
And of course, that was the thing, the degradation in a word that even women
found repulsive. I started beating myself off a second time, and in two minutes
came again, something of a record. I scooped up this smaller load, and again
dropped it between my red lips. I swallowed, and then told myself that I had to
sleep with it in me so I'd wake up smelling like a cunt, like cock breath. Oh
god, I wailed, crying myself to sleep from the emotional rush, knowing that even
after two cums, unable to get it up even a little, I was still drop dead horny,
and still wanted to be a slave, no longer protected by an after orgasmic
fulfillment, and the release from my destructive compulsions that had once held
me in check.
I woke up, stripped off my underwear and lipstick, and found myself at work. My
mind was gone. I couldn't think about anything but enslavement. I pushed my
work off on others, and was useless. By Thursday I'd found some more boxes, and
started putting everything small into them. I went to the neighbors and started
giving away the oldest furniture. I told myself it was OK, that I didn't need
all the old things, and that it was neater to put my things in boxes. I shaved
my growing stubble, for the first time having to figure out all the strange
angles of shaving a whole body by myself, and while doing so, told myself
something entirely different, that I was committed, that I was a slave, and that
I was going to become property.
At ten o'clock I called Christina, and told her I wanted to come up Friday
night. She said it was a good idea, but she liked the idea of making me wait.
"You've a long way to go. I have other plans anyway," she said, dissappointing
me. Was I losing her interest? Well what did I expect, I told myself, putting
down the phone; she'd not lived through my mix of emotions this week, and I'd
been a little non-committal during our talk last Saturday.
I tried to make up for a bad week of productivity on Friday just to get
something else on my mind. I got paid. When I went to the bank, I went to the
bank officer and asked to have my mutual funds cashed in, and put into my
checking account. Then when I cashed my check, I only took out pocket change.
My whole body was tingling by the time I left the building, wondering who it was
inside of me making me do these things. It was so distructive. It was like I
was putting myself on the edge of a cliff and tempting the wind to push me over.
While driving home, all I could think of was that I had nine hours before I
could hit the road for Mistress Christina's house. I wanted to save my money,
for ... well ... so I could give even more of it over to her when she took me.
There, I'd admitted it. I wanted to sell out. I wanted to be nothing but
property. Driving by the car sales, I realized I could sell my car for another
ten grand, but then how would I get to Christina's? I was crazy. I almost
missed a red light. I stopped halfway in the intersection, and put my head in
my hands. When someone honked, I drove on, stopping at a store where I spent
half my pocket money buying a panty and bra outfit, along with a makeup kit.
"It's my wife's birthday," I lied to an unbelieving, eighteen year old counter
girl. Unbelievably, I just didn't care what the clerk thought.
When I did get back to my spartanly furnished digs I went right to the bathroom
to shave my body. It felt so smooth, so female. I felt so emasculated. When I
touched my legs, it was like I was touching a woman. I loved the feel of a
woman's skin, particularly the smooth taper of their legs. Still, I wanted to
be horny next time I met my Mistress, and went to bed after fits, struggling
between control and frantic, fruitless masterbation.
The Vacation
Week Four
There was a car in her driveway, which was strange, I thought, at six in the
morning. She met me in her robe, her hair a mess. I was led to her bedroom up
the stairs, where, from the door, I saw her lover under the sheets passed out.
There was a trunk to the side of the big farm bedroom, which she opened, taking
out a box. Then, without waking up her lover, we moved down the hall, and up
the attic stairs. I'd never been allowed this far, almost in her room, and now
up to the third level. The stairway was narrow. The steps creaked as I
followed her swaying robe and bare legs and feet.
"Come over here. I'm going to be busy for awhile, so I thought I'd try and find
out if you could do this yourself?" She led me to a corner of the vacuous
attic. Boxes and stacks of old magazines pretty much owned half the attic, but
in one corner was a vanity, a stool and a small bed. A pair of dormer windows
let in enough light to show specks of dust floating around in Christina's wake.
Beside the vanity an old dresser stood, maybe a part of the set, maybe not, I
thought.
Mistress Christina put the box down on the bed, and reached down to the floor,
coming up with a six foot length of chain. I realized that one end was locked
around the bedpost frame, and the other end had a strange looking cuff, half
moon shaped, with a slot for some sort of old fashioned key.
"Take off your clothes, and put your right foot on the bed, slave," she said
easily.
I took off my outer clothing, giving her a look at my new panties and freshly
shaved body. Then, feeling far more naked than ever before, I took off my
panties, and put my foot up on the bed. My hairless balls and penis dangled in
the air, inches from where she bent over with the cuff. Sliding out the
straight part, she put the U part around my ankle, and then reinserted the
ancient bar, giving it a twist before putting in a church key, and setting the
lock. I realized that regardless of how I turned it, the flat part of the iron
monstrocity was going to be grating, as it dug a line in my skin.
"There. Now, I want you to go to the dresser, and play makeup. Pretend your a
little girl, and have been naughty. Here you are, up in the attic, at this old
vanity, into your older sister's things. There's a wig in the bottom drawer.
Some eyelashes. Lots of different makeup selections. Get the picture, slave
fifteen?"
"Yes, Madam Christina," I said, finding a seat in the old wooden stool.
There's a jug of water, and plenty of wipes. Go ahead and play. I won't be up
until after morning, so you have all the time you need to read the back of
things for instructions, and to try things out. There are even some very nice
magazines, 'Seventeen', 'Glamor', and others, in the drawer. Now do a good job.
When you think you have it just right, you can lie down on the bed and rest.
But, I want you to play awhile. Don't just put something on, and go to bed on
me. If it's not good, I'm going to be upset. Do you understand honey?" Asked
the Mistress.
"Uh, yes Ma'am," I said, looking at my impossible face in the mirror. The fact
that she'd called me honey hadn't been lost.
