Changing Status

(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.)

Up until a few hours ago, I had been Wally Haniford, former slave wrangler and computer installation contractor. Three months earlier, I had unintentionally seen Hugo Hernandez, youngest son of drug lord Matias Hernandez, murder another drug smuggler in an otherwise deserted office building. That had put me into the federal Witness Security Program, but after Hugo’s trial ended with a hung jury, someone had leaked information that blew my hiding place. Three deputy U.S. marshals had died trying to protect me. The last to die had pulled a Hail Mary play, giving me both a gender-conversion pill and a point of contact that would help me self-indenture myself. The idea was that no one would expect a male computer geek to hide as a female slave.

If this wasn’t freaky enough, the Marshals’ Service emergency contact to help me self-indenture was the best (platonic) friend of my youth, the beautiful and brilliant Eleanor Jane Hastings. Eight years before, I had been horrified when called upon to process E.J., as I always called her, into slavery for medical debt (her mom died anyhow). This experience had caused me to quit my job at the Longhorn Slave Market and develop another career. E.J. was free now and based on her clothes and apartment seemed to be doing quite well. Fortunately, the gender pill had changed my hair, body, and even voice so much that she would not immediately recognize her buddy Wally. For her safety as much as mine, I had to ensure she never realized who I was, so that the Hernandez cartel did not connect the missing witness with the secret love of my life.

Ellie [I was determined not to refer to her as E.J.] welcomed me into her home; as soon as she had locked her door, she gave me a gentle hug “because you look like you need one.”

“Yes, Ma’am,” I agreed.

“No need to be formal,” she replied, giggling. “Look, unless your pursuers catch up with you, you can plan on spending two nights here regardless of what happened afterwards. Do you like pizza?”

She produced a large pepperoni pie, which again brought back fond memories of time spent with her in the past. I soon realized that my new, smaller, female body could no longer consume large amounts of food, so I stopped after two slices and some diet coke.

Silence hung in the apartment for perhaps a minute, and then Ellie hesitantly raised the problem that had brought me to her door.

“You wouldn’t have contacted me if you weren’t a witness on the run,” she began. “Please DON’T say anything about your identity or the case that brought you to WITSEC–you wouldn’t be here if there wasn’t a security breach. I’m also guessing that you were not born as a woman.”

“Is it that obvious?” I asked.

“Not really, but there are certain gestures that young girls learn, gestures you have to make automatic. For instance, women rarely sit or lie down with their legs apart; they tend to sit straight up with their shoulders square and knees together, take very small bites of food and sips of beverage, and so on. Most long-haired women also automatically brush their bangs behind their ears, several times every minute, so they both see and hear better.” She was trying to help me survive, so I attempted to change my posture and handle my hair as she had suggested.

“First things first–we need to give you a new name, social security number, and identity.” Thirty minutes later, I had a Texas driver’s license that said I was Susan J. Twinning and had been born on 02/26/20XP, which chopped three years off my actual age. She also gave me a smudged Social Security card with the appropriate name and a new number, explaining that the original Susan and her family had died of Covid at age 9. These cards should stand up to casual checks, including being run through a police data base, but I needed to memorize the place and date of birth, parents’ names, and so on.

Ellie took a deep breath. “Now we come to the really hard part: what do you want to do next? Any credit card or bank account might lead pursuers to you, but if you want, you can stay here two nights and I’ll give you two hundred in cash plus buy you a bus ticket out of town. We can also work on your ‘girl lessons’ so you can blend in better. I assume that WITSEC told you the alternative, right?”

I grimaced. “Yeah, enslavement.”

She put a hand on my wrist. “Believe me, Susie, I get it. I was indentured for three years and it was horrible even though I had a best friend who helped me through the slave market process.” Since she was talking about me–Wally–as her best friend, I barely restrained the urge to tell her who I really was. Instead, I melted a little inside.

Although she offered to let me think about it overnight, I realized that enslavement was the “least bad” option if I wanted to survive, so I told her I would do that. She appeared relieved that I had taken the rational alternative, but I cut her off by a further question:

“The thing is, Ellie–may I call you Ellie? [she nodded]–that I need more than gestures for my ‘girl lessons.’ As a woman, I’m a complete virgin, which will make the enslavement process even more horrific than it would be otherwise.”

The compassion was evident on her hauntingly-familiar face. “The guy who invented this program anticipated that. I know it will be uncomfortable, but if you’ll permit me, tomorrow we can use a strap-on to give you the physical if not the psychological experience of losing your virginities.”

I should have been repulsed, but I was actually relieved, even overjoyed–my best friend was offering to be intimate with me, to get me over the first hump (unavoidable pun) of womanhood. If being an ex-slave wrangler sold into slavery wasn’t sufficiently ironic, how about having the woman I had loved all my life as a male be the person who would introduce me to womanhood?? Despite those thoughts, I was so exhausted that I fell asleep promptly.

