Changing Status

Changing Status, Part 03

(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.)

(Suzie/Wally’s viewpoint)

It’s bad enough to be a newly-enslaved, naked slut with your butt still throbbing from a brand seared an inch deep into your skin. It’s even worse to have a male brain with male experience and perspective inside a female body, dreading your upcoming sexual service not only for the violation and discomfort involved but also for the cognitive dissonance of being fucked by another male’s cock rather than fucking a female with my now-departed dick.

To recap, if you slept through the first two parts of this story: I had been Wally Haniford, nerdy ex-slave wrangler and computer system installer. Having witnessed local drug lord Hugo Hernandez murdering another criminal, I had entered the federal Witness Security Program. Unfortunately, the trial ended in a hung jury and Hernandez had discovered where I was hiding, leading to the deaths of three Deputy U.S. Marshals. Before he died, the last of these brave men gave me a pill that changed my gender at the genetic level, turning me into a black haired, vaguely Asiatic beauty so I could “hide out” by self-indenture (enslavement) at the Longhorn Slave Market. By incredible coincidence, the woman who had prepared me for this indenture and taken me to the Longhorn was the unrequited love of my life, Eleanor Jane Hastings. I couldn’t identify myself without putting her in additional danger, but E.J. did her job and quietly inserted me into the slavery system as Susan (Suzie) J. Twinning with an assumed birthday and Social Security number. The Longhorn, where I had once had to in-process E.J. herself, promptly auctioned me off for a five-year contract, keeping 10 percent of the purchase price as its fee. My new owner, “Harry” Herring, well known local slave pimp and sleazeball, had taken great pleasure in fucking my young female face while I was strapped down, just before he had the Longhorn brand seared into my left buttock.

Yeah, a real sweetheart who gratuitously threatened me with more branding if I crossed him. I would have acted submissively to him anyway–why antagonize a guy who literally owns your ass and wants to cornhole it?–but I did my best to keep him happy as he drove me to his slave whorehouse. My butt felt every bump on that trip. When he asked why I had self-indentured, I spun him a prepared story of an abusive boyfriend whom I was fleeing. He was smart enough to see that as an opportunity to manipulate me, so he instantly became much more friendly and sympathetic. Yeah, right.

*****

After several painful hours in his car, we reached a huge, hotel-like structure in Corpus Christi. “Master Herring” introduced me to Janey, a voluptuous blonde who looked to be in her mid to late 30s. She must have been stunning when she was younger; when she turned around to lead me inside the place, the pink silky nightshirt she wore, which had already offered a generous view of her cleavage in front, rode up in back to show me a huge cursive letter “D” stamped onto her fleshy but still attractive butt. That confirmed my first guess, which was that Janey had been a “Sandy Foot Girl” auctioned and sold at the Big D Slave Market in Dallas. Leaving aside all the advertising hype that the Big D put out, it was a generally-accepted opinion that slaves judged “worthy” of the Big D brand were usually both sensuous and skilled at “putting out.” I had to remind myself that I no longer had a prick to try her out–damn it.

She giggled when she saw the expression on my face, knowing that I had seen that brand. “Yeah, I’m just another slut around here, sweetheart, and that brand proves it. Speaking of brands, let’s go see if yours needs any care.” She led me into a restroom, told me to bend over, and very gently detached the bandage from my wound. I heard a sharp intake of breath as she saw how much burning I had endured, but she made no real comment. Instead, Janey re-sprayed the affected area with pain killer followed by liquid bandage, then offered me another pair of ibuprofen. By this time, she had freed my wrists, and now gave me a pink nightshirt like hers. My boobs weren’t as huge as hers, but the tight garment still showed lots of cleavage and hip; any bending at all would reveal both of my lower entrances, which I guess was the point.

I also got four snug leather bands, each with a D-ring, wrapped around my wrists and ankles for ease of future binding. Oh, well–that’s what I signed up for.