"Good. I'm going downstairs now. I have a real man on my hands. He needs
fucked. Don't you worry about a thing but making yourself pretty. Later," said
the Mistress, leaving me to my chore.
I did my makeup about five times until I'd gotten it right, intermittently
checking some of the articles in the magazines for tips. A few hours later I
was looking out a dormer window, and saw her lover leave. The other car stayed,
and imagined the new slave more like me, maybe taking up some of the Mistress's
time. A few hours after that Mistress Christina came to get me, and led me to
the kitche for some lunch and to do some work. I felt strange working naked,
yet with my face made up female.
Darkness fell. She led the other man into the house, and they went to the
living room, where she gave him her body, mind and soul speech. When she called
for a drink, I brought her some iced tea, finding the new slave on all fours,
serving as a footrest. He was a bit chubby, I concluded, though to his credit I
noticed that he kept his eyes to the floor.
After awhile she put the slave to bed in the room she'd been using for me, and
came to see me as I knelt in my corner, the kitchen spotless.
"I think it's time for you and I to get to that mind part of your enslavement.
Would you like that, slave fifteen?"
"Yes, Mistress," I responded, wanting anything to break the monotony of my day.
"Sit at the table, and get comfortable." She produced a candle, and lit it,
dimming the electric lights, and sitting opposite me.
"Have you ever been hypnotized?"
"No, Mistress."
"Well, I'm sure you don't mind if I hypnotize you. You're just a slave after
all, and it wouldn't really matter if you minded or not, now would it?"
"Of course not, Mistress Christina."
"I want you to relax. Breathe in, and take an easy breath. There you go. Now
I want you to just look at the flame, and watch it dance for us. That's good.
Just relax ...."
Ten minutes later I was counting towards a hundred, somewhere around eighty.
"How deep are you now, one to ten, ten being deeply under?" She asked for the
fifth time.
"Ten, Mistress."
"That's it, go on, count as you go down the stairs. Yes, ninety-nine, and ...
very good. There we are, finally at the bottom. You can see the basement room
now. It has a heater, and is very warm. The walls are painted white, and in
the middle of the room there is a nice plush, black chair. Go. Go on over and
sit in the chair. You have been so busy and so troubled. You need to take some
time and relax, let off all the stress ..."
A few minutes later I was sound asleep in the plush recliner. My Mistress was
there beside me, assuring me that I had no problems, and could sleep as long as
I liked. She closed the lights so I could sleep. My mind was so at rest. I
feel into a deep slumber, and was unbothered.
"See how peaceful he is," my Mistress said to my body.
"Yes, Mistress," my body said back.
"Jackson needed some rest, didn't he. He feels so much responsibility and
worry, doesn't he, body?"
"Yes, Mistress Christina."
"Are you glad that you finally here alone with me now?"
"Yes, Mistress."
"Let your mind rest. Jackson's so much better this way. And you, well you
know, now you can do what you've always wanted to do. Now you can be what
you've always fantasized about, can't you, body?"
"Yes, Mistress."
"You know, it's you whom I've been trying to find those times when I've called
Jackson, slave fifteen. He still thinks of himself as Jackson, but when you are
alone during the week, you want him to go away, don't you? You want to be slave
fifteen all the time, don't you?"
"Yes, Mistress," I said, my cock growing and my inhibitions and regrets sleeping
on the nice, deep, black recliner.
After more of the pleasant and untroubled chat, she said, "You are my slave now,
aren't you?"
"Yes, Mistress."
"You want to remain my slave forever."
"Yes, Mistress."
"What does a slave own?"
"Nothing Mistress," I confessed.
"If it were up to Jackson, he'd think it risky to step out and claim the things
you want. He's not as obediant as you are. He wants to stop us. He wants to
hold on because he's scared. Not like you, slave fifteen. You want to obey.
Everything within you wants to obey. Life itself isn't worth living, if you
can't be a slave. You've spent all of your life wanting to be a slave, and now
that it's right here in front of you, the opportunity of a lifetime, you are
terrified that Jackson will stop you and I. Isn't that true, body?"
"Oh yes, Mistress Christina!"
"So, I've been wondering, what makes a person a slave then, if not the idea of
ownership? I want you to be a slave too. I want to help you. I am your best
friend. I understand you; not like Jackson. He's confused. He wants to retain
ownership, so he has something to hold onto. It's so defeating, but it's not
his fault. He's just being Jackson. He wants to be a slave too, but he's from
the old way of thinking. Can you help him?"
"I want to help him, Mistress."
"You can. Here's my idea. We can make him a slave together. Then, when we've
done that, he'll be so happy. He'll not have had to make any decisions, and
just find himself right where he really, deep inside, wants to be. It will make
him so happy. Do you see?"
"Yes, Mistress," my body said.
"Does a slave own things, or is a slave himself, no more than property, body?"
"A slave is property, Mistress."
"And, a slave doesn't own things, does it?"
"No, Mistress."
"Does Jackson own a car?"
"Yes, Mistress."
"Does he drive it when he's here; when he's happiest, as a slave?"
"Of course not, Mistress."
"Then he really doesn't need it, does he? I mean, if he's here all the time,
and my slave?"
"No, Mistress. He doesn't need a car."
"Can you go to his car and get his title then? We can help him start to become
a real life slave, OK?" Mistress Christina dangled Jackson's car keys in front
of my face.
"Shhh. Be very quiet, so you don't wake him up while your going to get it,"
advised the Mistress.
I tiptoed out to Jackson's car, and got his title, bringing it back to a waiting
Mistress Christina at the kitchen table.
"You know how Jackson always has you sign everything for him. Go ahead and sign
it over to me. I promise to let him use it when he needs to, but he does want
me to own it so he can feel what it's like to be a slave."
"Yes, Mistress," I said, signing the title.
