Changing Status

Changing Status, Part 01

(This story is set in a world where legalized, non-hereditary slavery is commonplace for serious crime, unredeemed debt, or voluntary self-indenture. All characters who are enslaved or have any intimate/sexual contact with slaves are 18 years of age or older. This is fiction; no one should ever be deprived of free will nor used sexually without his or her uncoerced permission.)

(Spoiler Alert: This story contains a reluctant transgender theme, but I am posting it under Nonconsent/ Reluctance because the plot revolves around the legalized slavery system that appears in many of my other tales.)

I was born Walter (Wally) Haniford; my parents died in the first pandemic wave soon after I finished high school. While attending community college I worked part time as a slave handler (aka slave wrangler) at the Longhorn Slave Market in Houston, Texas. When I finished my two-year degree in computer science, the managers offered me a full-time position as a wrangler.

At 5 foot, 11 inches and 180 pounds, I was smaller than most of the other male handlers and even some of the females. I was also a loner/introvert who had some difficulties with social situations. Although I was always able to do my job at the Longhorn, I sometimes found that I had to brace myself mentally, forcing myself to be more confident and assertive than I really felt. I often empathized with the misery of the newly-enslaved people who came through the Longhorn, so I tried to treat them as humanely as possible. The problem, of course, was that my job was to turn human beings into horny, obedient sex objects as part of their introduction to slavery and sale at auction. For females in particular, every slave regardless of her primary function was still required to be an eager provider of warm, moist openings for her owners.

(Twelve Years Ago)

My empathy peaked the day when the new slave who crawled out of a wire mesh shipping cage turned out to be my best friend throughout public school–Eleanor Jane Hastings. She was smart, athletic, funny, hard-working, and beautiful, with a cute face, thick chestnut hair, and a svelte body with perky boobs. Quite apart from that, E.J. (as I always called her–everyone else thought her name was “Ellie”) attacked everything with an exuberance and consideration for others that made just being around her a joy.

If that sounds like I was in love with her, I’d have to plead guilty. The problem for me was that E.J. was perfect and popular at everything–valedictorian of our high school class, captain of the volleyball team, president of student council, leading lady in school musicals, Gold Award in Girl Scouts–you name it, she was It, with a capital I. I was just an average guy by comparison. The net result was that I was in her permanent friend-zone, her confidante but never her boyfriend. Had I been female, our relationship could have been described as best friends forever, but as a male I was just her “safe,” platonic buddy, a shoulder to cry on and a friend to talk with. Sometimes I thought that, just like me, E.J. put such a premium value on our friendship that she shied away from any possibility of romantic entanglement. That’s how I felt about her, anyway–afraid to tell her my love because it would risk our friendship.

Given Eleanor’s superlative high school record, parents and guidance counsellors had pressured her into attending an elite private college while I went to the local community college. She would still telephone me and get together when she came home for the holidays, but inevitably we drifted apart as our lives had so little in common. Before she crawled out of that cage, I had assumed that she was finishing her senior year in college, headed for law school. I don’t know which one of us was more surprised when we came face to face after I ordered her into the “Present” position, standing with her legs apart and fingers interlocked behind the shock collar I had just installed on her pretty neck.

“What the Frack?” I asked. “Why are you here, E.J.?”

It was one more indication of how poised and self-possessed she was that she did not break the discipline expected of slaves. “Medical debt for my mom’s cancer,” she murmured and then added, with barely a pause, “Master.”

Still befuddled, I said something inane about wishing she had told me so I could help her–as if my $2100 in savings would have made any difference to a debt big enough to put my best friend in a collar.

For a moment, her face reflected traces of the impish personality I knew and loved. “Do you think I should rent a billboard to announce that I’m a slave?” she inquired.

“Sorry,” I replied, struggling to regain my normal balance. My mind was not only distressed that my best friend had been enslaved but trying desperately to stay focused on her face when the most beautiful woman I had ever known was standing, slave naked and fully exposed, in front of me. To cover my confusion, I ordered her to “Reverse” [her bare ass was even sexier than I had imagined] and then “Back Hands” so I could install the elaborate leather wrist bonds that held her arms behind her. Working on auto pilot, I continued the usual procedure–order her to reverse again, clip a leash onto her shock collar, lead her over to my podium, and have her kneel, spread wide and fully exposed, while I clipped the leash to the podium and read her electronic record.