Janey put me to work as a maid, changing sheets and towels in the various rooms and then running load after load of laundry. She interrupted my labors to ensure I got my first real food since stripping the day before, as well as to give me various breaks while she talked to me reassuringly about how this bawdy house–to use an antiquated but accurate term–operated. That first evening, she sent me to bed alone to rest; the next morning the gynecologist who watched over the other “girls” checked me out and re-wrapped my wound. He also gave me a shot of “horny juice,” a cocktail with low doses of estrogen, progesterone, and other chemicals that as the name implies tended to make a woman easier to arouse. Some slavery establishments used it regularly to make docile, eager slaves. In my case, however, I was already having difficulty adjusting to the influence of female hormones in my body while witnessing constant sex around me. The combination of these factors made me increasingly conscious of my female body and hornier than hell.

Over the next several days, I continued to play hotel maid but gradually worked into the rotation (as in, “sit on it and rotate”) as a fluffer. I was told to hang around the large lobby in the late afternoons and evenings, smiling and gently flirting with the “Johns.” When a guy seemed especially impatient while waiting his turn with one of the primary prostitutes, Janey told me to offer him a “free” blowjob that would keep him entertained until a more skilled woman was available to spread her legs for him. As soon as I knelt down to serve him, Janey hooked some kind of spring-loaded clip through the four D rings on my limbs, holding me down, boobs thrust forward and completely exposed. This naturally made me feel very vulnerable and submissive, as if I needed any reminder of my situation! In fact, as soon as one dick left to visit the woman of his choice, another shifted over on the sofa and plunged his own half-rigid cock into my sticky mouth. I had to settle in and enjoy it, smiling broadly and looking into each John’s eyes as if he was the greatest stud I had ever encountered. Difficult to do when I had been a heterosexual male only 72 hours before.

Once, I got carried away with my sucking and the guy unloaded into my mouth, which earned me a slap on the face–and he still got to see the woman he had signed up for, but it took her much longer to get him off. After that, I learned to limit my tongue and mouth action, bringing the guy close to but not past the point of ejaculation and thereby reducing the time he actually spent in bed with a more experienced girl. I gradually realized that this kind of teasing increased the turn-over, what a famous Harvard professor had once termed “profit per pussy” or PPP. Come to think of it, “turn over” is what the girls all had to do when offering their lower openings to the customers.

The rest of the week went the same way; everyone except me got their rocks off, so I must confess that at night I experimented with jilling off to get some relief. I was still adjusting to a female body–playing with it gave me lots of nice sensations, but rarely the tension-and-release of a man coming. Still, diddling my nipples and nubs did help me relax!

Saturday morning brought another visit from the physician and another shot of horny juice. Then, with a look of unspoken regret on her beautiful face, Janey led me to another room where she had me climb onto a rack that, once she attached my four leather bands to it, held me on my knees and elbows, butt high, with all three openings available for use. Three guesses what THIS rack was for. Janey slipped a lubricated plug into my anus and left me alone for a few moments.

I was completely unsurprised when Harry Herring walked into the room, but of course I did my best to act like an eager, horny bimbo about to get shafted by her “adored” owner. He professed to be more than satisfied with my performance, and in truth I had become much more skilled at cock-sucking over the preceding several days. (I remembered what I had enjoyed on the very rare occasions when a girl had licked MY prick, and I tried to reproduce the same sensations.) I was smart enough to pretend that his was the finest cock to ever enter my cunt or ass–which was technically true, since my cunt was just a week old and only E.J.’s dildo had ever been there before, but he didn’t need to know that. I tried to distract myself by recalling the fun E.J. and I had had a week earlier, always remembering to pant “fuck me, fuck me, POUND me, Master!” when he entered my birth canal and to pretend to enjoy being butt-fucked. “Oh, Oh, DAMN! That huge cock feels good up my ass! Please, please, keep going, Master!” I should have gotten an academy award for my dialogue and acting; best rendition of a bimbo slut by an actor who was born male?

After that test drive, I was cleared to join Harry’s stable of slave sluts fully. That Saturday afternoon, Janey cuffed and leashed me before walking me to a nearby slave beauty emporium. She was almost modestly dressed, although there was no concealing her lush sensuality; I was barely decent in that pink nightshirt to which she had added flip-flops and a pair of tight boyshorts that made me look like what I was–a whore on the prowl. It was bad enough to suddenly transition to a woman’s body, but now I had to endure the additional humiliation of being on public display. A makeover ensued, after which she bought me “appropriate” clothing (push-up bra, stripper heels, fishnets, miniskirt–you get the idea) before taking me to a small photography studio that obviously had a standing arrangement with Harry. I did my best to recall E.J.’s lessons on how to walk, sit, and so on while wearing heels and a skirt. A number of suggestive poses followed, after which the cameraman said he had what he needed, so Janey led me, once again cuffed and leashed, on a walk back to the house. Along the way, we both got so many come-ons that it seemed only natural to swing our hips and flutter our eyelashes at the guys, after which Janey handed out business cards!

