Going Around to Cum Around, Pt. 03

(These events occur in a world where legalized, non-hereditary slavery is common-place for serious crime, unredeemed debt, or voluntary self-indenture. Eighteen years of age is the minimum for anyone in this world to be enslaved or be involved in slave business operations. This is strictly a FANTASY—in reality, informed consent is ALWAYS mandatory.)

(The HCI slave market appears by kind permission of Gentleman Mariner.)

(Cindy Jackson's viewpoint)

I had thought that yesterday was the worst day of my life, when I had voluntarily indentured myself for seven years and undergone slave processing at the same slave market and by the same people with whom I had worked for eight years. This morning was even worse. There I was, flat on my back, slave naked, bound spread-eagled with my voice temporarily disabled, being mauled, fondled, and finger-fucked by the general public as part of my evaluation before sale at auction. And then, amidst the teen-agers getting their jollies at the expense of helpless women, the asshole who had put me here, my ex-boyfriend who had maneuvered me into buying a house for both of us but with only my butt on the mortgage, yeah, THAT asshole, showed up, smiling. As Asshole Mason the Moron roughly shoved his fingers into both of my lower openings, he told me news that, in his warped mind, he thought I would welcome: he had married a rich woman who would let him BUY me so he could use my mouth and ass whenever she didn't want to put out for him. Good thing I couldn't talk, or I would have told him I agreed with his wife, because he was the last guy on earth I ever wanted to have sex with.

But, I still had to sell for at least $105,000 (including HCI's fee) at auction to pay off that mortgage. So, I needed to appear as hot and sexy as possible on the auction block. I HOPED that I would be purchased by my old friend Beth Sullivan, who had been down the same sordid road to repay her college loans. (You KNOW you're in trouble when your preferred outcome is to be bought at auction so you can be the slave whore who sweeten business deals with all her holes.) The alternative, being bought by Asshole Mason the Moron, didn't bear thinking of. Still, if that's what might happen, I wanted to make him pay as much as possible, knowing that in the near future his death by castration would precede my suicide by minutes. For some reason, the state of Texas frowns on slaves who castrate their masters, regardless of the provocation, so no sense waiting around for my trial.

Bill Madison, my former colleague who had been trying to ease me through this difficult transition from handler to slave, told me that he had heard good things from the slave merchants, praise for my sex appeal as a slave. Then he took me to the holding room where he administered the antidote to restore my voice, gave me a bottle of water, and reminded me to keep masturbating (he was more genteel in his choice of words) to maintain my body at a low boil. Like all slave sluts, I needed to stay "hot and ready," like pizza, before I came up for auction. I was in a room with a dozen other naked, collared young women. Their faces reflected fear, anxiety, resignation, but above all horniness. All of us understood that the greater our arousal, the higher the price for which we would sell and therefore (we hoped) the more valuable we would be to our new owners. (The very concept of one human "owning" another, with the slave having no rights or privacy, is horrific, but we had to deal with that reality. It was a cruel irony of the system that we had to render ourselves as horny as possible, maximizing the sellers' profits in hopes of better treatment as slaves.)

After we had drunk our water and squatted over nearby grates to urinate, the wranglers put us through another round of block poses (aka slave yoga), all accompanied by us loudly repeating the slave mantras designed to entice buyers and brainwash ourselves into eager submission. Once that drill was over, we returned to our masturbation while the wranglers walked among us, encouraging and praising us for our efforts while occasionally fondling us to help.

Somehow, I had to channel all my fear, loathing, and anger at this situation into a convincing facsimile of sexual arousal. Trying to psych myself up, I willingly begged my former friends—now temporary masters dedicated to selling my body—to use me any way they wanted, while literally licking their boots clean as a symbol of submission. I blush to think of it even now, but I found myself humping Bill's leg with my wet pussy, frantically trying to get off as I moved closer to the head of the line of cunts being sold. It was if I were having an out of body experience, observing Slut Cindy abasing herself in a manner that would ordinarily torment me with humiliation. I'd worry about that later, I thought—right now, I was determined to get myself as close to orgasm as possible, turning myself into the very model of a sex-crazed bimbo to fetch a high price.