******

Next morning, after breakfast, Ellie had me practice walking, sitting, smiling just slightly whenever someone addressed me, and so on. I’d been so stressed out the previous night that I had ignored how odd I felt. Now, however, simply moving about her apartment was a sensuous experience, one I knew I would have enjoyed watching if I were still male. I no longer walked; I undulated, my hips, boobs, and hair swaying in a rhythm that continued for a few seconds after I came to a halt. And my entire body sent back sensations, often pleasurable ones, to my brain.

At one point, Ellie produced a pair of scissors and trimmed the ends of my hair to an even length at my shoulders. She also lent me a skirt and a pair of heeled sandals so I could have my first experience of walking in heels and sitting down wearing a dress or skirt. Embarrassed, I tried to joke that I probably wouldn’t be wearing heels, skirts, or anything else while I was a slave.

Ellie replied, very kindly, “You never know what you’ll be doing or wearing as a slave. I was all dressed up as a slave call girl for two years. Besides, think of this as preparation for when you regain your freedom.” That shook me–somehow I had focused so much on the slavery issue that I forgot the fact that I was now, for the rest of my life, a woman. I was so startled by the thought that I collapsed back into a chair–then realized that I had automatically swept my hands under me to arrange the skirt properly. I guess I was learning.

After a light lunch, it was time to address the elephant in the room: breaking in my body for service. Ellie began with a short speech:

“Suzie, this is going to be weird for both of us. I’m probably almost as uncomfortable as you are about having sex together, although I had to use my mouth on more than one woman while I was a slave. The key thing to remember, both now and when you get to the slave market, is to just go with the flow. Obey every instruction without hesitation. Don’t think about how strange it is for you to have sex as a woman–just smile and tell yourself it’s a kinky adventure. My best friend got me through MY slave auction by telling me to pretend I was a cock-crazy bimbo who enjoyed all the attention she was getting–and it worked! You’re a cute girl, so just tell yourself that you’re really horny. The sluttier you are, the higher your sale price, and the higher your sale price, the better you’ll be treated by your owner, got it?”

It was strange hearing her repeat, almost verbatim, my standard explanation to women about to be sold. But she was right, so I nodded my head and meekly promised to try.

“That’s the spirit!” my former best friend told me. “Now, we’re going to roleplay that you’re a slave whom I’m going to order around and eventually fuck.” I look shocked at that word, having never imagined the love of my life talking like that. “Get used to it,” she replied, gently. “You’ll hear a lot worse at the slave market, and it’s all intended to turn you on for sale. One more thing, from now on just do what I tell you, and don’t forget to call me “Mistress” when you answer a question. Got it?”

“Yes, Mistress.”

“See! You’re a natural at this. Let’s get going–Strip, slut!”

Most of the women who came to the slave market where I once worked were already nude, but I’d given that command often enough that it seemed both familiar and odd to hear someone else say it to me. In for a penny, I thought, trying to smile and be both sexy and quick about removing my clothes, folding them hastily into a pile. (The very idea that my behavior could be sexy still seemed truly odd.) Perhaps because I did NOT have a lifetime of concealing my breasts and cunt, I found I could drop my bra and panties without hesitation. When I finished, I knew what was expected of me–the Present position, legs slightly apart, hands interlaced behind my neck, fully exposed to the gaze of my pretend mistress. The thought of standing like that in the same slave market where I had once worked seemed so foreign it didn’t even faze me. I found myself thinking of the departed Wally as a disembodied observer while this strange new construct called Suzie acted like a slave hussy.

Ellie was obviously struggling, trying not to make me feel embarrassed while pretending to be a slave wrangler. To cover her thoughts, she walked slowly around me, gently touching my butt and belly as she did so. “Not a bad bod, slave,” she deadpanned, then added “Collar!”

Having drilled slaves on block positions (aka slave yoga) for years, I knew how to perform all these orders but had never had to do so myself in my new body. Still, I managed to drop to my knees (thankful that she had carpeting, rather than the concrete floors of a slave market), using one hand to gather my shoulder-length black hair up, holding it out of the way while she buckled a plain leather collar around my neck. Since I was down there already, it was then simple to shift into kneeling position, hands again behind my neck, when she directed me to.

I heard some leather creaking and shifting behind me, then my once best (and now only) friend walked around in front of me. She was still fully dressed, but over her stylish trousers she now wore a tightly-cinched harness with a seven-inch dildo projecting from it. Keeping in character, she gave me the single command “mouth.”