A few hours later, Janey showed me “my” new page as sexy Suzie. Eight days before, I would cheerfully have sold my soul to do the young woman in those photos, but now I was just the newest slut on the docket, about to be done unto as I would have done her. For the next several weeks, I probably got more than my share of business that way–in fact, several other girls quietly thanked me for relieving the traffic on them, usually five or six Johns per evening, with more on the weekends. While secretly revolted inside, I did my best to be docile, friendly, and flattering, pretending I enjoyed taking in all those (often smelly) cocks belonging to guys with overweight bodies and bad breath. To ease my discomfort, I tried to remember the joy I felt when making love with E.J. before I had indentured myself–that memory usually brought a smile to my face and lubrication to my labia to the point where, for a few seconds at least, I imagined that I really was a female enjoying intimacy with someone she respected instead of a transgender slave whore being sold for $40 a piece (piece of ass, that is).

The first time some big spender gave me a $20 tip, I was so startled that I almost refused it, but instead decided to offer it to Janey after the evening rush died down–last thing I wanted to do was get accused of cheating the house! Instead, she told me to keep those tips to buy toiletries or clothing I wanted. One of my first purchases was a cowl-neck sweater that concealed that damn collar while I was in public, thereby reducing by half the number of obnoxious guys who tried to put the make on me. Fortunately, I was rarely allowed out alone, and the bouncer who took me out in the daytime for various errands quickly discouraged propositions. Which was a good thing because I didn’t know how to handle them–I knew that free women were regularly harassed by guys with more sex drive than sense, but how was a sex slave supposed to say no, even if (s)he was certain that her owner didn’t want her to put out without a cash return? I finally decided that was the correct response–I would tell any would-be Casanovas that my owner had paid $85,000 for this body, so he wouldn’t appreciate my giving it away for free. That made me feel cheap, but usually drove them away.

Eventually, newer slaves got stuck with the maid role. It wasn’t that I had seniority or anything, but it WAS rather difficult to take care of myself (exercise, shower, makeup, etc.) and look my best for my customers when I had to spend all day changing sheets and running laundry. This was especially true because, at least once a week and sometimes more often, Harry summoned me to his office where he would either have me kneel down and blow him or, more commonly, bend my cuffed body over his desk and tie my ankles wide apart so that he and whomever he was doing business with could spit roast me. I didn’t think of myself as particularly sexy, but apparently I was the “new pussy” so he enjoyed using it himself and offering it to others. Or maybe the dickhead just enjoyed playing big man by dominating the defenseless slave girl.

I heard some interesting conversations that way, but I’d learned my lesson so I always pretended that I could neither speak nor understand much Spanish. I constantly reminded myself to look puzzled if someone addressed me in any language other than good ol’ boy Texan. At first, Harry and some of his Latino friends laid traps, trying to see if I understood what they were saying. I practiced looking blank and saying very slowly, in an exaggerated tone, “No Hab-lay Messican.” Once they were convinced of my ignorance (and I got pretty good at playing dumb broad), they proceeded to “teach” me Spanish in a way that they found amusing. For example, Harry told me that “Puta” meant “Pretty” in Spanish, a joke that he found endlessly amusing. Once he did that, I pretended to be flattered whenever he called me “Puta,” saying in my usual terrible accent “Grassy-Ass, Seen-eee-or Herring.” Or, when one of his dubious friends tried to get me to say “Madre de Dios,” I pretended to have a brilliant thought, and ask “Is that like them See-Air-Aa Mah-dres Mountains?” Harry agreed with me, saying that they were referring to the modest “mountains” on my chest, so again I had to thank him in fractured Mexican for the supposed compliment. Better to be thought dumb and harmless than get involved in another damn witness hassle–the last such screw-up had ended up with me being enslaved, butt-fucked, and face-stuffed on his desk, for Chrissake.