Then I was the next one in the coffle, waiting for my big moment as a piece of HCI slave meat for sale. Concerned by my abject, mindless horniness, Bill gave me a low-power shock to my collar—he was doing me a favor because I needed to focus. My ex-colleague reminded me, calmly, that when he told me to "go" I should run as fast as possible to the slave block, do a cart-wheel to the center, and then assume the Present position (fingers interlocked behind neck, legs slightly more than shoulder width apart, staring towards the bidders in full frontal nudity) and loudly announce, "Slavery is my destiny." After that, I should focus on Bill's voice, executing the block positions he ordered while ensuring I gave the bidders a sexy display of body and voice. Keep panting and squirming so that my B-cups and tight little buttocks were constantly in motion.


I don't remember much about my actual auction. It seemed to take forever, and afterwards Bill told me that the bidding went on for 4 minutes, almost twice the usual elapsed time on the block for each slave. With the bright lights, I could see few details of the audience, but at one point I identified Mason staring at me while talking rapidly on his mobile phone. The sight terrified me so much that I froze. Steve the auctioneer, whom I had mentored when he first came to work at HCI four years earlier, didn't hesitate—he swung his whip upwards between my spread thighs from behind so that the tip cracked perfectly on my clitoris; as he withdrew the lash, the edge rubbed lightly across my moist labia and taint. Steve was no sadist—if he had intended to he could easily have torn my tender flesh instead of just nipping at me, so as not to damage the merchandise. The whip startled more than really hurt me, but the audience laughed uproariously as I hopped and bobbed and howled all over the platform. I wanted desperately to rub myself where he had struck me, but I knew that doing so would obscure the bidders' view of my dripping cunt, so I had to content myself with brief, one-finger touches that kept me juicy but did not permit either orgasm or pain relief. The incomprehensible patter of the auctioneer continued, apparently getting higher and higher bids but with greater pauses each time.

Finally, like the voice of doom, I heard Steve announce, "Sold, to number 52, for the sum of one hundred and twenty thousand dollars!!" I was now officially the property of another human—but I had no idea who had bought me! Another quick flick of Steve's whip caught me, almost gently, on my right buttock, reminding me to move off the slave block to my left. I climbed down off the platform, after which Bill re-cuffed me and walked me away. Behind me, I could already hear the next slave girl, a cute little redhead if I recall correctly, yelling "Please buy me and fill all my holes, Masters," as she hit the block.

Bill made me pause momentarily so that the recording clerk could double-check the Slave ID numbers on my collar and inside my lower lip for the record of sale. Then my ex-colleague gently but firmly pressed me through another door, to the relative quiet of a corridor of cages.

"Please, Master," I begged Bill in a terrified voice, "please tell me who bought me."

"You know I'm not allowed to do that, Cindy," he replied in his deep, quiet voice. I took incredible solace in the fact that, contrary to the rules, he addressed me by my citizen name rather than the impersonal "0002" or simply "cunt" or "slut." At least he had some inkling of the trauma that had reduced me from an experienced slaver to a petrified, horny slave in little more than 24 hours.

Thank heavens, he relented. "What I CAN tell you is that you caused a real bidding war, and that asshole of an ex-boyfriend, Mason, dropped out of the bidding at about $90,000."

What a relief. "Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you, Master," I babbled, almost collapsing into his arms with my hands around his neck. Thinking back, I recall that he was a real gentleman—even though a naked, horny woman was clinging to him, he somehow resisted the temptation to feel me up or take me aside for a fast fuck, both of which were well within his authority. I was asking for it.

When I recovered my balance, he walked me to an empty cage, released my wrists, and handed me another bottle of water. As he turned to leave, I realized that I would probably never see him again.

I dropped to my knees, and asked "Before you go, Master, may I please suck your cock?"

He looked at me, obviously uncomfortable. "You know I would never do that to you, Cindy," he began, "I thought we were friends; just because you're a slave now doesn't mean you have to service me."

"Thank you for that, Master," I replied, with a little smile. "But, the only way a slave girl can show her gratitude is by voluntarily pleasing a master. I owe you so much, please let me do this for you?"