"It asks how much I paid. Write in a thousand dollars, so I won't have to pay
too much in taxes," advised the Mistress.
I complied, handing the title over to her eager fingers. She immediately left
the room, returning empty handed. Jackson was soundly sleeping in his nice
black chair, one hundred steps deep in the cellar; I was so happy we'd managed
to pull the wool over his eyes without notice.
"He can drive it for awhile. I mean, until we can put him into a position where
he has no choice but to accept that he's a slave too. You can be slaves
together then. Give you someone to share your feelings with. Would you like
that?"
"Yes."
"Good. Now, here are some pills. This white one will make Jackson want to sell
his things. This yellow pill is like a capsule. See it. It is going to make
Jackson put his house up for sale as soon as he gets home. Whatever the real
estate agent suggests will be too high. I want him to sell his house for
fifteen percent off whatever the agent suggests, so it will sell quickly. And,
this white one with the red strips is to help Jackson quit his job and rid
himself of all his assets like accounts, retirement funds, and valuables. The
idea is to put everything he owns into some sort of cash. That way he can move
at will, and finally be free from all of his overbearing sense of
responsibility. Do you see, slave fifteen?"
"Yes, Mistress Christina!"
"He will want to resist you. When he does, you can help him relax. When he's
sleeping, you can do things for him. It really doesn't matter if you do it or
he does. He lets you do all the work anyway, doesn't he, slave?"
"Yes, Mistress."
"Maybe it's even better if he is sleeping. You are only doing the right thing
for both of you. Now, here is some water," said Christina, handing me three
pills and some water.
"Now take them one at a time, and repeat what they are for before you swallow
each of them."
"Yes, Mistress. This white one is to help me sell all of Jackson's things.
Maybe a yard sell, and some ads, Mistress," I said, swallowing the first pill.
"Good idea, slave. Keep the prices low. It's not the amount that matters.
Things add up," advised the Mistress.
"This one is to help Jackson find a house agent, and sell at fifteen percent
off," I said, swallowing the capsule.
"Excellent, slave. Jackson is going to really appreciate this later. Trust
me," encouraged Christina.
"And, finally, this is to help Jackson change all of his assets into cash,
including retirement funds, bank accounts, and anything else he can think of, so
he can be free," I said, downing the last pill. I drank some water, making sure
the pills were down and irretrievable.
"Good slave. Now, here are your clothes. Take them to your car. When you get
home, you will remember that you are naked, and come out of your trance. You
will remember that you were hypnotized, and that you took some hypothetical
pills. You will remember how excited I am to have you as my slave, and how
excited you were about being hypnotized and wanting to be a slave."
"You will remember everything, except for the next few things that I say.
Instead of remembering these words, you will feel them, as if they are your own
thought instead of mine: You will be very happy, excited and energetic about
doing the things that have to be done. You have really taken some pills that
are already working their way into your mind and body. These pills have already
dissolved, and there is no antidote. You are now a slave. It is no longer just
a fantasy. You are no longer able to resist the desire to sell everything you
own, and come back. Unfortunately, you will be unable to come back until all of
the work has been completed, and you have cash for all of your assets. This
will egg you onward, as your entire life is now dependent upon accomplishing
this task. You will miss work, because this will be so much more important to
you. Nothing can stop you. In the end, all that you own will be condensed down
into some clothing on your back, and a shoebox of cash. As you realize that
time is growing short, you will tell everyone that you are leaving town for some
adventure in Arizona. Then, when you are done, you will drive my car here, and
report on your knees to my front door. From that moment on, you will be a real
slave, and I promise you that your lifetime dream will become a lifetime as
someone's lackey."
"Yes, Mistress," I said.
"Now go, the both of you. Jackson has wandered into your car, and will be
sleeping in the back seat while you drive. I'll expect to see you in less than
a month. If not, I'll have to have someone take possession of my stolen car,"
said the Mistress, hustling me out the door. I had a handful of clothing, and
my keys, driving home a day early, eager to see to my mission.
The Vacation
Week Six
Being hypnotized isn't what it's made out to be in the fantasy stories. It's
not like you don't know what's happening, or what has happened. It's more like
a dream state that you've gone into, which can linger and give you these
compulsive feelings. When someone takes you there you lose your inhibitions,
becoming more like what you'd be if you didn't have as much input as normal from
that mental overseer who regulates your life. Like I told you a few paragraphs
up, she'd said that there were things to remember, and things to forget, which
was like saying, things to focus on and things to repress. I had new impulses,
bred by my desire to maintain contact with the wonderful world of abandon. I
wanted to forget, or perhaps, ignore the things she'd told me to forget, and to
concentrate on the tasks and feelings she'd commanded I engage. It was
euphoric, being under the control of another person's mind, and thus loosened to
engage the wildness I'd caged out of life's necessities. I felt her watching me
as I drove. Not once did it occur to me that I was driving two hundred miles
totally naked, and with makeup all over my wigged face. It felt good though,
and right. The part of me that usually regulated such behavior was fast asleep
in the back seat.
So preoccupied was my mind, upon the tasks ahead, that I'd driven half way back
to my house before it struck me that I no longer owned the car I was driving.
She had my title. The car wasn't very old, and probably still worth maybe
fifteen grand. I thought of myself as half way there, in my uninhibited
condition. It was like having swum halfway across a lake, more trouble losing
the momentum and turning back than just swimming right on.
As soon as I closed the door to my house behind me, my mind, and all of it's
sense of responsibility and caution, magnetically reattached itself back into
me. Something about that made my own weight seem heavy. I feel to my knees
just inside the door of my house, and knew the gravity of my decisions. What if
the neighbors had seen me returning at this late hour, naked and made up? I had
no choice but to stroke myself to orgasm, and hope the release of pressure would
help me to come to my senses. Yet, as I did so, my thoughts went back,
repeatedly, to the events that had me naked and so humbly disposed.