Janey did once challenge me about the dumb broad act, but I told her the truth (sort of)–I said I figured nobody wanted a smart-mouthed cunt, and PLEASE don’t tell him. She just smirked, made some comment about “You’re learning, Girl,” and left me alone.

*****

Once the novelty of fucking the “new broad” wore off, my “workload” at the brothel declined to a more normal level. Harry apparently told Janey to put me onto the web site for call girls–a sort of lending library of slave whores. That meant going to hotels and other venues by appointment, usually transported and watched over by one of Harry’s minions. I swear this is not an ethnic stereotype, but the minion who usually took me was named José. No, he didn’t ask to sample my wares, but I was careful to be friendly and respectful to a guy on whom my safety depended. To blend into the environment, I usually dressed up as a career woman with a cowl-neck to conceal my collar. I also had a very sensitive microphone in my handbag, so that if the John turned violent or otherwise dangerous José would hear something and bust into the office or hotel room where I was “performing.” That gave me some sense of security, but it was still nerve-wracking to meet a complete stranger and allow him (or very occasionally her) to bind my body and use it at will.

Most of these trysts were very brief–“in and out, in and out” in both senses of the phrase. Those guys all seemed to run together in my mind–middle aged executives, mostly wearing suits, who casually used my body while still carrying on conversations on the phone. Some of them even told their wives how much they missed them as they shafted me in ways that I doubt they’d ever been able to do at home. The guys with Northern accents were often the horniest and kinkiest, probably because slave whores were unknown where they came from. I often went home with sore buttocks as well as an aching anus after they both spanked and cornholed me, something they would never have tried with their wives or even Northern, free, call girls unless they paid hundreds for the privilege.

Prior to my hasty gender conversion, I had used the word “Asshole” as an insult without realizing how accurately it described obnoxious guys who actually enjoyed being a LITERAL pain in my ass. I learned to always lubricate my sphincter before I knocked on their doors, and to howl promptly so they would know they had inflicted pain on me. That seemed to the goal for some of these guys, causing pain in my ass to prove how well-endowed they were. Oh, well, at least some of those guys tipped fairly well.

One morning when business was slow, Janey took me to a room I had never seen before–a fully equipped dungeon. There, she patiently explained how to both submit to and inflict bondage and pain, pointing out the concealed cameras and microphones used to monitor any sessions in that room. Soon thereafter, Janey herself took me along to a John who had booked two women to dominate him. She pretended to be teaching me what I had already learned, tying the guy up and spanking him (very gently) while “forcing” him to munch on our pussies. That was a rare opportunity for me to get payback, psychological retribution for the way I’d been used for the previous several months–but of course I had to be very careful to treat that John much more gently than I had ever been treated. Even the sight of a dildo or butt plug would cause these would-be submissives to safeword immediately, of course, so I never got the chance to be a pain in THEIR asses.

*****

Three years passed while I became an expert slave whore, doing my best to forget that I had ever been male. By the end of that time, I had almost convinced myself that I was attracted to handsome guys, but in reality I know I was just lying to myself. I calculated that, even allowing for the cost of housing and feeding me, Harry had already made a sizeable profit on his initial investment of $85,000 in buying my indenture. All I had to show for it was a rather slutty wardrobe and a few hundred dollars in accumulated, unexpended tips. (the biggest tips came from the guys who hired me to dominate them!) With Janey’s help, I set up a savings account, memorizing the account number and keeping no written record at the brothel.

I had learned to accept my constant enforced intimacy, smiling and flirting with an endless series of often-obnoxious and smelly guys as they penetrated and punished my body. My male gender did help me understand what these guys wanted, but otherwise that gender was pushed down almost below consciousness–if I had kept thinking of myself as Wally being endlessly penetrated by dickheads with dicks, I would have gone batsh___ crazy. Instead, I was just Suzy the brainless bimbo, flirting with customers and gossiping idly with my fellow sluts. I became an expert on junk that never interested me before, including sports (to talk to the Johns), celebrities, and fashion (for talking with the other girls.) Ha! The fact that I wrote “the other girls” should indicate how far I had adjusted to my new gender. To make intimacy easier for my body, I kept telling myself that I really was a bimbo who enjoyed having some random guy fuck my brains out. That ensured I stayed lubricated and even gave me a few happy moments, but nothing long-lasting. I wondered what E.J., my BFF, was up to . . .

