I was transferred to my new owners three weeks later. Master received $37,000. I received nothing. The actual transfer took place at Master’s house (I could no longer call it our house). My new owners were a couple, about thirty-five years old, and slightly overweight, but still attractive and very much in love with each other. When I was first with them, I wondered why they wanted to share a slave, but I soon found out.
One evening after picking me up from work, instead of taking me down to the dungeon, Master had me kneel in the center of the living room. Then he took out his newest toy, a digital camera. This was when they were first making their way into homes and were still very expensive. He took a couple of pictures of me kneeling and then had me stand. After a few more pictures, he set the camera down and took me down to the basement. There I was chained by the collar and went to sleep on my mattress.
While I was sleeping, Master posted the pictures on the internet. It was an auction site. Of course, I knew nothing about this at the time.
It was about three weeks later that I was transferred to my new owners. When Master brought me upstairs from the dungeon, I saw the couple sitting on the sofa and Master ordered me into one of the display poses, standing with my fingers laced together behind my neck. I had noticed immediately that her hair color was a red very similar to mine and I could tell that it was natural, not dyed.
“She’s certainly pretty enough,” he said to her. “What do you think?”
“You said she had received pony training?” she asked Master.
He nodded and gave the name of the ranch where I had trained while she walked around me. Even when I could not see her, I was acutely aware of her examining me. She went back to the couch and sat down.
“Down on all fours,” she commanded. After I was down, she ordered me to come over to them. When I crawled over, she had me put my head to the ground while keeping my bottom up in the air.
“Do you mind if we try her?” the man asked Master.
“Of course not,” he answered.
“You first, hon,” he told the woman.
I heard her lift her dress. Then I was ordered to lick her. I got up on my knees and leaned over, bending at the waist. As I buried my face in her pussy, she lifted her hips up by arching her back. It took me about five minutes to bring her to orgasm and then it was the man’s turn. He did not take as long to climax. When I finished doing him, I backed up and put my head back to the floor. Then I was told to kiss their feet while thanking them for letting me serve them. As I did, I was wondering what was going on. I still had no idea I was being sold.
“Well?” Master asked.
“She is adequate,” the man responded. “Are we agreed?”
Master nodded.
“Then here is your check.” The man handed him a cashier’s check.
Master ordered me up to my feet and took a key from his pocket. He unlocked my collar and removed it.
Then the man stood up and told me to get down on my knees. He reached behind him and pulled out another collar. It was made of heavy, black leather and had a clasp that could lock it in place. I did not see it at the time, but the collar also had a small tag attached. The tag read, “I am the property of Stephen and Marjorie.” Before he locked it around my neck, he asked me if I accepted Marjorie and him as my new owners.
“Master, is this what you want?” I asked.
With the single word, “Yes,” Master sent a knife through me. I was absolutely dumbfounded and could not believe that he wanted to get rid of me.
“Master, may I ask a question?”
“No, you may not.” His tone was harsh and sent a signal to me that he was losing patience. Normally, I responded to him instantly. This delay must have seemed interminable to him. To me, it was just the opposite. My mind was racing and I couldn’t figure out what I was supposed to do. What felt like a split second was actually almost a minute and I still hadn’t responded. Then Master took charge. “Answer the man’s question,” he demanded.
Still I hesitated. Master took the riding crop he was wearing off his belt and struck me across the back. I flinched but did not cry out. But in that single blow, I saw that I really had no choice. I felt that I could not go home and if Master kicked me out, it would be with just the clothes he gave me. At least with these new people, I would have a roof over my head and food to eat.
I looked down to the floor and simply said, “Thank you for buying me, Master.” As I did, I shuddered. I had just thanked someone for purchasing me and I realized at that moment that I would always be the property of someone else.