After a fitful night I went to the biggest real estate agency in town, and
looked up on their sales chart for the most successful agent. He came by in the
afternoon. I asked him how much he guessed my house would go for, and he said
$186,000. I asked him what he'd guess that meant someone would actually pay,
and he hedged, but yielded $181,000. I did some mental math, and cut the asking
price fifteen percent, saying, "I'm asking for $154,000, not a penny more."
The agent actually argued with me, but I was firm. Two days later he called me
at work, and had an offer of $150,000 from his own office. They were going to
pay me up front, and make the sale on their own terms. I went to my boss and
put in my notice. Then I took a vacation day and made plans for the weekend
flea market. On Saturday I missed not being able to go to my Mistress. I
called her for reassurance, and we talked awhile, her voice full of expectation,
as if this were the grandest thing to her. Feeling better about the whole deal,
I rented a truck and loaded most of the things I thought would sell. Renting a
booth, I sold things sometimes at ten percent. By the end of Sunday I'd sold
most of what I figured would sell, and hauled the rest home. On Monday I loaded
everything else up, and drove the truck to a cherity reseller.
By noon I was living in a bare house. There were curtains and kitchen
appliances, those were to go with the house. I had a mattress for the floor,
and a few boxes of treasures. I spent the week cleaning the place and packed
the car. By Saturday morning I'd dropped off the key, and closed the accounts.
My last check was to be sent to a post office box I'd phoned for near my
Mistress.
Two miles out of town I started to tell myself how stupid all of this was.
Everything I'd worked for was in the car, a car that wasn't even mine. The
hardest part of the whole thing had been converting the $150,000 into cash. My
taxs were going to be a nightmare, I thought, bringing up roars of laughter at
the idea that this was the worst thing I could think of as I drove myself into
the arms of a person intent upon making me her fifteenth victim.
"Go up to your bed and get naked. I want you to put on your makeup and then
come back down so I can begin with you," commanded the Mistress as I knelt
before her. She had my box of money in her lap, and I could sense her
excitement, though she fought to look restrained. I'd never felt so used and
low before, knowing what I'd given her, and how it made her feel.
I was back down in less than a half hour, my naked and shaved body looking queer
as hell with my face covered with powder, eyeliner and lipstick. She had
everything I owned, including it seemed, every inch of pride. For awhile, I
guess, she'd been working on my masculinity. Like putty in her hands, I sat
down in the recliner in her living room, and she soon took my mind to the
recliner a hundred steps down.
"You are now very happy, slave fifteen. How do you feel?"
"Very happy, Mistress," I responded, the joy bubbling up within me as I relaxed
in my trance.
"Good. I want you to reach down and feel your thighs for me. Can you do that?"
"Yes, Mistress." I felt my skin.
"Very soft, isn't it. Very feminine. Do you like feminine legs? Do you like
the way you feel?"
"Yes, Mistress. It feels wonderful." They were so smooth, as my hands ran
across my skin.
"Yes, slave. You are becoming quite beautiful. In time, you will be
unbelievably lovely. I will find you irresistable. That will make you very
happy, won't it slave?"
"Oh yes, Mistress," I said with passion.
"It will become your fixation. You will still want to be the best servant you
can be, but when you are in your room, you will dream of becoming beautiful. Do
you want to become beautiful for your Mistress, slave fifteen?" She asked.
"Yes, Mistress."
"You are already beautiful. But, with work and time, and the proper diet, you
can become much more beautiful Work will help tone your body, and the diet will
help you lose all of that extra weight. Then, all you will need to do is to
learn how to obey. By obedience to the commands of others, you are learning how
to be docile. Everyone loves an obedient woman. Some women are assertive, but
that isn't your style. You want to be an obedient woman, something to be adored
for her purity and simplicity, so that there will be no mistaking how beautiful
and feminine you are. Isn't that right, slave fifteen?" She touched my hands
tenderly as she spoke, my skin under them, and her tenderness above.
"Yes, Mistress."
"I can help you to become beautiful. All you need to do is to remember this:
You are compelled, every waking moment, to obey any human being whom I have
granted authority over you, and by extension, every human being that person
places in authority over you. You are a slave. You want to obey people. It
makes you hot and horny when you obey people. It is better than orgasms when
you obey people. Obedience is its own reward. Isn't that wonderful? All you
have to do is obey others, and you can find complete peace, happiness and even
exhilarating passion. Just keep remembering, I want to be beautiful I want to
feel so sexually fulfilled. All I have to do is obey others, and this will
happen." She'd been leaning close to me as she spoke her words, but then her
hand left, and she leaned back in her chair. "What do you want to do, slave
fifteen?"
"I want to obey," I said, excited about the idea.
"What do you want to do?"
"I want to obey. Please, Mistress. Let me obey!"
"Yes, of course. There is much to do around here, so I can help you. Now, why
do you want to obey me?"
"So that I can become beautiful and feel wonderful, Mistress." I was almost in
tears with joy.
"Yes. You are so smart, slave fifteen. You've figured it out nicely. Now, I
want you to know that you are hypnotized. When I count to five, you will slowly
come out of your state, and remember how wonderful if makes you feel to obey,
and how incredible that makes you feel because it is helping you to become more
beautiful. You want to be as beautiful as you can be, so you want to obey
everything everyone tells you. Isn't that right, slave?"
"Absolutely, Mistress."
"When I bring you out of this state, you will act like any normal slave does,
clear headed, alert, responsive, and of course, obedient. But, when I give you
the command, obey, you will return to this state of trance. It may take awhile
to grow accustomed to the transition, but the impulse to return to this euphoric
state will be overwhelming, and each time someone says the word, obey, you will
find it easier to come to this place of mind, going deeper and deeper with each
utterance of the word. Do you understand me, slave?"