After three decades as a man, I should have been horrified by the idea of taking that thing into my mouth. However, she was a beloved female and the dildo was not a real cock, so I didn’t hesitate, forming my lips into an O-shape and leaning forward slightly to accept the pretend penis. For the next several minutes, Ellie used her expertise as a sex slave to give me some pointers on the fine art of fellatio, something I had never expected to need to perform! Running my tongue around the head and shaft, using my lips to cover my teeth so that I could GENTLY clamp down on the fake dick. She insisted that I grin around the dildo while gazing upward at her face as if I was overjoyed to suck cock. Finally, she got me to straighten my neck and somehow overcome my gag reflex, allowing an inch or two to slide down my esophagus so that she was literally (plastic) balls deep in my mouth! She even triggered a switch that deposited some faux semen in my mouth; she reminded me that I was supposed to stick my tongue out, displaying the gooey mess, and not swallow until the mistress/master gave permission. How many times had I taught a new girl this? Yet now I had to pretend almost complete ignorance in order to maintain my cover.

Keeping in character, once I finished licking her probe clean I quietly said “Thank you, Mistress” for the privilege of serving her. She grinned and congratulated me on the right attitude. She gave me a bottle of water to drink, then snapped a leash onto my collar, ordered “Heel, slut,” and slowly walked towards the bedroom I had used the previous night as I obediently crawled behind her.

*****

When we got to her bedroom, Ellie told me to relax for a minute, and asked how I was doing. Somehow I managed to express my concern.

“Mistress, I know you’re teaching me how a slave girl gets used, and I need to learn all that. But now, I assume you’re going to use that thing in my cunt.” We both winced at the crude word used to describe female slaves, but she nodded agreement. “But it just hit me how big this is–can you be a little gentle in taking my virginity?”

She gave me a quick hug. “You’ve got it, sweetie. I don’t get any kind of Lesbian vibe from you, but for now, we’re going to try to make this pleasant for you.”

She stood up, removing the harness, and now SHE was stripping for ME. Yeah, I’d seen her naked when she came through the Longhorn Slave Market, but now we were in her bedroom about to make love–trouble was, SHE was going to be fucking ME!

*****

Once Ellie had lubricated the fake dick, we tried rather clumsily to embrace each other on the bed. I blushed furiously as I spread my arms and legs, then was startled by the sensation of our breasts rubbing against each other. It felt even better when we kissed, something I had dreamed about for years–the reality felt even better than my imagination, even through the odd sensations of my new body.

I closed my eyes and just enjoyed this, thinking it was probably my last chance for fun intimacy for however long I was enslaved. Then she chuckled, causing me to open my eyes.

“Truth time,” She answered, in response to the query on my face. “I was just thinking that this must seem very strange for someone who used to be male. I guess I’d better explain myself: I experimented with female-female love a few times in college, but stopped it because, every time I got in bed like this and kissed a girl, I kept imagining how much fun it would have been to make love with my best friend Wally. Too bad I never had the nerve to proposition him!”

Damn! I wanted to “out” myself but kept quiet because the knowledge of what Wally looked like right now could be deadly for her. Instead, I faked a laugh back at her, murmuring, “I can see where that would be a problem. I know what you mean, though, because I always imagined kissing MY best friend, only I didn’t dare ask her and now it’s too damn late. Let’s just close our eyes and pretend, OK?” We did, and it was great.

I may have kept my cover, but my mind was so overjoyed by the chance to kiss E.J. that it sent out messages to alert my body. My breathing increased, my nipples erected, and I felt hot and moist down there where I used to have a cock. About the time I realized that, she gently pressed me down, rolling over and using her hips to press my thighs apart. She fumbled with my labia and then I was suddenly filled. That plastic shaft had seemed monstrous in my mouth and throat, but it REALLY occupied and stretched my birth canal. The sensations were all wrong but the overall sense of being intimate with the love of my life was marvelous. My body became even more aroused as I frantically clung to her and kissed her, moaning gently. She seemed equally excited, but apparently had enough lesbian experience to begin pumping her hips, alternately thrusting and withdrawing her false penis inside of me. I had half expected a sharp pain, but apparently my new body lacked a hymen. The sense of being stuffed down there was all wrong, but I told myself to forget it, and just think about making love with E.J.!

Both of us were breathing very fast, totally focused on each other while she frantically rammed into me. Her harness was rubbing against my new clit, and I hoped she was enjoying the same kind of friction, because it felt frakin’ marvelous to me. I think my new body climaxed at least twice over the next five minutes, although the sensation was distinctly different from shooting swimmers out of my departed penis. I mean, a male climax is focused primarily on his dick, but now every part of my body shivered and thrilled at both the physical sensations and the feeling of intimacy with the love of my life. Besides, that woman now had control over my body as if she were the male and I the female, giving me a much more submissive sensation. Finally, she convulsed, apparently reaching her own peak before she collapsed on top of me, still quivering and breathing hard.