Although I developed friendships with Janey and the others, I was very lonely, vainly counting and re-counting the months until my indenture was completed. Of course, even if Harry obeyed the law and set me free, I would have to restart my life as a “woman with a past.” To put it mildly.

*****

One day, Janey told me to dress demurely, as I usually did when infiltrating an office building or hotel to visit a customer. Then José drove us to a major shopping center where we engaged in a mild orgy of clothes shopping, including three revealing bikinis. (By this time, I should explain, the periodic horny juice injections, in combination with Suzy’s naturally-produced hormones, had given me a real hourglass figure, something like 36D-26-34, which looked even more unusual with my vaguely-Asiatic facial features.) I wasn’t trying to show off, but the sight of a well-built, black-haired young woman in a collar trying on swimsuits certainly got some unwanted attention in stores.

In the car, when I asked Janey WTF, she gestured at the back of José’s head, indicating the explanations would have to wait. After we dragged all those new clothes into my little bedroom, she asked me a startling question:

“You know who Robert Harriman is, right?” Did I! He was on the cover of one fan magazine or another every month, a well-muscled, handsome guy who had become the latest box office draw for action heroes in Hollywood.

“No, calm down girl,” she giggled, seeing my well-practiced enthusiasm for male actors. “You don’t get to DO him, but you may get to MEET him if you behave.”

So, she explained that Mr. Harriman had just married another Hollywood heavy hitter, Julia Shiffer, and they were going on a Caribbean cruise as a belated honeymoon. I was actually more interested in the chance to meet HER, because fangirl Suzy had learned to be in awe of female stars. “Problem is,” Janey explained, “Harriman’s son Ben, who just turned 18, has to come along on the trip–apparently he acts up every time he’s left alone. Soooo, Mr. Harriman not only booked Ben a separate cabin on the cruise, but also booked YOU to entertain the kid. He picked you out of our on-line catalog.”

I groaned. “So, I have to put out for some 18-year-old kid, letting him use all my holes to work out his horniness in one cabin so that dear old Dad can have some alone time with his bride?”

“Yup.”

“Kill me now.” I groaned again, pounding my head on a table. “I mean, I don’t need to fuck a movie star, but having to satisfy a hormonal teenager while we’re trapped on a cruise ship with that movie star will NOT be fun.”

Janey smiled sympathetically. “I’m sure that the first 24 hours or so will be trying, but after that, he should be worn down to the point where he can only fuck you, what–five times a day? All you have to do is put out for Ben and don’t distract his father from Miz Shiffer.”

“Big consolation you are–as if I’m any competition for a movie star.” I grumbled, then sighed. “Oh, well, comes with the territory. Only, I need some advice from you. In case you haven’t figured it out, I was sort of a tomboy before Mr. Herring bought me. I don’t know anything about eating at the Captain’s table, dancing in a ballroom, or stuff like that. I assume all these new clothes mean I won’t walk around naked, but how do I act on a cruise ship?”

So she gave me a crash course on behaving in society, not to mention refreshing my limited experience in walking in heels, sitting in skirts, and so on. We spent a lot of time watching news reports of famous actors in public, none of which seemed normal to me.

There was, of course, one additional hurdle to go through: we were in Corpus Christi and the cruise ship was departing from Galveston, which meant that I had to get up in the middle of the night to travel five hours to arrive in time for boarding.

And, by travel I don’t mean ride in a limousine. Uh-uh. The only time slaves travel in limousines is when they’re on their knees, orally servicing the free occupants. Slaves are shipped by poodle express, which means kneeling (with my hands cuffed behind me and my mouth gagged with canvas) inside the kind of wire mesh cage used for shipping large dogs. At least, I wouldn’t be naked in that cage because my appearance might shock some of the passengers when I reached the ship. Instead, I got to wear one of the new, very revealing bikinis I had acquired, which took care of my modesty but did nothing to reduce the helplessness and discomfort of being in that cage. The fact that I couldn’t urinate for five hours or longer meant that I had to limit my fluid intake the day before and then wear a cup apparatus that would (I hoped) prevent me from pissing myself while immobilized in the cage.