The woman signaled that I was to rise and I stood up. She led me out to the garage where a panel van was parked beside Master’s car. The man opened the back and I climbed in with him after me. The van was a commercial type, no windows except in the front, and a wall separating the front from the back. The walls also had chains for securing slaves welded to them. I was told to sit with my back to the wall with my legs stretched out in front of me. After my wrists were bound above my head by one of the chains, the man explained the drinking tube that hung down next to my head, then climbed out and shut the door. I heard him lock it and he and the woman got in front. The van started and backed out of the garage and I was on my way to a new home with a new Master and Mistress.
My new home was in Tampa, Florida and the trip took about eight hours. The van stopped once for gas, and at least once they stopped longer, I assumed it was to eat. However, I was never fed and never allowed to go to the bathroom. It was very hot in the van, especially when they stopped and parked. We were traveling in the heat of the day in the south, and it didn’t take long before the back of the van, which wasn’t air-conditioned, heated up. I consumed a great deal of the water through the drinking tube. About halfway through the trip, I was sitting in a pool of my own sweat. Despite perspiring so much, I really needed to go. I held out as long as I could, then finally relieved myself. I had to spend the rest of the trip sitting in my own waste. It didn’t take long in the heat for the smell to get pretty bad.
When we finally arrived in Tampa, it was late afternoon. We pulled into the garage but it took several minutes for them to come get me. When they finally opened the door at the back of the van, they were wearing facemasks over their noses and mouths. I guessed they had done this before and knew what to expect. They didn’t get in right away however. Instead they hosed the inside of the van, and me along with it. The garage was on a slight incline and the water ran right out the back of the van. It took them about ten minutes to rinse everything, but I wasn’t complaining because the cool water felt so good.
When they were satisfied, the man climbed in and freed my wrists. Before allowing me out of the van, I was secured in a new way. He had one long chain, about five feet or so. At one end of the chain, another chain was linked to it forming a T with about eight inches on each side of the crosspiece. There was another chain linked a little more than half of the way to the other end in the same manner, except this one was longer, with about eighteen inches on either side. Each cross piece had manacles attached at the ends. The free end of the long chain was locked to my collar and the manacles were locked to my wrists and ankles.
The chains were ingenious. Because the short chain was at my ankles, I was effectively hobbled and could not run. However, I had plenty of play with my hands to do most of the work that needed to be done. They also allowed a man to mount me easily by crawling under the chain starting down at my feet. Sometimes, they would simply free one ankle from the manacle to allow me to spread my legs wider during intercourse, but that was not strictly necessary. Another option was to place my wrists behind my back, then wrap the manacles around my waist before locking my wrists. At other times, my wrists would be freed so they could be stretched above my head, but during the time that they owned me, the chain was never completely removed.
In the two years there, I never saw the outside of the house. Just from the inside, I knew that it was two stories with four bedrooms. Unlike the house in Atlanta, this one did not have a basement. One of the bedrooms upstairs had been outfitted as slaves’ quarters. From the look of it, they could accommodate up to five slaves at any one time, although I was the only one that they owned at that time.
Once inside the house, I was ordered to my hands and knees. “Until further notice, you will not rise or speak,” the man told me. “Nod if you understand.” I nodded and he told me to heel him. As I crawled after him, he led me through the house to the stairs and upward to the slaves’ quarters. Actually, climbing the stairs on my hands and knees was probably safer, and I know it was easier, being hobbled the way I was by the chain. Walking, I was barely able to reach from one step to the next.
The room that functioned as the slaves’ quarters had gray brick on the walls and floor. There were three pieces of equipment in the room, a large X-frame, a wooden pony, and a platform with a post attached that was slightly more than waist high. There were about five rings set directly into the floor. In one corner was a chest, locked shut with a padlock. Other than that, the room was bare.
The X-frame was about seven feet tall. It could be tilted to act as a table, or rotated so that a slave bound to it was held upside down. It was made from heavy beams and was clearly stained from the sweat and body oils of slaves. The wooden pony was made of sheets of wood. It was an isosceles triangle about four feet high and three feet deep. A chain hung down from the ceiling above it and the top point had been rounded off. At the time, I was not sure what it was, or how it was used, but I found out later. The platform was similar to the skids that forklifts used to move things around except for the wooden post. The post was made from a four by four piece of lumber and had two hooks, one on each side. The post was set near one edge of the platform.