After we caught our breath, she rolled off me, staggered out of the room, and came back with a warm washcloth as well as a bottle of cold water. She insisted I drink up while she scrubbed the stickiness off my midsection. By this time my boobs, which had been frantically rising and falling like I was hyperventilating, had finally resumed normal motion.

“OK, Suzy. Now that you’ve lost your virginity…” Ellie began but stopped and glared at me when I erupted into laughter.

“Sorry.” I murmured, trying to stop laughing. “I was just thinking how odd it was that YOU ‘copped my cherry.'”

She smiled but tried to get back on track. “Ladies don’t have cherries. As I was saying before I was so LEWDLY interrupted, now that you’ve lost your virginity, we need to finish practicing how you will service slavers and other men. Please get up into ‘Slave Fours,’ on your knees and elbows.”

I dutifully “assumed the position” turning away from her on all fours, feeling as if I were a dog asking to be mounted by offering my rear end to the alpha in the room. That sensation was only magnified when I felt her hand spreading my labia (! I was repeatedly shocked by the realization that I had these female erogenous zones), after which she once again took possession of my body with that phallus, which felt so huge inside of me. I was still well-lubricated from our previous coupling, but the sensation of that thing pumping in and out of me brought forth a girlish moan from my new body. At first, I struggled just to keep my balance, and then the feeling was so overwhelming that I involuntarily pushed backwards every time she withdrew, trying to increase the friction with that shaft. I felt her magnificent melons rubbing against my back as she bent over me and reached around to play with my (!!) boobs and clit. Damn, that felt magnificent!

Once again, we both worked up to a rapid, frantic swaying with accompanying heavy breathing and various inarticulate murmurs such as “Oh, yeah” and “right there!” I found myself involuntarily begging my lover to “Fuck me, PLEASE Fuck me!” My mind was still male, but my body enjoyed all those female sensations, eventually shuddering into another climax as Ellie’s masterful (mistressful?) possession demanded my surrender.

And then, I felt her pause, removing her right hand from my erect breast to reach for a bottle of lube she had dropped beside me on the bed. A moment later, I realized that we were about to enter a new stage as I felt her fingers anoint my wrinkled anus. My mind was still deciding whether I liked that sensation when my cunt suddenly felt empty, and a second later her plastic penis was pressing against my asshole!

We were both still excited and panting, but somehow Ellie managed to say, “Pretend you’re taking a crap, Suzie–really push down there!” It seemed an odd instruction, but my confused mind decided that she had given me so much pleasure that I ought to comply. So I flexed my muscles, telling my lower intestine to empty itself out–only instead of feeling empty, it suddenly was as full as my cunt had been a moment before! The head of that plastic intruder was lodged inside my asshole, which was suddenly contracting in discomfort. I unconsciously emitted a little cry of surprise and pain, and the woman driving that monstrous marauder stopped moving.

“Breathe, Suzie,” she urged me, remaining absolutely still while holding my body tightly. I struggled to accommodate the intrusion, inhaling deeply and moaning very slightly. Her voice was reassuring, friendly, and yet slightly amused. “When you were a guy, how many times did you dream about fucking a girl’s ass?” I grunted: how could I tell her that I had thought about doing that quite frequently, especially about cornholing the beautiful E.J.? Although I’d never had the nerve to even suggest it to a woman. “Well, now you know why the girl didn’t want you back there, right? Don’t worry, I’ve had dozens of guys quote fuck my sweet ass unquote when I was a slave, often when I was tied up and helpless. Once you get over the stretching, it CAN feel kinda good.” Although I’d often dreamed of sodomizing Ellie with her permission, as a male I’d never actually done the deed; it seemed kind of cruel to bind a slave and force myself on her. Only now I could look forward to having innumerable guys fuck MY ass!

A long minute later, she began to very slowly pump in an inch, withdraw an inch, and then repeat the motion, gradually increasing the length of each inward and outward stroke. Ellie’s arm surrounded me to resume toying with my left breast and nipple, and eventually reached down to fondle my clit again. The pain of my stretched anus faded while the sensation grew of being possessed, occupied, controlled by the beautiful person behind me. I hate to admit it, but after a few dozen strokes it felt so good that I really began to enjoy it, and for a moment imagined being Ellie’s live-in lesbian lover, getting rammed fore and aft like this every night. Sigh… if only. And then I thought of the cartel looking for me, and I worried about exposing the love of my life to those murderous bastards.