It was a long, long drive in the back of a hot panel van, not just because of my discomfort but also from the sense of being physically helpless. My mind was filled with horrific images of that SOB Hernandez somehow discovering who I was and torturing my caged, helpless body. When I finally arrived at the docks, I had to wait while the crew sorted out the collection of sluts waiting to go on board. Some of them got roped together naked into coffles and marched off somewhere with hips, hair, and boobs swaying–I guess the ship ran its own brothel services. Lord, I thought, imagine being rented out 24 hours a day to different “guests” on a ship!

After the pool of slave whores was dealt with, there were still a number of girls like me, sent to the ship by various wealthy guests. Eventually, a crew member identified which cabin I was supposed to be in, then wheel my cage to that location. Thank heavens, he let me out to use the toilet and even cut my canvas gag off. I thanked him profusely for his kindness, but I soon realized that what he really wanted–like any other male confronted by a young, scantily-clad, female slave–was a blowjob! Instead of a john tipping me for services rendered, I was expected to give the crew member a tip for his effort in taking me to the cabin. Who ever heard of human luggage that rewards the bellboy? So, I sucked him off to show my thanks, after which he allowed me to rinse my mouth out, then locked me (with my hands still bound behind me) into the larger slave cage provided in each first-class cabin. Now I was just part of the room furnishings, a nearly-naked woman waiting helplessly for sexual use. At least this cage had a cushion to kneel on. The rich, I had heard, really are different from the rest of us–and certainly different from sex slaves! I had to wait another two hours before my temporary owner, Ben Harriman, finally found me.

Having been a horny teenaged boy (redundancy; what teenager, especially a male one, isn’t horny in one way or another?) myself, I had given much thought to the problem of 18-year-old Ben. I had decided to gush admiration for him, NOT because he might resemble his father but rather because he would be (supposedly) a studly guy. In reality, of course, he wasn’t bad looking, other than a case of acne, but I had to put on my dumb blonde act and pretend that I was overjoyed to be his bedwarmer. When he unlocked the cage, I rose to my full height, stretching as I did so in a way that pushed my boobs into his face, all while thanking him in a flood of words. Then I immediately squatted down and reached for his zipper. Almost before he knew what I was doing, I had his rapidly-stiffening prick in my mouth, where I did my best to get him hot without bringing him off.

Remembering my own ever-ready dick at that age, I was in no hurry to have him actually climax because he would immediately grow another hard-on. Instead, I tried to give him as much pleasure as possible, slowly pumping him in and out of my mouth, trying to make myself the best sex partner of his abbreviated life. Only after he had moaned several times and clutched my head tightly did I put my tongue into overdrive and let him blast his salty junk down my throat.

As I had expected, however, that first experience only encouraged him to use me again. Not surprisingly, I found myself bent double with wrists cuffed to the headboard and legs tied, widely apart, over my head. With me splayed in that exposed position, he had his choice of both of my lower openings–so of course he began by pounding my rapidly-lubricating cunt while I moaned and pretended to be overwhelmed by the sensation of being his sex object. He also took his time manipulating my nipples and my lower nub. I have to admit that it DID feel pretty good, although as usual I had to keep reminding myself that I was just a horny girl, not some transgender mental disaster.

The way he was pistoning in and out, I had expected Ben to come inside my birth canal, but he had enough control to reserve his climax, pulling out about 20 seconds before I thought he would blow. THEN, bless his horny little heart, he produced a tube of water-based lube to paint both my winking butthole and his still erect cock. Not only that, but he took his time gradually stretching me. Only after a minute of that careful toying did he really let loose on me, hammering away at my exposed asshole as I moaned at the sensation of being completely controlled and possessed by a man. At least I had made myself into that much of a submissive woman over the preceding three years.

Then he collapsed on my restrained body and we spent the next several minutes frantically trying to catch our breath. If I hadn’t been tied in that contorted position, I probably would have dissolved into a puddle of jelly. As soon as I could, I began nuzzling and mewing, trying to thank him for one of my better sexual experiences as a slave. I was much more sincere in my praise than I had anticipated. This 18 year-old “kid” had gone way up in my estimation–he exhibited more class and consideration than most of the Johns who had used and abused me over the preceding three years. For the first time, this cruise began to look like an enjoyable adventure rather than a trial I had to endure.