"Jeeze." He mumbled. "I've admired you for six years, and would have loved to date you, but I never imagined this. OK, if you're sure, girl, I'm not crazy enough to turn THAT offer down twice."

Smiling up at his massive bulk, I felt my way with both hands to open the fly of his jeans and pull his boxers out of position so that I could extract his cock and balls. I don't subscribe to stereotypes about the size of African-American males, but in this case the 6-foot 6-inch ex-football player had an impressive endowment. He must have been 7 inches long and 2 inches around as he rapidly swelled to full rigidity. When I glanced down, surprised by the size of what I felt, my hands looked tiny toying with this massive sausage. No way could I get ALL that into my mouth, although at times there might have been 5 inches inside me. Otherwise, I licked, kissed, fondled, and sucked as much as I could while my hands worked on his stones and the base of his prick.

Still a gentleman, Bill warned me that he was about to shoot, but that just put me into overdrive, ramming his massive shaft faster and further into my mouth, sucking even harder and determined to get him off. Because I couldn't swallow all of him, most of his spunk still ended up on my tongue. Perhaps it was my emotional state of mind, but he tasted a lot better than any other guy I remember sucking the previous day. Smiling broadly, I did what is expected of a slave in such circumstances, sticking out my tongue to display the evidence until he hastily gave permission to swallow. I was just licking his shaft clean when I heard Beth say, "You go, girlfriend!"

Refusing to be embarrassed because I had pleased my protector, I gently restored his tool to its place and straightened his clothing, all the while giving him the required, worshipping stare of a slave on her knees. He deserved that much and more. "Thank you, Master," I finished quietly, sitting back on my haunches with a smile.

"Thank YOU, Cindy, and good luck." Bill replied, handing me a sample bottle of mouthwash and then hurrying out with an embarrassed and sad look on his face.


As I rinsed my mouth and spat into the nearby bucket, I looked up at Beth, still uncertain whether she had been able to buy me as she intended. She put me out of my misery.

"Don't worry, Sweetie, I own you—or rather, the firm of Russell and Sullivan (that's Lily and me) does. Sorry I took so long to come find you, but I had to stay around and buy the douchebag-formerly-known-as Judge Roy Bean. He was graded as Cutter [the next to lowest grade] and nobody realized the value he represented, so I bought HIS ass for about $1,000. You, on the other hand—I mean, Damn, Cindy, I always knew you were an attractive woman, but today you were smoking hot, especially on the block. Every guy in the place (and some of the women, too) was turned on just looking at you, and they started a bidding war for your ass. No offense, but I somehow thought you would hate being a slave—you sure didn't look like it half an hour ago."

I sighed. "I do hate being a slave, Mistress—that was all an act this morning. I was terrified that my ex-boyfriend was going to buy me, because he told me he had just married some rich woman and wanted to use my mouth and ass when she wasn't in the mood."

Beth grinned. "I think I know the clown you're talking about. He was on the phone, trying to get some woman to agree to go higher on your price, but judging by her tone of voice—which was loud enough to reach me over the auctioneer—she was getting jealous about his trying to buy a slut (no offense). And you say they JUST got married? I don't see that marriage lasting very long, not if he's already trying to buy an old girlfriend as his sex slave because his new wife is not interested!"

Now I was smiling. "Great. Sorry if you had to spend too much money on me, but I wanted to avoid him or at least make him pay through the nose—sounds like it worked."

Beth nodded. "Yeah. Your sale more than reimbursed the bank for your mortgage, but that also means you have to work more to pay off your indenture before the maximum seven years—don't worry, I'll explain how you do that once you finish your training. In case you don't know, you were so hot for the collar this morning that the slave merchants raised your grade to Prime Minus, which was a good thing because I had to use your body as collateral to borrow the money to buy you, and just Choice wouldn't have been worth such a large loan. Sorry to be so crude, sweetheart, but that's how the system works: We borrow from the bank to buy you, that purchase price reimburses the bank for your mortgage, and we—Russell and Sullivan, Slave Merchants—then rent you back to the bank to pay off the loan I took out, plus interest. I know it sounds crazy, but at least you're not in the hands of your ex-boyfriend or the brothels."