By that time, we were both lost in the sensations, breathing heavily and moaning very slightly as we pumped and swayed back and forth, enjoying the sensations. Eventually we both sped up until she was frantically thrusting forward and I was urgently pushing my butt back against her. We didn’t climax simultaneously–that only happens in fiction, and besides I was still too recently-transgendered to have any control over this new, female body. Nonetheless, our shared experience was fantastic. I ended up spread-eagled face down on the bed with the love of my life collapsed on top of me, still connected by that strap-on as well as by a thin layer of perspiration. I mentally promised myself to remember this feeling every time I had to give my ass to some guy while enslaved–that would make it much more bearable mentally.

After we caught our breath, by mutual consent we took a long shower together, gently kissing and fondling in between soaping each other. I thanked her solemnly for taking all three of my virginities in such an enjoyable way, and she thanked me for the use of my body. After a simple meal of salad and sandwiches, she went over the process by which I would sell that body to a slave market the next day, and we cuddled together as we curled up in her bed, mine being too messed up for use! I stayed awake a long time, recalling old memories of what happened to female slaves when they were auctioned off…

*****

By late morning the next day, Sunday, we were in her car, me still dressed in the nondescript sweat clothes and tennies that Deputy Marshal Vance had given me Friday night. At her suggestion, I had given myself an enema and shaved my pubic hair and under my arms in preparation for what was to come.

We made only one stop, visiting her paralegal, Ginny, who was a notary public. I produced my fake ID, told Ginny that I was willingly indenturing myself for college money, and then scrawled my new signature as Susan J. Twinning on a power of attorney I had already read. The wording was very familiar from my previous work at the slave market; it authorized Eleanor J. Hastings, attorney at law, to

Consign the person executing this power of attorney to indentured servitude for any period of six months to eight years, under the provisions of Texas Civil Code, Chapter 5 Conveyance, 5.309.2, Voluntary Indenture.

Just reading those words struck terror in my heart, but it seemed like the best way to hide. Ellie made me feel a little better by telling Ginny, “Once Suzie is sold, I’m going to give you her I.D. and the paperwork for her account to bank the sale price. That way, when she gets out, you’ll be her second point of contact. Let’s agree on a password to identify her–how about ‘Wally?'” (The thought that she would use my former nickname as a password when she didn’t even know my true identity gave me a warm fuzzy.) As an aside, she explained that “Ginny and I both work for Morris, Kingsley, and Simmons–that’s a law firm in Dallas. When you finish your indenture, come find us, OK?”

She parked outside the familiar bulk of my former employer, the Longhorn Slave Market, and silently looked at me, wondering if I were ready to begin. I took a deep breath, stepped outside of the car, and undressed my still-unfamiliar female body, carefully folding my clothes and laying them on the front seat of her car. I wondered when if ever I would be permitted to wear clothes again.

Elly collared and cuffed me, then led me, mentally quailing but outwardly calm, towards the main entrance. My ID and the power of attorney quickly earned me another collar, this one with the heavy bulk of battery and shock apparatus, as well as different, leather cuffs to secure my wrists. She gave me a brief hug, promising to return the following day for my auction. Then I was alone, with a bored-looking slave handler named Jim, who I didn’t recognize, steering me inside with his fingers up my butt crack and his hand gently cupping my right buttock. How often had I used the same grip to walk naked women around when I worked here?

You’ve probably read about the procedure for slave grading a girl, so there isn’t much to tell. It being Sunday, Jim walked me through medical examination, birth control implant, tattooing my new Slave Identification Number inside my lower lip, and entering my (fictitious) data into the national slave registry.

Before he began data entry, Jim ordered me to kneel and crawl backwards under the computer console. Knowing what was coming, I mentally braced myself so I didn’t hesitate when he casually unzipped, whipped out his cock and balls, and sat down in front of me, ordering simply “mouth.” Not wanting a shock, I started running my tongue and lips all over his equipment before taking a deep breath and engulfing as much of his semi-hard erection as I could. The taste wasn’t too bad, but the act of swallowing him went against a lifetime of male attitudes. I told myself to think about making love with E.J., breathing around the edges as I quickly rocked back and forth along his shaft with my tongue fluttering against it. Judging by how quickly his prick expanded and grew more rigid, I must have been doing something right. Almost before I knew it, he grabbed the back of my head with one hand, holding me with his dick poised at the entrance of my throat as I felt a series of salty flows.

I managed to retain most of this revolting goo in my mouth, so when he released me I sat back and stuck out my tongue so he could see the load. He nodded, commending my performance as a “good cocksucker” as he petted my head while I tried to swallow as much of it as possible. Then, thankfully, he offered me a water bottle to rinse it down.