It was to this post that I was directed. I was told to stand on the platform in front of the post. The woman used the hooks on the chains at my wrists to hold my hands in place. Then she went to the chest and took out a leather cat o’ nine tails. She stood beside me and grabbed my chin. Turning my face toward hers, she said, “You haven’t done anything wrong. The only reason I am doing this is to show you that I don’t need a reason. If you think that we share a bond because we are both women, or that I will be easy on you because of it, you are wrong.”
Then she whipped me.
Whenever Master whipped me, he did it relatively quickly. Ten strokes, maybe twenty at the most, and it was over. However this was not like that. The woman began swinging the cat so the blades continued rotating and striking me, non-stop. Over and over and over they struck me, coming from over the top and striking downward. She didn’t whip me as hard as Master did, but after a while the continual pain caused by the non-stop blades began taking their toll on me. I finally had to brace myself against the post to prevent myself from going down on my knees.
When she finally stopped and freed me, I was still wobbly and my body glistened with perspiration. Thankfully, I had to get down on my hands and knees again or else I don’t know how long I could have remained standing. I heeled her out and back downstairs to the kitchen where I was told to prepare dinner for them.
I was able to stand to cook, and after rummaging around in the refrigerator and pantry, made a simple dinner of spaghetti and sausage, salad, and garlic toast. I set the dining room table and found both of them in the living room. After they were seated, I served them the meal for the first time.
After they finished eating, they took the leftovers from their plates and scraped it together. This they put down on the floor for me. My instructions let me use my hands, but I had to lean way over to get my hands close enough to my mouth to get the food in, with my legs folded underneath me. I was ravenous, having not eaten all day and dined as if I was partaking in a feast. I didn’t even consider how humiliating it was to shove food into my mouth while I was groveling naked and chained on the floor.
After clearing the table and doing the dishes, I heeled my new Master upstairs. I was allowed to use the toilet while he watched me, then I was put to bed for the night, chained to the floor.
Early the next morning, before daybreak, Mistress came for me. She woke me by kicking me in the ribs, then bent down to unlock my chain. I followed her, on hands and knees of course, back to their bedroom.
“Your Master likes to be awakened with oral sex,” she told me. “Kneel on the side and take him in your mouth.”
I crawled around to the other side of the bed. Master was sleeping in the nude on his side and already had an erection. I got up on my knees and leaned over, swallowing him. As I rocked my head back and forth, he began to stir, then woke fully. He didn’t move once he awoke, preferring to let me do all of the work. When he came, I swallowed his ejaculate and kept my mouth around his penis, sucking out the last few drops.
Then it was Mistress’ turn. She summoned me and I crawled around in front of her. She lifted her nightgown and I buried my face in her pubic hair. As I licked and sucked her, she kept rocking back and forth, making it difficult to keep my tongue inside her, but I soon got the rhythm and we stayed in sync.
When I finished her, I wondered when I was going to be allowed to bathe. My hair was a tangled mess, and I smelled pretty bad. However, I had to bathe both of them first. I drew his tub first, because he had to go to work. When it was full, he stepped in and I washed him all over, spending extra time, at his command, on his hair by giving him a scalp massage. When he was finished, he stepped out and I dried him off. Then I emptied the tub and drew her bath.
Washing her was a new experience for me. I had never done that to a woman before. I remembered being bathed by my friends outside the barn, and tried to duplicate the things that I had enjoyed about the experience. While she was older than me, she was very pretty, but unlike my body, which was hard and firm from dancing and working out, she was soft, even a little flabby. I have to admit that I got turned on drying her with a big fluffy towel.
As she went to get dressed, I was told that I could take a shower, but that I could only use the cold water. That was fine with me at the time, because we were in Florida and the tap water is not that cold in the summer. Later, when the temperature dropped to the forties and fifties at night, it took some getting use to.