Eventually, Ben released me, and we had to hurry through a shower even though we kept kissing and fondling each other. I was relieved to see that my suitcase had made it to his cabin along with my cage. I hastily unearthed a dress and hung it in the bathroom, where the shower’s humidity might relax the folds, while I combed my hair and put on minimal makeup. When we were both dressed for dinner, I offered him a leash to tow me, but instead he offered me his arm. I hope the smile I gave him in return reimbursed him; it was certainly sincere.

Meeting two movie stars was another prickly situation. I tried to be respectful and friendly but NOT to give either Ben or his new step-mom any reason to believe that I was appealing to “Mr. Harriman,” as I always called him. My collar proclaimed my lack of rights, reinforcing my subordinate status.

Unsurprisingly, Ben cut short the evening show we went to, taking me back to his cabin to be rammed fore and aft. He discovered the convenience of using those wrist and ankle bands to render me helpless any time he wanted to play. Finished, we cuddled and slept together, only to wake in the middle of the night because he wanted another blowjob. When he finally let me out of bed the next morning, he asked me to dress in a bikini and light wrap, then picked up the leash. Showing remarkable restraint for a half-grown manchild, the 18 year old waited until after breakfast with his parents before he hooked the leash to my collar and led me on a long, leisurely exploration of the ship.

Eventually, of course, he met two other teenaged males who had apparently grown up in the North, where slaves were rare. By careful questioning I determined that they were both over age 18, which relieved my worries about inadvertently corrupting a minor. Ben had no such qualms, bragging openly about what a “fantastic piece of ass” I was, willing to do anything to please him. I knew where THIS was going. Before I could blink, we were back in Ben’s cabin, with everyone stripping down. At least Ben again took the trouble to use lube before lying on his back and having me sit on him, impaling my butt on his constantly-erect shaft. (If you’re wondering, he had taken considerable pleasure in “forcing” me to have an enema before we set out in the morning, so this was more a matter of caution.) After that, of course, his two new friends mounted my cunt and my face. Josh, a pimply-faced nerd, audibly groaned when he penetrated between my labia, while Billy straddled my head and stuffed his eager dick into my mouth. Fortunately, he was the lightest of the three and he visibly tried not to press his weight down. It was still difficult for me to breathe in the center of this “airtight,” but I tried my best to enjoy the experience if only to help my body accommodate all that youthful dick. I forced my mind to go to my “female” place, telling my woman’s body had great it felt to have all three openings stuffed with dick!

I had planned for the challenge of accommodating ONE horny teenaged guy (redundancy!), but THREE of them were a real trip. At least, fucking me multiple times over the preceding 20 hours had slowed Ben down, and he was confident that he would get another chance to shaft me. Moreover, he displayed a surprising sense of responsibility, insisting that they all had to use condoms when taking my ass, then washing off before they sampled my mouth. Which Josh and Billy happily took turns doing while Ben watched and cheered them on. You wouldn’t believe how much spunk dripped out of my lower holes when they finally let me take a shower. I don’t think I have an ego about my appearance, but I felt like Kelly LeBrock in the movie Weird Science as I showered while three (temporarily sated) teenaged guys stared hungrily at me. Flattering, but creepy.

*****

For the next four days, my life revolved around Ben, Josh, and Billy fondling and plowing me at every opportunity. I was finally so sleep-deprived that I had to beg Ben to allow me a long afternoon sleeping his cabin while the three guys went on a shore tour.

When we weren’t fucking, they took turns walking me around the decks of the ship with one hand down the back of my bikini or shorts or (frequently) wrapped around my neck and reaching down into my cleavage. I noticed a lot of young, free women who were clearly enjoying themselves on the trip. I deeply envied them the ability to just tell guys to fuck off and leave them alone, whereas I had to endure man-handling and crass comments throughout. As an introverted guy, I had always tried to be invisible, but now I was the slave slut, dressed and treated like sex on a stick at everyone’s mercy.

At one point, Ms. Shiffer took pity on me and booked us together into the ship’s spa for a special treatment. For several hours I relaxed and enjoyed being pampered, although I couldn’t help overhearing the comments by other, free patrons about what a slut I was, as if I had any choice in the matter.

As the ship turned north, heading back to Galveston, I found myself sitting next to Ben’s father, Mr. Harriman. The three younger guys were distracted by something or other when he took the opportunity to suggest that he might buy me and move me to Hollywood. He had noticed how happy Ben was and thought it would be a good idea for both of us if he extended the relationship.