"Yes, Mistress."
"Very good. You are becoming more and more beautiful to me. Now let us get
back to work. One, two, three, four, five. How do you feel, slave fifteen?"
"Very refreshed, Mistress Christina," I said, genuinely rested and relaxed.
"Good. Well now, you know the things that need to be done in the barn. When
you are done in there, you can clean the bathrooms, living room, dining room and
kitchen. I'll post a daily schedule for you inside the pantry door, so that you
can go about your duties every day without wondering what's going on. Lunch for
you is at precisely twelve noon daily. One bowl of rice, an orange, a can of
soup of your choice and of course water or grapefruit juice will help you hold
your diet. Dinner is at six-thirty. For dinner you are allowed two turkey hot
dogs and a small salad of lettuce, with exactly one teaspoone of diet dressing.
You can go without breakfast. The good part is, the thinner you get, the less
of you there is to feed. And, of course, the more beautiful you will become.
That's often very difficult for a slave your age to believe, you know. When
you're young you think anything is possible. Still, you are a good worker, so I
expect you to become very beautiful."
"Yes, I understand, Mistress. Thank you for helping me," I told her before
being dismissed to my chores.
The Vacation
Month Five
I was worked, and conditioned or not, it wasn't what I was used to. My muscles
ached, and I was continuously fighting off headaches from the lack of
neutrition. Every night I had a few hours to shave my body and find new
combinations with the makeup. My old clothing had vanished, along with my
papers and identification. In their place I'd started to accumulate a few house
dresses, mostly black with white aprons, but one flowery things that my Mistress
insisted I wear for our sessions in beauty confidence training. It was getting
colder outside, so my Mistress gave me an old coat and added underwear. In
place of a t-shirt, I was given a bra. In place of boxer shorts, panties. In
place of socks, I dressed in stockings, the old kind with garters and seams. I
found the later to be better than expected against the chill as I did my work
outside. In time I grew accustomed to the changes, and thought nothing of it
because the combination of new clothing and hard work was helping me become
pretty.
My Mistress went about her own life, once with an afternoon of talk with a
female friend who thought me strange, but didn't make any overly forward
remarks. Often there were male guests, some prospective slaves, one a business
professional, though I was not clued into the business at hand, and at least one
lover. I was not a part of that life, held apart as I went about my duties as
if I were a more founding part of the household. Through the help of
suggestion, I now know how important service is in the grounding of the
household. The sense of acceptance that gave me I found to be quite satisfying.
Of course, the more work and obedience I engaged in, the more beautiful I
became, by New Years day a very nice looking one hundred and fifteen pounds of
transvestite. Though I find the idea of myself as a transvestite unappealing
because of its restriction, I do so favor the direction in which it aspires. My
Mistress assures me that I can almost become female, the highest order of
humanity, but that a finer goal, and one more honorable for a submissive such as
myself, is for me to rise to a more perfect service.
I'd never much thought of myself as a transvestite until one day while sitting
at my vanity. I knew that I wasn't gay, and realized that it was more the
desire to be closer to women that had made me so accepting of the transition.
Since I'd been so deviant, desiring submission instead of dominance, in my
masculine approach towards sexual matters, I wondered if this incredibly upside
down sexual strategy had something to do with my willingness to embrace my
current dress. I then imagined what it might take to make myself pass. I
decided to ask my Mistress about these thoughts. On occasion she'd had talks
with me, or bounce thoughts off of my ever present body. We'd become something
like an item, I imagined, though it had long been made clear that this was not
to be a sexual union. Still, I was pleased to be beautiful, though I was more
pleased to be beautiful for her. The next afternoon I had a chance to discuss
this, as well as other pressing concerns, as she sat at the evening supper,
eating a lovely chop dinner that I'd cooked, me working on my weiners and salad.
"So you feel good about your loss of masculinity then?" My Mistress asked,
becoming more forthcoming about phrasing her thoughts in demeaning ways.
"Yes, Mistress. I'm just not sure why I feel this way, or what it means in the
long run?" I asked in return.
"It means you are doing what pleases me. That's all it has to mean. If it
confuses you, then all the better. I like the idea that it torments you. You
see, for me, the greatest pleasure is knowing how it effects you in here," she
confessed, pointing to her head. She ate another bite of the sweet smelling
pork, smiling around the edges of her fork. I felt her eyes piercing me like
steel. I was very vulnerable, I realized, the though awakening after months of
simpler concerns. How far did this lust for my torment reach, I wondered.
"I understand, Mistress. My wish is to make you happy, and to obey," I said, a
stock answer that was unthought.
"Are there any other questions, slave fifteen?"
"Well, yes, Mistress," I said.
"Good. I have an idea. Why don't you stop eating that salad, and get under the
table where I don't have to look at you while you talk. I think I'd like that
right now. I want to see how it effects the way you ask me things if you're put
into a position of obvious humiliating surroundings. Go on; on your knees;
under there. That's a good girl. Now all the way under, right up between my
knees, slave fifteen," she commanded, putting an exclamation point upon the
status between me, the questioning slave, and she the controlling Mistress. She
was right, in that I found it much more difficult to form thoughts that didn't
come out sounding like a child's fumblings.
"Well, Mistress. I was wondering about taxes. You see, I was paid a lot of
money for the house, and the policies I closed, and the retirement accounts I
called in. I'm worried that I'll owe quite a bit; maybe as much as twenty
percent. That could be over thirty thousand dollars, and well, you know,
Mistress. I just ..."
"Don't worry about it slave," she said, opening her legs. She was wearing a
skirt, and I immediately was confronted with a pair of white panties and a
thinly clothed first look at My Mistress's holy pussy. I don't know if my mid
sentence stop was due to her interruption, or the shock. I'd almost given up on
the idea that I'd ever be sexual again, considering the way she'd neglected that
part of me since we'd first met.