However, I had a new problem. They only way that I could really wash myself was to squat down. With the limited movement of my hands, I could not reach everywhere standing. So I squatted and let the water pour over me as I tried to wash.
I finished getting ready. My nipples were almost obscene when I finished and as I looked at myself in the mirror, I couldn’t help letting my eyes be drawn to them, as would those of anyone who saw me.
I was taken downstairs and made two breakfasts for them of eggs, bacon, and toast. Once again, I was fed their scraps, as I was the night before. This time, it bothered me a little more, like I was eating their garbage, but I really didn’t have a choice. It was either eat it or starve.
After Master went to work, Mistress got me started on chores. Her only involvement was to give me directions. I cleaned the house, made the beds, did laundry, and any other special projects she had. Frequently during the day, she would have me stop what I was doing and satisfy her sexually.
After awhile, one day blended into the next. I hardly ever thought about my family, or my old Master, because I was kept too busy. In the evening, after dinner, they would both use me, or have me entertain them. However, this use never included intercourse with Master, or any other way for me to experience an orgasm. After a few weeks, I was wound so tight that I did not hear an order Mistress gave me, and I was beaten. That night, chained to the floor, I masturbated without permission. That turned out to be a huge mistake.
Of course, they had been waiting for it to happen. To them, it was as predictable as the sun rising in the morning. It was just my bad luck that they caught me the first time I tried. I was lying on the floor on my side, with my back to the door. Mistress had left it open as she usually did, and I thought I had heard them go to bed. But she was standing outside, and as soon as she heard me begin to moan softly, she burst into the room. I was caught red-handed.
“You little slut,” she screamed at me. “Who told you that you could touch yourself?”
“No one, Mistress,” I stammered. I was so shocked that I hadn’t even pulled my finger out of my vagina.
“Get your hand out,” she screamed. From the look on her face, I thought she was going to have a stroke, she was so mad. She bent down and slapped my arm as I withdrew my finger. Then she unlocked me from the ring. I thought I was going to get whipped again, but she had something far worse in mind. I was going to find out about the wooden pony.
While I lay prone, she unlocked one of my ankles. Then she had me stand and climb up on the pony. Once I was up, she had me push myself up with my hands resting on the top edge. As I slowly lowered myself, she guided my hips so that the rounded edge of the pony was nestled inside my slit. Then she undid my wrists. They were immediately re-locked into bracelets hanging from the ceiling so that my hands were at shoulder height. Unless I pulled myself up by grabbing the chain, the inside of my slit would take all of my weight. The last thing she did was to lock my ankles into the bracelets built into the sides of the pony.
The triangular shape, as you looked at it head on, kept me from closing my legs and forced the pony into my slit. As soon as I was in place, I pulled myself up a fraction of an inch to get my weight off my tender tissue, just enough to remain in contact with the horse, but not enough to put any pressure on me. As she stood there watching me, she smiled.
“How long do you think it will be before your arms tire, slut?” she asked.
“I don’t know, Mistress.”
“From past experience, it won’t be long.”
She was right. In just a few minutes, I could feel my arms starting to give out. Slowly and gently, I lowered myself back onto the pony. But after another two or three minutes, I had to lift myself again, as the pain of my opening taking all my weight became too much. I pulled myself up again, but the period I held myself up this time was a little shorter. As I felt arms begin to cramp, I lowered myself back onto the pony.
I went through several cycles of raising and lowering myself. Then, when the pain became too great and I tried to lift myself, I couldn’t. As the pain in my tender flesh grew, I struggled more and more to lift myself, without success. I tried squeezing my legs together, but they were spread by the sloping sides of the pony and would not come together. When it was clear to her that I would not be able to lift myself, she stepped to my side and pinched a nipple between her thumb and forefinger. At first, it was gentle, which caused me to become wet. However, with the wetness came the swelling of my clit, only it couldn't grow with my weight pressing down on it.