I was trying to follow her logic without being shocked by the casual way in which my friend was using my naked body for her business. I always knew that slaves were property, but now I was that property and it seemed much more real. Anyway, I had to agree with her that almost anything was better than getting a daily face-fuck and cornholing from Asshole Mason the Moron.

"Umm, Mistress?" I began, tentatively. "How do you make any money on a deal like that?"

Beth giggled. "We don't—well, we have to show SOME profit to satisfy the IRS, OK? If we're lucky we might make a hundred dollars a year on each deal like this, but it saves you from worse fates while providing a service to the bank for which we both work. We're just the middle-women so that our boss, Pamela Williams, isn't openly renting her own slaves to her bank as contractors. Now, buying the ex-judge SHOULD make us a bundle, besides being a nice revenge for the dozens of times he shafted Lily and me."

I was puzzled, but remembered my place. "Mistress? We both know that an old codger like that isn't much good as a laborer; I'm surprised he even got graded as high as Cutter. And I can't see you letting him use his cock." [got that right! She snickered] "So—how are you going to make money on him?"

Beth smiled wider than I'd ever seen her. "We're planning to put his cock into a chastity belt, then rent him out first, to his victims, for some private victim atonement for his crimes. If we can afford it, I think Lily and I want to use strap-ons and shock batons on him ourselves." I didn't know my sweet, shy friend could produce such an evil chuckle. "And then we'll really clean up by offering his use to people who feel that they got a raw deal from the court system. We're hiring full-time handlers to control him and make sure the customers don't go TOO far, but at, say, $500 for a three-hour session, two or three times a day, we'll turn a profit in less than a week. If that market dries up, we know a woman who runs a glory hole, but she prefers to have only MALES sucking dick. What better use could there be for that judge cocksucker?" We both giggled at the image.

My new owner continued. "Don't misunderstand—we're not monsters. In fact, we'll provide lube and limit how much people can abuse him—no permanent injuries, it's bad for business. He'll get tested every week for diseases and checked over by a slave veterinarian every few months. In other words, we'll still be treating him better than he did to us. But making HIM pay should make it pay for us, as well."

"I know that sounds crass, Cindy, and believe me we don't regard YOU like that. You're a precious human being, our sister in bondage. Yes, we'll make you do things you won't like, but you know we've been through the same experience and we will take care of you as best we can. Roy Bean is just an asshole who's going to be 'done unto, as he has done to others' for years."

I nodded, understanding the harsh logic of it all, then asked, "So, what happens to me next, Mistress?"

She made a little grimace and petted my blonde hair as if I were an animal. "Now comes something you won't like, but it's necessary. We're shipping you to the Pearson Pussy Ranch. I'm sure you've heard of it?" I nodded, already dreading the experience. Beth continued, "It's not one of those places that tries to make slaves blindly obedient, but rather a school to teach you how to please both genders with all parts of your body. Please promise me you'll do your best—whatever you did mentally to turn yourself on this morning, do it again at the ranch. From my own experience, the more you cooperate, the faster you can get out of there."

"I'll do my best, Mistress, but you know I'm not wired to be submissive."

She nodded, sadly. "Yeah, I know. That's why this may be tougher for you than it was for me."


Beth left soon thereafter to see about the ex-judge. After a considerable wait, a slave handler appeared to dispose of me. He must have been a part-timer, as I didn't recognize him, and it was obvious he didn't recognize me as even human. Finding me dutifully on my knees, fingers interlaced behind my head, he simply ordered "mouth," and unzipped himself. In seconds his (not particularly clean) prick was shoved into my mouth. I think he would have enjoyed making me choke, but he lacked the caliber to do that. The contrast between this casual exploitation and my loving service to Bill was obvious, but I just tried to get this clown off as quickly as possible. Furious inside, I schooled my face to show helpless adoration, smiling around his little rod and looking up, worshipfully, into his eyes. He used both hands to shove my head back and forth, while I tried to tongue and suck him as much as possible. We both succeeded—he got off, and I got him finished in less than two minutes. Since his sub-caliber dick didn't reach very far into my mouth, I had to hold his loathsome ejaculate on my tongue, sticking it out for his inspection. He nodded for me to swallow.
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Pub: Dec 22 2020 13:44 UTC
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