“Dinner” was the usual bowl of slave kibble, consumed while kneeling, thighs wide apart, on the hard concrete floor. Another slave handler on the night shift took over from Jim, necessitating another blow job, but soon enough the new guy (Bill, I think? I hardly noticed the nametag despite our intimacy) deposited me in a chain-link fence, locked enclosure that contained four bolted-down cots and three other naked girls, all of them wearing the purple collar band that indicated they were only being slave graded, not sold, whereas I had a red band for pleasure slave. Bill or whatever he was called released my wrists and locked me in with the three others.

My cellmates were clearly aroused by their experience, with nipples erect and the gleam of a sticky liquid on their thighs. They were talking, excitedly, about what a turn-on it was to be naked and controlled by hunky guys who could fondle them at will. I imagine it might have been a turn-on, if I knew that I would regain my freedom and clothing the next day. Their discussion was slightly dampened when, in response to a question, I told them I was up for sale, but apparently the thought of that only increased their arousal. They finally shut up when another wrangler arrived, several hours later, and told them to knock off the talking and get a good night’s rest so they would look their best for the slave merchants in the morning. Soon thereafter, the lights went out and after some whispering and giggling silence finally fell. THEY were having a great adventure, a passage into womanhood upon reaching age 18, but I stayed awake for hours, worrying about the alternatives of being caught by the cartel or enslaved as a sex object.

*****

Early the next morning, the lights came on and a buzzer sounded. Knowing what was expected, I folded my blanket and knelt, fingers interwoven behind my neck and knees apart, facing the cage “door.” A bored handler marched four nude and bound young women first to a pee grate and then to the bathroom, where he allowed us to brush our teeth (with disposable brushes) before again latching our wrists together, behind our backs, and hooking them up to ropes that forced us to bend over, torsos parallel to the floor and boobs bobbing. The three teenagers gasped as he shoved lubricated nozzles up their butts and gave them each an enema. Having been in his position many times, I was unsurprised but still felt uncomfortable as the cold water quickly filled my innards. After that, I was happy to be released and allowed to void myself into a commode. Back to the cage we went, this time given bowls of tasteless slave kibble. Eventually, other slave handlers appeared and resumed control of their helpless, nude charges.

Next stop was a round of Slave Yoga on one of the battered wooden platforms that I recalled so vividly from my time working here. Being naked in the chill of an air conditioned building, it actually felt good to dance around and flaunt my new body in various obscene positions. One such position was called “Cheerleader Toe Touch,” which involved sitting on the platform, thighs and legs spread as wide apart as I could manage, with my hands reaching out to seize my ankles. As I leaned backwards slightly, this exposed my breasts, my cunt, and my asshole to the attentive view of the assembled slave wranglers–all of whom were sporting hard-ons in their jeans. The appropriate slave mantra we had to repeat was “Choose any hole–my body is your playground!” Damned if the combination of exercise, dirty come-ons, and aroused males didn’t make me lubricate down there.

When we finished, the nude cavorting young women were split into two groups. As I had expected, most of the teenagers who were there only for slave grading were marched off to be exposed to the view of slave merchants and gawkers alike, while I and several other genuine slaves would have to wait. In the long run, waiting was to my advantage because the slave merchants inevitably graded low when looking at a bunch of wannabe teenagers. However, I knew that I wouldn’t be left to my own devices. Instead, as I had expected, the slave wranglers put me and two other girls with red-banded collars “on to marinate” for a while.

Marinating began with the command to “DISPLAY!” which required me to turn away from the handlers, move my legs shoulder width apart, and then bend over as far as I could until my head was down between my legs. In that stressful position, I saw and felt a lubricated butt plug and vibrator inserted into my two openings, then held in place with a kind of G-string that the wrangler wrapped around my thighs. After that, I had to kneel on a thin rubber mat with my legs once again spread and my torso bent back. My wrists and ankles were strapped to columns behind the mat, holding me wide open and on full display. I remembered putting sluts [hey! That’s what we’re called, OK?] into this position when I had worked here; the last step was to turn on the vibrators in both lower openings, which proceeded to switch on and off at random schedules. Now I was acutely conscious of every millimeter of my new female body, especially my protruding boobs and nipples and my dripping nubbin and “snatch.” No doubt about it, I was a female slave in heat.

Periodically, a bored slave wrangler would walk up to me, unzip his jeans, and order me to “mouth.” That was the signal to do everything I could think of to bring him off orally; each time I succeeded, I had to go through the degrading procedure of sticking out my tongue and waiting for permission before finally swallowing his white protein shake. Some of these guys also used a trick I had learned while working there, slowly rubbing the tip of one boot against my open and dripping snatch to increase the friction.

An hour being tied and used like that and almost any woman, however new or resistant to slavery, would become accustomed to being fully exposed and casually used to pleasure free men. I, of course, did not have a lifetime of modesty and chastity to unlearn, but the sensations of my new body still brought me to a slow boil, eager to come and therefore willing to do anything a wrangler suggested, however lewd or disgusting. My body’s reaction to all of this helped overrule any remains of my masculine identity.