Then the gentle playing became an irritating pinching and then a painful tugging and twisting. Squirming on the pony just made things worse and I resolved to pull myself up again. Using every ounce of strength I had, I lifted myself about a half an inch and held it. But in less than a minute, I had sunk down onto the pony again. Finally, satisfied that I would have to rest on the pony, she left me alone.
For the next hour, I gave myself whatever breaks I could by lifting myself, but they became less and less frequent. I finally got to the point where I had to endure the pain without a respite. It was agonizing and no matter what I did, it wouldn’t stop. I started moaning, and listening to myself, just to take my mind off the agony in my vagina. Then the moaning became whimpering, and finally crying. I remember calling out to her, even though she wasn’t in the room, that I would never, ever touch myself again, and begged to be released. I pleaded that I had learned my lesson, she had taught me well, and please let me down.
I must have been half out of my mind when Master came in and freed me from the pony. The chains I wore were immediately locked back on my wrists and one ankle, and I was chained to the ring again for the night. Before I went to sleep, I realized that I really had no desire to touch myself, the first time I had ever felt that an orgasm was not desirable. I could still feel the flesh throbbing from damage the pony had done to it and knew that the last thing in the world that I needed was something else, even my own finger, probing it.
I settled into a routine after that. For the next month, not once did I consider trying to please myself. The memory of the pony was so deeply ingrained that it was not even a debate in my own mind. However, I did start to wonder about the quid pro quo of slavery. When I first got involved in this, it was because of a fantasy. Later, with my first Master, I stayed involved because of the great sex. Granted, I never had any sexual experience before I was a slave, other than masturbation, but I have also had the opportunity to talk to a lot of women who experienced sex as slaves and non-slaves. Every one of them, without exception, prefers sex as a slave.
However, in my current arrangement, that was missing completely. In their own way, my owners were faithful to each other. Not once did I ever get the impression that Master wanted to make love with me. Yes, I satisfied him orally and anally, but never vaginally. That was reserved for his wife. Which left me wondering, what was the payback for my slavery? I thought about this for several days and couldn’t come up with anything. But then I realized that was exactly what they owed me, nothing. It may have been a measure of how much the last few years had changed my identity, my concept of myself. They did not owe me a thing. They had paid for me and I was their slave. That was all there was to it. I would obey them and serve them. Beyond that, nothing else was required.
I know that some of you must think me crazy, but how else was I to see myself? I was kept nude and chained, beaten or punished in some other way for mistakes, forced to crawl on the floor and eat table scraps like an animal. Later I learned that people cannot function for long periods when their concept of themselves conflicts with the reality they are in. I had two choices, change the reality or change the self-concept. I had accepted the reality a long time ago, and had not been, until that time, dissatisfied with it. Therefore my concept changed over time until I believed that my slavery was real and irreversible. It was that later point that made acceptance of my current situation possible. I either could not, or would not, become free again on my own initiative.
So things settled into a routine, as I said earlier. About a month later, they took me off the birth control pills. I wondered why they did not do it earlier, and thought that it might be that they thought I would leave if I believed that there was no possibility of sex. However, when they had me stop taking them, it was for a far different reason. I was going to bear their child.
Actually, his child because she was completely infertile. I never learned why, or what caused it, but that was the situation. After I had been off the pills for a month, a doctor came by the house and examined me. It did not seem to trouble him at all that he was examining a naked, chained slave. Of course, he was involved in the life style as well. I was given a clean bill of health, not even a blemish if you don’t count the welts from my last beating. The doctor explained to Mistress that she was to chart my periods and temperatures each day for the next two months. Once he had the data, he could figure out the best time to impregnate me.
I was really hoping that it would be done the old fashioned way, but I was injected with the sperm. The first two months of this, I did not catch, but in the third month, my period was late. Since I had been regular since right after I started, I knew, but Mistress used a pregnancy test and it turned out positive.