"Yes, Mistress, but ..." I finally stammered while down on my knees, and doing
the best I could to focus and remember every detail of what was spread before me
just under the table.
Again she interrupted. "You won't need to pay any taxes this year. I've taken
care of it," she said, as if the issue was closed. Her hand came down, just in
front of her pussy, and was holding a small piece of pork. "Here, slave. Have
some."
"Yes, Mistress," I said, crawling a half step forward, and taking the meat from
her hand that was now only four or so inches from her pussy.
"You'd like some, wouldn't you, slave. Too bad it's so close, but so far. Now
don't you touch it. Just chew your meat, and stay there like that. Obey me,
slave. That's it. Obey. Stay very still. You will respond to my voice. I
want you to start walking down the staircase with me. One step at a time. Go
very deep now. You have no resistence left. You are under my spell. Look at
my pussy, and forget yourself. Yes. Very relaxed. You are in a trance now.
Where are you, slut?"
"I am nearing the bottom of the stairway, Mistress."
"Obedience is everything. Very still. Lying in the couch now. So small, and
my mind is your body now. Yes, feel me in you now slut. You are just a lackey
to my will, slave. Obey, and go deep into your dream. Your eyes will stay
open, but you will be so very far away. Very under inside of my mind. So
peaceful as you realize that you cannot move. None of your muscles can move.
You are frozen just like a statue, aren't you slave fifteen?"
"Yes, Mistress," I said. I couldn't move an inch. Everything was locked. I
was looking through eyes that seemed like frosted glass, but warm. I was so at
peace, on my knees, looking at my Mistress's pussy, which contradictorally had
me torn inside.
"Do you see that pussy, slave?"
"Yes, Mistress."
"It's not the pussy, or even my pussy that you really want. It's just the
thought that you are down on your knees in front of someone's crotch, so humble,
so low, so incapable of denying the brutally honest and humbling nature of being
down there so close, but unable to touch it because a free person owns it, and
thus it is beneith you to touch it without permission. Do you understand?"
"Yes, Mistress."
"It's the crotch, and the fact that you can't even move those four inches
without someone telling you that you can. You love crotches, don't you slave?"
"Yes, Mistress."
"You love all crotches, fat ones, skinny ones, old ones, young ones, female
ones, boy ones, dirty old men ones. The worse they look, the more you like them
because the better able they are to put you in your place. They make things
clear to you about under them you have perfect clarity regarding who you are.
They symbolize your willingness to be obediant. By extension that makes you
even more beautiful. Do you understand now, serving at someone's crotch is
obedience of the finest order, slave?"
"Yes, Mistress Christina," I said, my eyes water filled, and reaching for the
crotch before me.
"What do you want to serve before, slave?"
"Your crotch, Mistress," I said in a desperate voice.
"No, slave. Not my crotch! Any crotch! Be very clear about this detail,
slut! Every time you come near a person, any person, you want to kneel and
serve at their crotch. Every human being's crotch. Since you are a slave, your
crotch has absolutely no value to either yourself nor anyone else, but for free
human beings, well, those are the crotches you crave, as is only just. Every
human being's crotch attracts you, but a free man's cock or a free woman's pussy
sucks your mind up and swallows you to their mercy. Do you understand, slave?"
"Yes, Mistress. I crave serving at any person's crotch."
"Oh, delightful, slave. Now, and until I tell you otherwise, when you address
me, I want you to start and end every conversation with the words, "I, the slave
who desires service at all crotches, wishes to speak,". Then you may talk if I
choose to allow it. Of course, this doesn't mean you get to serve at any
crotches. The right can only be granted if the person before you requests it.
I don't want you going up to people asking sexually forward favors. You do
understand, don't you slave?"
"Yes, Mistress," I responded, completely absorbed by the sight of her pussy, as
if a part of my soul were being dragged inside.
"Now, as for the taxes, you won't need to pay them this year. You're a slave
now. Nobody will be out here looking you up because you're not going to be
doing anything that will require identification and you are only slave fifteen.
Just to make sure that you don't go crazy and go out there looking someone else
up, I find it convenient to make a tax evader out of you. This is very real,
slave. You are here at this crossroads of slavery for the duration, and that
means the bridges behind you are to be burned down. You may go to your room
now, because I am finished with you. When you get there I want you to study
your own crotch, and imagine how wonderful it would be if it were really someone
elses. When you wake up in the morning, you will no longer be in this trance,
but you will of course, cherish the idea of bowing between the human specie's
legs, your sense of joy rising the more degenerate the crotch before you
appears. Isn't that a wonderful giving feeling, knowing I'm going to make you
that kind of a person, slut?"
"Yes, Mistress."
"Good. Now go! I am starting to hate your company."
I crawled out from under the table, my face faced towards my Mistress's pussy
even as I moved back. That night I marvelled at the spread between my own legs,
wishing it were someone elses, totally oblivious to the reality that it was so
male, nor that the distinction was relevant to my new system of beliefs.
The Vacation
Month Six
A month after delivering myself to a lifetime of endentureship, a couple of men
drove up the driveway. One of them got out and came to the door. I was in my
new maid outfit, and quickly recovering from indecision after seeing the men
approach through the window, I ran and answered the door. "Hello?"
"Heh." laughed the man, stepping inside. I tried to keep my eyes low, as
required, feeling awkward as I alternatively looked at his knees and crotch
"I've come to pick up the car. Is Chrissy here?" He asked, looking me up and
down, something I sensed more than saw, by then very practiced at keeping my
unworthy eyes low.
"What does this man want?" Asked Christina, coming up behind me.
"Uh," I stammered, my face already so red I imagined it purple. "I, the slave
who desires service at all crotches, wishes to speak, Mistress Christina."
"Well go ahead slave. I don't have all day," she commanded. The man roared
with laughter beside me.