*****

Finally, a wrangler whose nametag read “Bob” released me, ran me through another series of Block Moves, then marched me off to be put on public display. This meant Devoxer sprayed down my throat, hands cuffed and tied above my head, with my legs gently kicked apart and restrained in an inverted “Y” posture. Bob extracted the vibrators out of my lower openings, rapidly manipulated my labia, clit, and nipples, urged me to think dirty thoughts, and left me to the examination of the crowd. The actual slave merchants, many of whom I recognized from my time working there, weren’t a problem–at most, they stuck two fingers up my cunt to check how lubricated I was. On the other hand, anyone who could prove being over the age of 18 could buy a ticket to the examination for fifty cents. As always, a gaggle of older, teenaged guys, making lewd comments about how much they’d enjoy putting their dicks into various openings, fondled my helpless body. This attention kept me panting and dripping, which was probably beneficial to make me appear horny. On the other hand, it was sometimes terrifying to be mauled by horny, sweaty guys, but at least Bob and the other wranglers discouraged the most extreme invasions of my body. It wasn’t fun, and I was enormously relieved when Bob finally released me and escorted me to join the queue of naked young bodies awaiting auction. I learned that my brand new body had been graded Choice Minus, which, given my instinctive revulsion from sexual contact with men, was more than I had realistically expected.

He sprayed Devox antidote into my mouth and handed me a cool bottle of water, but insisted that I keep fondling myself while waiting, trying to maintain my arousal before final sale. I knew he was right to do so, so I frantically toyed with my body, eventually humping Bob’s leg, rubbing my crotch against the rough jean fabric to keep myself turned on. His face reflected a sympathy for my desperation, and gently stroked my flyaway hair while keeping his leg straight for my use. Bob also spoke calmly, in a low voice, reminding me of how to act when I got to the auction block.

All too soon, it was my turn for auction, and Bob sent me through the flapping door with a brisk slap on my naked butt. My pulse was reverberating in my ears as I dashed onto the auction block, assumed the Present position with legs apart and hands interlaced behind my neck. My artificially-stoked arousal prompted me to declare, much to my own surprise, “Please fuck me in all my holes!”

For the next few minutes, I moved like an X-rated puppet, displaying myself obscenely in response to instructions from the auctioneer, whom I recognized from previously working together. He was offering me for an indenture period of five years.

Before I knew it, the auction was over, giving total control over my body for the next five years. I heard the auctioneer repeat “eighty-five thousand dollars” three times before he declared me “Sold!” Strung out on adrenaline, I almost collapsed with relief that it was finally over. As I dragged myself over to Bob, who stood waiting next to the auction clerk, I caught sight of a smiling E.J. who was giving me a thumbs up. For the first time in several hours, I felt embarrassed, flushing deeply and nodding to her as I staggered to Bob. He quickly restrained my wrists behind me and helped the clerk double-check my collar data and the SIN inscribed inside my mouth. Shaking in reaction to the emotional strain, I leaned heavily on the wrangler as he led me out of the auction room.

*****

I recognized my new owner, “Harry” Herring. He ran various sleezy enterprises, most prominently a slave brothel in Corpus Christi. He and his minions cruised the slave markets for young, innocent-looking women whom he could turn out as whores, call-girls, and street walkers (all of which were legal if they were collared; they couldn’t be charged with soliciting or prostitution because they were incapable of refusing to have sex when pimped out.) Clearly, he intended to use Suzy who was (although he didn’t know it) only about 60 hours old and felt completely vulnerable.

The first step of course was to impose his will on me, beginning (as I had expected) by having me branded. Harry had Bob march me into the sweltering-hot branding room–the same place, I reflected ruefully, I had taken E.J. after SHE had been auctioned off. I offered no resistance as I was strapped down, thighs apart, onto the elaborate framework. The head smith, who had been assistant when I worked there before, extracted a glowing-yellow branding iron in the shape of a triangular longhorn skull with two, projecting, hooked horns coming from the upper corners of the skull. I had heard that my former employer had substituted a new, much smaller brand for the massive, spreading one used on my best friend’s ass. That was small comfort at the moment, when I was facing the possibility of this thing being pressed against me, followed by a smaller brand, reading “Ch” for Choice, to be stamped into my abraded skin just above the skull outline.

Before I reached that traumatic event, I had first to pretend extreme submission to my new owner. Harry swaggered in front of me, unzipped his pants, and casually flipped out a (surprisingly small) erect dick and dangling balls. “I just bought you, slut,” he announced, “and now I get to introduce you to slavery.”

No sense antagonizing the bastard when he had total control, so I smiled slightly, licked my lips, and said “Yes, Master.”