It was pretty much what she had said–she owed $90,000 to a financial institution that had lent her the money for her mother’s chemo treatments and nursing. In order to borrow that much, she had been slave-graded as Choice–three half-steps below the perfect score of Prime–in another market, a process that included having her Slave Identification Number tattooed onto the inside of her lower lip. The file also contained the lewd photographs taken when she was graded–Lord, her body was magnificent, although her expression in the photos showed little sign of the arousal necessary to be a top-rated slave. Having been a slave handler for years, I concluded that her lack of passion was probably why she hadn’t been graded Prime and sold as a “Sandy Foot Girl” at the Big D in Dallas. Now, to our mutual embarrassment, I would be the one who had to arouse her and sell her indenture for a higher price.

After a deep breath, I gently pushed her hair behind her ears so she could see, then launched into a modified version of my usual orientation spiel. “Getting through today is going to be a real challenge for you, E.J.” (It wouldn’t be a walk through the park for me either, but I knew she didn’t want to hear that.) “Not only do you have to put up with the nervousness and humiliation, but you also have to sell for the highest possible price–NOT just to make money for my bosses at the market, but also to shorten your time in a collar. The higher your value, the quicker your debt gets paid off. Besides, the more you cost, the less likely you are to be abused by your owner.”

Being no dummy, she looked as if she wanted to say “Well, DUH, Wally,” but she limited herself to the neutral “Yes, Master.”

After looking around to ensure that no one was in earshot, I plunged onward. “You’re already the most beautiful woman I know,” at which point E.J. looked genuinely pleased by the compliment. “So now we have to make you so aroused that the slave merchants will pay top dollar for you. To do that, I’m going to fondle you and talk dirty to you while I try to convince you that you really are a cock-crazy bimbo slut, and you’re going to have to do a lot of heavy breathing and masturbation. We both KNOW you’re no bimbo, but that’s not the question today. So, let me apologize in advance for how I treat you–I only hope that someday you’ll forgive me both for doing my job and for trying to get the highest price for you. That’s the best I can do for both of us in this lousy situation.” Fortunately, she was resigned to her fate, and promised to do a convincing act.

I told E.J. the sequence of events, including what she would have to do. Then, I gave her a drink of water and had her straddle a pee grate to relieve herself. After years of imagining how she and I would be intimate, I found that the first time I touched her beautiful pussy was to wipe her off; she was obviously embarrassed by the contact. Once that was done, I shifted into high gear, gently tweaking and fondling her superb curves while I demanded that she identify herself as a slut, skank, whore, and so on. I was talking to her as if she were an intelligent dog, saying things like “GOOOD little bitch–I’ll bet you can’t wait to have your master fuck your slave brains out, can you?”

She dutifully played along, parroting demeaning phrases back to me. I released her wrists so that she could join a group of other collared women, going through the raunchy poses known as Block Positions, the X-rated slaver’s version of Slave Yoga. This exposed every inch of her voluptuous body while she repeated mantras such as “I live to serve you” and “Let me suck your huge cock, Master.” The sight of this beautiful woman on her knees in front of me had been awe-inspiring, and watching her dance around a platform, her hair flying and her boobs and butt swaying, gave me and every other wrangler massive hard-ons. Once, E.J. stared hard at my protruding crotch, then smirked and winked at me while gyrating, twerking, and otherwise playing with herself. For her sake, I was glad to see some dampness trickling down her inner thighs. Her act was working.

I had warned her that at the end of a block position sequence each slave was expected to give her handler a blow job. I had told her that we would just fake it–she had to open her mouth wide so I would pump my cock back and forth a few times, then I would pretend to cum and pull out. Thirty seconds and done. Please understand me: If E.J. had voluntarily taken me into her mouth, I would have gone to hell happy. But the idea that I would be the first man to use her as a slave, against her will, was horrifying to me and, I THOUGHT, even more so to her. Now, I had to pretend for her sake, doing my best to avoid unloading down her throat.