My life got a lot easier after that. I was allowed to walk, not crawl, I ate better, and I was not whipped. I was given a cushion to sleep on and a thin blanket. I still did all of the chores around the house, but it was no longer all day. I worked about five or six hours per day then was chained in my room. I was allowed to read and listen to music during my “free” time. Part of my reading consisted of material on natural childbirth. The doctor started coming around once a month to examine me and he would answer any questions I had.
As my belly grew, the visits became more frequent and the workload lighter. It really was one of the most pleasant times of my life. The first time the baby kicked me, I got very maternal, but I soon realized that I would have to suppress those feelings. This was not going to be my baby. It was theirs. I was just the prize cow that was carrying it for them. Every evening they would have me lie down on my back and put their ears and hands to my belly so they could hear and feel their baby. Their joy was so contagious, that I could not help feeling happy for them. I think that it also helped me accept the fact that it was their baby, not mine.
Toward the end of my pregnancy, I began to lactate. Instead of giving me a bra to prevent leaking, I was milked several times each day. Normally, they did it with a breast pump, but sometimes Master or Mistress would suck me dry. Whether it was done by pump or human sucking, it was always done the same way. I got down on all fours so my breasts hung down like a cow’s teats. If they were sucking me, they would lie down on the floor with their heads under my breasts. Then I would lower each breast to their mouths. If it was done by pump, they knelt beside me and reached underneath with the pump.
I wasn’t sure where I was going to deliver, whether they would take me to a hospital or have me deliver at home. It turned out that I gave birth at their home, according to their plan. When I went into labor, they took me up to the bedroom and undid the chains except for one ankle. Then they chained my wrists to the bedposts and used rope on my ankles with lots of slack. This allowed me to pull my knees up. They put pillows behind my back to prop me up and called the doctor. When he arrived, my contractions were still eight minutes apart and I had been in labor for only an hour. Several hours later, when the contractions were only five minutes apart, they put a hood on me.
Part of their plan was that I would never see the baby. Because it was being delivered at home, by a sympathetic doctor, the birth certificate would show that Mistress was the natural mother of the child. Even later, when I was nursing the baby, I was always hooded first. The one room that I was forbidden to enter was the baby’s room. I could not even clean it.
But I am getting ahead of myself. Altogether, labor lasted about ten hours, the last four of which I was hooded. It was a natural childbirth with no drugs of any kind used, not even an epidural. Obviously, having been punished by whip and other methods, I was used to enduring pain, so the pain of labor, while intense and difficult, was really not new. What was new was the duration. But because of the gaps between contractions that let me recover, it really wasn’t as bad as most women say that it is, or at least not as bad as I had been led to expect.
When the baby was finally born, I heard the doctor slap it and then it began crying. It was not given to me to hold, but to Mistress. After I delivered the afterbirth, I was allowed to rest, still bound to the bed, while Mistress took the baby to its room. (Note that I have to refer to the baby as it. Because I never saw it, I never learned if it was male or female. When it suckled, I was hooded and my hands were bound behind me so I could not touch it or hold it.)
Several hours later, after I had slept, I was forced up from the bed so the linens could be changed. At first I thought they were going to have me do it, but they were kind and knew I needed more rest. I was still hooded, and as soon as I was back in bed and bound, they brought the baby in and I fed it for the first time.
The next day, I was back at work, with breaks every few hours to feed the baby. They let me start slowly, only working me for a few hours, but adding a little more each day until I was up to twelve hours per day by the end of the week. I nursed the baby for about eight months and when it was weaned from me, I was sold again. I had fulfilled the purpose for which they had purchased me and was no longer needed. It was better this way, better for me, better for them, and better for the baby so I was relieved that I was sold. I wasn’t sure how I felt about my child growing up and learning that his mother was a slave so I was actually happy when they told me that I had been sold to a new owner. I never learned what my sale price was, so I often wondered if, in addition to the baby, they made a profit on me. I hoped they had because in their own way, they were kind people.