"This man is here to pick up the car, Mistress."
"Good. Go get the keys. They're in my top dresser drawer, right beside the
title. You may get them both and bring them here."
I ran up the stairs, not an ounce of dignity left. I got the title and keys,
instantly recognizing them as mine. With reluctance I came back down the
stairs, and handed them to my Mistress. My eyes never met a face.
"Good, slave fifteen." She turned to the man. "Do you have my check?"
"Yes Ma'am," answered the man. I saw his hand go into a back pocket and hand
over a check. The same hand took my keys and pocketed them. "You'll need to
sign the back," he advised.
"Bend over, slave. I need a table," said my Mistress.
I bent over, but was nudged around so that my head was left a few inches from
the man's crotch. I felt her pen scribbling her name on the title. I didn't
see her hand it over, but knew it had been.
"Now thank the nice man. He wants to thank you. If you want, he can give you
a blowjob. I want him to learn his manners," she said, first to me, and the
last few sentences to the stranger.
"Aw, that's OK. I ain't a faggot like he is. Not that I want to be rude of
nothing. Just have him give it a kiss, and maybe that will be enough thanks,"
offered the man.
"Go on, bitch. You heard the man," commanded my mistress. Below the point of
no dignity, I crawled forward, and planted a long kiss on the man's fly where
the cock strained the pants. He moved away, probably a bit embarrassed to
realize his penis was getting bigger.
"You got a right nice cock sucker there, ma'am. If I was that way, I'd be all
over your bitch," he said, trying to regain his footing.
"You take care. Thanks again for the business," said my Mistress.
The man left with a, "Nice doing business with you too. Seems you have a good
head for unconventional business transactions. I mean, I see this one's coming
along better than the last one. You should make your place a tourist stop on
the better business bureau's who's who of how to make a buck on the strange."
He laughed at his own joke. "Well, good day."
The Mistress got a little defensive about the implication that she might be
getting locally famous. "What's so strange about my business transactions? I
just don't need two cars." He left, and I was stuck bent over as my Mistress
watched the man get in my car and drive it off.
"Now, slave - since we've finished your basic training, and finalized the
business - I think we need to push you along some. Besides, time is short, and
my associates are getting antsy. Let's begin with some humiliation."
I was thinking, wasn't kissing a stranger's pants humiliation? Then I wondered:
Time is short? Associates?"
"I want you to go out in the front yard for a minute so I can have some fun with
you. There you go. Get on out there. Right in the middle of the front yard.
Now stand up straight, and hold up the front of your dress," she commanded.
I was out in the middle of the yard, she sitting on a step twenty feet away.
Since we were out in the country, we were fairly sure to be alone, but I felt
like a scarecrow anyway.
"Now, fidget with your penis so it's pointing up inside your panties."
I moved my penis around, it already getting harder as my warped mind saw this
immediately as something sexual.
"Now piss yourself. I want to see your panties wet and watch the urine rush
down your nylons. Go on. No need to be formal," she commanded.
I'd been a closet submissive long enough to feel the shock of emotion associated
with a classic humiliation such as watersports. My cock grew as big as it ever
had been, making it ironically hard to piss. At first I couldn't pee at all,
but then I felt it coming, and it was going to be all or nothing. It peeped out
a squirt, and then came so hard the piss actually was bubbling up and out at my
waistline. The front of the panties showed an irregular pattern of piss, and
then the pee started flowing down the inside of my legs, soon trickling into my
heels. I could smell the raw, salty smell of urine. Soon the flow slowed, and
then stopped, and the piss started to cool. The show was over, but I stood
there, my eyes downcast, waiting for my Mistress to make a command.
"Take off your panties, slut," she said, still in a playful mood.
I stripped my panties off, them being over my garters and hose. The front of
them were soaked and dripping. My penis was now out in the open, but waving
forward with a shamefully telling erection.
"Now stuff them into your useless mouth. I want you to be in the right mood so
I can tell you what's next. Besides, nobody cares what you have to say anymore
anyway. Go on. I know you want to help me shut you up," she tormented.
I took the panties, and wadded them up. Resigned to the chore, I stuffed them
in, and tried to close my mouth. The urine was instantly dripping and making a
pool inside.
"I've decided that you're ready for your next step. You remember how you gave
me your body, and how I took your mind. Now I want your soul. To be honest,
it's the only thing you have left, isn't it?"
"I, the slave who desires service at all crotches, wishes to speak, Mistress,"
I tried to say, but it only caused more pee to squish out of the panties in my
mouth. I swallowed, cleaing the puddle so I could speak better.
"Yes, of course, not that your words thrill me, but you must answer my
question."
"Yes Mistress."
"You don't mind giving it to me, do you? I don't want to force you, though I do
want you to learn to accept being forced," she said.
I was doing my best to concentrate on the zipper of her pants. I had these
overwhelming impulses to look only at her crotch, knowing the hypnosis had
helped to make me so pathetic. Soul, sure, I thought, what did it matter? I
wasn't all that religious anyway. I nodded and said, "Yes Mistress."
"Suck that piss out of there, slave. Think of it as my way of baptising you.
Get enough out so I can understand you. I can barely hear you through all of
that. To be honest, I don't know why I have to say that. Some things I think
should be intuitive!"
I sucked, and the urine started to flow into my stomach. It surprised me that I
could keep the salty pee down.
"I'll tell you the truth; I'm an athiest. I don't believe in souls in the usual
sense of the word, but I can interpolate. To me, losing a soul must be
something like serving the very things you are most repulsed by. For example,
if you're a Democrat and are forced to vote for the Republicans, or if you're
against war, but told to go fight. I think I know you well enough to know that
you are basically a good person with strong moral underpinnings. I mean, sure,
you dress like a gay whore, and drink piss, but you're not the kind to do
injustices to others. A masochist is the kind of creature the world loves to
look upon as an example of morality gone wrong, but we know that a masochist is
really very selfless, don't we?"