“And you’ve already raised this idea with my owner, right?” I asked, to which he nodded.

“Crap.” I mumbled under my breath. “Mr. Harriman, I’m very flattered, but I don’t think that’s a good idea. For me, sure, but not for anybody else.”

He seemed surprised and asked me why not. I could see his new wife eavesdropping. “Jeez, sir. All I know is what I read in the tabloids and fan magazines. What happens when some sleezeball finds out that you bought a slave slut with big tits out of a Texas whorehouse? I’ll bet there’s already several photos of us together on this ship, and it would be simple for them to download some racy photographs of me from my owner’s website. WE know nothin’s going on between us, but it would be easy to embarrass Mizz Shiffer with an innuendo.”

I saw her smile from the other side of her new husband. “I told you this girl was smart, Bob. You should listen to her.”

“With all respect, ma’am,” I butted in. “You’re a big girl who can handle herself, but what about Ben? How many of his friends would believe that he was planking me but you and I had barely talked? I don’t know how you did it, Mr. Harriman, but somebody turned out a pretty good guy there. He’s considerate, responsible, and amazingly unspoiled; in fact, he’s probably one of the best lovers I’ve ever had, and lord knows I’ve had enough of them. But if some tabloid says that his father is banging the little slave girl while that father is supposed to be on his honeymoon, nobody will believe that Ben was the one screwing my brains out, not you. I’d hate to see what that would do to his self-respect.”

I took a brief breath. “Look, sir. I’d love to escape from that whorehouse and go back with you folks to live in California, where I only have to make love with Ben and maybe his friends. But, Ben needs a normal relationship with a free teenaged young woman, not a Texas whore ten years older than him. Besides, in two more years my indenture will be up. By that time, I estimate I will have had sex with about 1,500 men in five years, and that’s enough to last me a lifetime. Unless somebody kidnaps me, I intend to resume my freedom and stop having sex for a long, long time. I don’t think Ben will understand that no matter how I explain it to him. Now I’ll shut up and wait for my owner to punish me for costing him money by messing up your deal.”

There was a long silence, and I realized that Ben had overheard at least the last part of my diatribe. I was relieved that he was smiling rather than angry.

Finally, Harriman spoke. “No, you don’t deserve to be punished for thinking about what’s best for us instead of yourself. I’ll tell your owner that you were superb–which is the truth–but that we realized it would be a public relations disaster to purchase you. In fact, I’ll pay him a premium for your services.”

Of course, after that Ben and his friends fucked me even more often than before, to the point where my lower openings were red and swollen by the time I was shipped, poodle express, back to Corpus Christi. I’m sure the house gynecologist reported the redness to Harry, which convinced him that I had “given good service” even though he hadn’t managed to sell my butt permanently. A month later, an extra $2000 appeared in my savings account.

*****

So I went back to whoring for Harry. It wasn’t always easy, but it was usually interesting and occasionally enjoyable. I had to suffer a lot of humiliation and constantly kow-tow to Harry and the Johns, but I managed to survive for another year as a combination call girl and general slut. I told myself that Suzy the bimbo was just an act that bore only a slight resemblance to the real me, Wally the introvert nerd.

It was a weird existence, getting regularly banged in all my openings by guys I despised while my only friends were Janey and the other girls. We heard about crime, drugs, and violence on the news but worried only about whether the boss was mad at us. If a handsome, kind guy fucked us stupid we would be happy for a day or two, but otherwise nothing much changed. One day in a fan magazine I saw a photo of Ben, his father, and the stepmom; I guess they were doing OK.

I had a little fun, saved a few hundred more dollars in tips, and almost forgot that I was really male. After a while, I began to enjoy getting my hair done, finding a new outfit to wear when I went out “on call,” and feeling someone play with my nipples and clit while pounding the crap out of my mouth, ass, and cunt. (I finally learned what the phrases “fuck her brains out” and “fuck the s___ out of her” really meant. I even came to enjoy gently fondling and tonguing another girl in the rare interludes when no guy was waiting to use me. Once in a great while, one of my fellow whores was so attractive that I longed to shove my long-departed cock into her, but I quickly repressed that thought.) To all intents and purposes, I was nothing but a horny, happy sex object quietly waiting until my indenture was completed.