I soon realized, however, that my best friend had other plans. Instead of just allowing me to enter her open mouth, she wrapped her lips and tongue around my dick and began to really suck me off. Her mouth smiled widely and her eyes stared happily into my face, seeming to say that she was enjoying herself. She surprised me by swallowing several inches of my rod down her throat, overcoming any gag reflex. E.J. did a magnificent imitation of a cock-hungry fellatrix, and before I knew it I had covered her tongue with white goo. Which was something I never intended to do. She slowly withdrew her head from my shaft and, like a well-drilled sex slave, extended her tongue to show me its sticky cargo. I hastily nodded permission to swallow, wondering how I could ever redeem myself in her eyes for using her like this. After she finished ingesting my sperm, however, she voluntarily licked my organ dry and then ran her tongue around her lips as if she were enjoying a tremendous treat. Once again, she winked and smiled at me.

At least I gave her a chance to rinse out her mouth, followed by a drink of water and another chance to straddle the pee grate. I was still stunned by how well she was acting the horny slut, complete with erect nipples and damp thighs. However she had managed it, E.J. had transformed herself into the perfect slave whore, so I hastily devoxed her throat, then marched her to the exhibit area and strung her up, legs spread apart and wrists cuffed over her head, for the next stage, in which not only real slave merchants but gawking 19-year-old guys could feel her up in any way they liked. The slave merchants needed to touch her to evaluate her horniness, but I growled and drove off any gawkers who laid a finger on her.

I had imagined that being on exhibit would be a particularly-difficult part of the ordeal, but she continued to smile and wiggle happily throughout her hour on display. She had been an excellent actress in high school, but I think her greatest performance came at the Longhorn Slave Market.

As soon as possible, I released E.J. and moved her to the waiting area behind the auction block. The antidote for Devox plus a bottle of water eventually restored her voice while she continued to jill off, obviously determined to keep her arousal at a low boil. For a while, I kept up my usual pattern of toying with her body while encouraging her to self-identify as a horny slut. Eventually, when the other handlers were distracted, I leaned over next to her ear and quietly tried to apologize for feeding her my sperm.

E.J. responded with another smile, replying “On the contrary, ‘Master.'” [there was just a hint of sarcasm, as if she were putting hooked finger quotation marks around the final word.] “I need to THANK you for the opportunity. Your ‘monster cock’ [she smirked at using the standard way for slaves to describe any penis, however small] was cleaner and tasted a lot better than any boyfriend I sucked off in college. It was fun to finally play with my best friend!”

Before I could respond to this surprising declaration, the slave in front of her moved through the door into the auction room, which meant that the love of my life was now standing at the threshold of her own sale. I quickly reminded her of what to do, even though she seemed far more prepared than I for what was about to happen. Meanwhile, I diddled her clit and nipples until the last second, feeling both guilty and overjoyed at the opportunity.

When I heard the auctioneer, Antonne, declare the previous woman to be sold, I slapped E.J. gently on the ass and sent her off to her fate. I felt an enormous sadness, not to mention clammy hands and dizziness, at the thought of her being sold to be mauled and used by strangers.

I couldn’t bear to watch, but instead walked around to the exit door where I would pick her up after sale. I came through that door just in time hear the final bid–$140,000 for only a three-year indenture–made by a merchant whom I knew worked for the temporary agency SlutsAreUs. So, good news/bad news–my best friend would be free with her debt more than repaid in only three years, but meanwhile she would be working for an agency that specialized in renting women out as lap dancers, call girls, and the like.

Again on auto-pilot, I recovered the newly-enslaved woman, reattached her wrists behind her back, checked the details with the auction clerk, and then walked her out of the room. In the empty corridor beyond, E.J. suddenly twisted around, pressed her still-erect tits against my chest, and gave me a very gentle kiss on the lips. “Thanks, Wally,” she murmured. “You’re VERY good at your job, and having you here made this a lot easier for me.”