"Yes, Mistress," I said, speaking better, since most of the piss had lightened
the panties that were wedged between my jaws.
"I imagine that if the whole planet was peopled by nothing but masochists, there
would be no war, no drugs, no murder, no evening news. On the other hand, I'd
have far less income, and a little less fun. My associates would agree with me.
No, you need your antagonists and your tagalongnists. One makes the other
interesting. Too much good is just plain boring. I mean, you didn't come
looking for another masochist, now did you cunt?"
"No, Mistress."
"So if I were to tell you that I've sold you to a Columbian family as free
labor, you'd maybe be wondering what that labor might be, wouldn't you slave?"
She stood up, and came over to where I stood in the lawn, starting to walk
around me.
"Oh, Mistress," I moaned, my heart sinking.
"You need to look down at your legs. Do you see that you have pissed yourself,
slut? Do you see what is down there for you? Down in Columbia. Not some
cushy, peaceful, massochist only world, I can assure you that, but true
domination. I want you to go down the stairs with me now. One, two, three
steps. You are yielding to it now, going deeper. Down the stairs, four, five,
six. So quickly now, you grow tired and compliant. You are in the desert, and
the panties in your mouth are no longer panties. They are water. You need to
suck and drink deeply, squeezing every last drop. Each time you suck in some of
that nice cool water, you do another step deeper. There you go now, so far down
one whore suck at a time, so close to your final rest," she said, coaxing me
deeper.
"Yes, Mistress," I said softly, my mouth sucking the last of the urine out of
the panties, and my eyes staring more blankly with each suckle. Soon I was at
the bottom, lying on the couch, fast under her spell
"You are now a woman. A whore actually, employed by a vicious drug lord. He's
made you piss yourself for his amusement. But, do you know what? You liked it.
Your clit was hard. Do you remember how hard your clit was when he told you to
piss yourself, slut?"
"Yes, Mistress," I answered, remembering how hard my cock had been when I'd been
told to piss myself.
"So, you like being a whore then, for the Master?"
"Yes, Mistress."
"His cock is very ugly and old, as are the cocks of his most trusted men, though
some are younger than others. That appeals to you now though, doesn't it,
whore?"
"Yes, Mistress."
"Well, the Master is very busy. He might have time for his favorite whore, or
he may not. In the mean time, I think it is a good idea to remain busy, don't
you? After all, the more you work, the more beautiful you become, and that
gives you hope that he might favor you."
"Yes, Mistress," I replied, my mind in a cycle of perpetual replies.
"You can work for him. He needs pickers and processors on his many remote
farms. For a whore this is a step up. You want to obey all who have crotches,
don't you slave? You want to work very hard. You wake up every morning wanting
to work for your Master, don't you slave?"
"Yes, Mistress."
"He might be engaged in illegal activities, but this really isn't your concern,
now is it slave? No, you are just a whore. Your mind isn't capable of deciding
right from wrong, so it isn't something to be concerned about anyway. All you
know is slavery. After all, a slave has no real choice; now isn't that right,
slave?"
"Yes, Mistress."
"I want you to know that I was your first. I made you. I took your body, your
mind, and now your soul. When you're gone, your soul will stay here with me.
If I hear any bad news, I'll just send it to hell because you're never going to
get it back. When you're down there, you remember who did this to you, and then
just turned you out. I want you to feel the pain and dispare of what's happened
to you, say, ten weeks after you get there. Just hold off until then; ten weeks
slave, before you drudge up some conscience and do an inventory on what's become
of you. For now, you are overjoyed at the knowledge that you're going to be the
new whore and worker for your new Masters. It's a wonderful adventure, a new
country, a new life, new surroundings within which you can explore your new
beauty and talents. Never mind that you will be worked like a dog sixteen hours
a day, three hundred, sixty-five days a year. It's all OK, because now you've
made it. Now you're a real slave," said my Mistress.
"Yes, Mistress," I said every ten minutes or so as I dried out in the sun. Of
course, she'd walked back inside hours before I'd fully dried. When I'd dried
completely, I heeded her last command to me, and walked into the house to do
laundry, shower and change into some loathsome, male, traveling, outer clothing.
The last thing she did for me before I got into her car for the drive to the bus
station was take the panties out of my mouth and have me brush my teeth.
--------------------------------------------------
A man is getting off of the boat, and looking around, finally spotting me. He
is a rough looking character, so I walk gingerly up to the spot on the peer he
has picked to dock.
"You slave fifteen, gringo?" He asks.
My heart skips a beat as I stop in front of him, lower my eyes to his grease
stained trousers and say, "I, the slave who desires service at all crotches,
wishes to speak."
"Oh yeah. You'd be slave fifteen alright." He takes the money I'd run across
the border, along with his share of the money that had once been all I'd owned,
and he gives me a shove, sending me onto the boat. My foot trips over an ankle
chains laid out and attached to the aft deck, but I manage to remain on my feet.
"Welcome, you soulless prick, to the rest of your short, miserable life!"
The boat starts and the distance between it and the dock widens beyond a
distance across which I could safely escape. "Take off your pants and shirt,
and throw them into the ocean, bitch! I've been waiting for this ever since I
left home port. There we go. Nice undies. Now get on your knees, and show me
what you've got!." Commands the overseer as he braces himself in front of me.
"Thank you, Sir," I say, transfixed by his beautifully dirty and smelly cock.
At the helm, a second man races the boat out of sight of land, and then aims it
south-east. My eyes are still upon the first man's crotch, the pants dropped to
his knees, I show myself proud and full of the initiative Mistress Christina
enjoyed, and put on the ankle chains obviously meant for me, before enjoying my
first full mouth of cock.
THE END
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