“Before we get to the good stuff,” Harry continued, “You get your first two chances to perform as a slave. The Smith,” he nodded towards the man still holding that longhorn branding iron in his gloved hands, “Is going to walk your brand around to your rear end, place the branding iron the floor, and then rub the wooden handle across your clit and cunt. That’s your chance to get off–squirm against the handle, do your best to come from the sensation of that tool teasing you, so you’re climaxing just before you get branded. AND while you’re doing that, you get your first chance to suck your master’s cock. Consider this your introduction to being a slave whore for me, got it?”

Again, I did my best to appear meek and docile, although mentally I was promising that some day I would find a means to fuck HIM and burn HIS butt, not only for myself but in revenge for all the helpless women he had no doubt treated the same way.

A moment later, I felt the rough wooden handle pressing against my crotch, rubbing slowly back and forth against my labia and occasionally hitting my clit. Given the fact that I was still somewhat aroused from my own efforts to appear attractive on the auction block, my body was pre-disposed to enjoy the friction the smith was applying, and I began squirming sightly trying to press against that damned handle. (After the fact, I realized that this squirming indicated someone must have deliberately failed to tighten the straps on my thighs.) There was also the adrenaline rush that anybody, aroused or otherwise, would experience when rendered helpless and threatened with burning skin. In a matter of a minute or two, I felt my nipples and clit, already over-stressed from hours of masturbation, re-erect. I also felt renewed stickiness between my thighs. Like it or not (and I didn’t), this teasing with the branding iron, the instrument that was about to mark me forever as a slave, really excited me.

Harry had been watching me as I began panting quietly. Then and only then he directed me to “mouth” and presented his cock to me. Having no choice, I took him in and began running my mouth and tongue around this disgusting shaft. To avoid that thought, I began to recall the much more enjoyable intimacy I had experienced, a decade too late and in the wrong body, with my BFF E.J. I was concentrating so much on getting him off, plus I was feeling the friction of that wooden handle against my newly-acquired pussy, that he and I climaxed, rather unexpectedly, almost simultaneously. In fact, the sudden rush of sticky, salty junk into my mouth probably reinforced my excitement.

Somewhere during this process, I failed to notice that the smith had stopped rubbing the handle of that damned branding iron against me, walked back over to the blowing forge, and thrust it into the most yellow-red point. I noticed this just as he passed me again, holding two other glowing irons. I was still in the throes of my orgasm at that point, and I felt someone–presumably the smith’s assistant–tightening down on my thigh straps. A moment later, Harry pulled his still-gushing rod out of my mouth, spraying me with his disgusting seed and then thrusting a bite stick sideways into my gaping mouth. Just then I felt the extreme pain of the large branding iron thrust against my left buttock and held, firmly, on my skin. Whatever sins I have every committed on earth must have been expiated at that moment, as my moans of orgasm became mixed with a scream of pain. And then I felt a second branding iron–presumably the “Ch” being pressed onto my skin just above the point where it had blackened from the main iron. This time, the combination of pains caused me to howl round the bite stick.

Tears fell freely from my eyes, probably mixing with that bastard’s sperm. A few interminable seconds later, I felt the horrible heated irons leaving my skin, followed immediately by a rapid cooling as the smith’s assistant sprayed my new wounds with both disinfectant and a blessed painkiller. My ass still throbbed, but it was finally bearable. I heard another spray, which I knew from experience was spray-on bandage to cover the injured area. It was over.

“And THAT, Bitch, is how you know that you’re a slave and I’m your master.” Commented Harry. If I had a gun I would have killed him, but he seemed unphased by the hatred in my eyes. “You’ll get over it, Babe–just remember that I’m the boss, and if you ever cross me I can always have the rest of your ass branded, too!”

The smith’s assistant was busily unstrapping me from the bench, and when I staggered upright he offered me a handful of ibuprofen and a bottle of water. I downed both out of self-preservation, even though I wasn’t sure that I wanted to survive the next few hours or days. Still, I recalled E.J.’s bravery under the same circumstances and remembered to smile and wink at my slave wrangler, Bob, as Harry the Horrible Whoreson restrained my wrists, exchanged a new collar with leash for the Longhorn collar around my neck, and led me out of the branding room.

Somewhere I had seen a cartoon where an obviously-infuriated man says words to the effect of “Every day I spend here forces me to add to the list of people I need to kill because they piss me off!” I had begun that day with just one name on my list–Matias Hernandez, the drug lord who had murdered an associate as well as three Deputy U.S. Marshals and then hounded me into changing gender and self-enslavement to hide from him. Grimly, I decided that the slimeball leading me by a leash, Harry Herring, had just joined my personal list.

(To be continued)