After that, we were no longer alone. The smith and his assistant took her into the over-heated branding room. While I watched helplessly, they strapped that magnificent young woman down, shoved a bite stick into her mouth, and seared the Longhorn brand into her fantastic left butt cheek. In her case, that included an extra “P” for Prime superimposed over the stylized cattle skull. Brave to the last, E.J. emitted only two tiny cries, one for each brand, from her stuffed mouth. Quickly, the smith’s assistant sprayed the new wound with pain killer, disinfectant, and liquid bandage. Then he gave her some ibuprofen and water.

Her new owner was in a hurry to collect his prize. Still weeping slightly from the pain, my best friend nonetheless managed to smile and wink at me one more time before she was led away naked and cuffed, exuding sex appeal in every step she took.

*****

(Eight years later; four years ago)

Supervisory Deputy U.S. Marshal Martin Vance was dying, with two bullet holes in his abdomen. He might survive if he went directly to a Level I Trauma Center, but the Hernandez cartel was undoubtedly watching all the local ERs–he’d never make it. Nor could he call for backup, since there was obviously a leak somewhere in the Witness Security Program. I had managed to stop the bleeding while he sat, braced in an office chair, his 9mm automatic pointed at the door of the abandoned gas station where we had taken refuge.

How the hell did I end up here? Short answer: After processing E.J. Hastings into slavery that day, I was so horrified that I immediately began looking for another line of work. I eventually found relatively lucrative employment as an independent contractor who designed and installed information systems for small- to medium-sized businesses. Tell me what kind of capabilities you needed, and I would (for a fair markup) install a system including computers, printers, routers, encrypted wireless systems, projectors, and so on.

I was good at this job, and the hours suited me. In order to minimize disruption of their business operations, most of my clients wanted me to do the installations from Friday evening through Sunday night, when no one was around in their offices. I still had to negotiate the contracts during normal business hours, but otherwise this was the perfect career for an introvert. To avoid complications, I always had my client warn local police that they might see me moving about inside their offices at unusual hours of the day and night.

That’s how I came to be working, alone, inside a telecommunications closet of the E-Z Credit Company in downtown El Paso. It was after midnight on a Saturday evening to Sunday morning, and I was almost done upgrading their ancient electronic systems with fiber optics. I had left a few lights on elsewhere in their offices but saw no reason to waste electricity.

I heard someone enter the office suite, but because he or she had used a key, the entry seemed to be legitimate. Being shy, I debated whether I should emerge and identify myself or just keep working.

Then I heard a discussion in Spanish–or perhaps I should say Spanglish–between two men who became increasingly angry with each other. My own Spanish accent may be atrocious, but like most young Texans I could understand almost everything they said. Leaving out the expletives and references to the unmarried status and promiscuity of their respective mothers, the two men were arguing about sharing the profits of some drug deal.

I really didn’t want to get involved, but neither did I want to know about such things. I had just nerved myself to peer around the closet door when I saw two young Latino men, both in profile, shouting at each other–and then one of them pulled out an automatic pistol and shot the other, twice. The victim collapsed and the assailant advanced over his body and then, aiming carefully, shot him a third time in the head, cursing steadily.

Now I DEFINITELY didn’t want to announce my presence! Call me a coward if you will, but I had no desire to face an armed man who had already killed once and was so angry that he might do so again. I pulled my head back behind the door and remained motionless, terrified, until I heard the murderer leave, locking the door behind him. I waited several minutes before cautiously emerging to see the shattered body lying on the floor. One look and I dashed to the nearest men’s room to vomit.

Maybe I should have just tip-toed away, but even if I were willing to conceal a murderer, any police investigation would soon discover that I had a key to the office suite and was scheduled to work that weekend. So, I called 911.

That’s when my troubles really began. Of course, the responding officers cuffed me and dragged me off for interrogation. To give them credit they quickly recognized that I was unlikely to be the perpetrator, especially when they used fingerprints (his face being obliterated by the third shot) to identify the murdered man. He had been a convicted felon who was widely suspected of being a mid-level drug smuggler in the Hernandez cartel.