Thompson had never been to the slave market. Who, in their right beta mind would want to? Who would really want to see their mistress and master take on extra slaves, those who in time might supplant you from the boudoir? But mistress had told him firmly that he would come to the market and he would witness the purchase of a new slave. He had refused to be castrated as master had required and so instead he would become part of a growing collection of malleable slaves.
Thompson slumped thinking about it. There was no way back from castration. Things could go terribly wrong. But the alternative path, the hireling fair path seemed no better. He pondered the developments to date. Five years ago his wife Alice had started going with Carl. Back then the cuck/slave scene was a distant rumour. Of course Carl fucked better. He looked better too, he was a handsome black guy. Carl started to visit and Thompson sat downstairs whilst they fucked. There had been a time, what a month long, at the start, when he was allowed to fuck Alice, wearing a sheath. Carl though, of course, he took her bareback.
Back then Thompson had seen the future as tolerating the cheating or else walking. But that had changed. Carl made him lick her, smelling their coupling, licking up the mess. Of course, it addled his head. He became addicted to that and Alice, well she became his mistress. Now there came a new future, one of cock cages and working morning noon and night to fund her clothes and jewellery habit. He worked to fund their holidays. He cooked and cleaned, and all for the occasional disparaging look and a lick of her succulent cunt. Alice was thirty and he was now forty eight. When Thompson thought about it, the slave market was another fated future.
He watched his mistress dress for the day out. She wore a pleated tartan mini skirts, the ones that showed her long legs to perfection. He always longed to wank when he saw her in those. She wore the Cartier Ruban watch in gold. She looked like a posh spoilt kitten. The market was held on a quiet and remote farm. It was shall we say, unofficial. Everyone knew about it, in the new society, the one that would change living forever. But the authorities, no…not yet. When interracial sex became the state religion, that would change.
‘You’ll wear your collar’ she instructed him. The leather collar was thick and butch looking, with ‘Alice’ etched in scrolled lettering on the front. It marked him out as a slave. It also carried the disciplining electrodes within its structure. Just in case he cut up rough. He went and fetched it and his mistress buckled it about his throat.
‘I want someone younger, better paid than you. Carl wants someone to be broken in as a piss pot’ she told him and Thompson winced. Opening your mouth to a stream of Mistress’s urine was the latest fad in the society. The black guys liked it, they liked the humiliation of it. it was a terrible slope, from drinking down the golden shower, to licking mistress’s butt clean after a visit to the small room. Somehow, somehow, Thompson had avoided that, till now, till now.
Thompson blushed. His heart was racing.
‘I’m willing to learn mistress’ he whispered.
She looked at him. Really? No, she thought not. Thompson had been a little stubborn on this matter. even when Carl had given him a good hiding, Thompson had held out on this little nicety.
‘It’s too late Thompson. In any case, I want a serf more my own age. I want someone who earns a better wage than you.’
That was it wasn’t it? His mistress was corrupted, utterly corrupted. Her lover had done that to her. She wanted someone younger and more handsome to lick her sex for her. She wanted someone bent to the lifestyle who earned a big salary, 80% of which was handed over to her. That was the code, yes, 80% of your income, literally went into Mistress’s wardrobe. Alice believed that she deserved that. She was sexy, her pussy was hypnotic, and she went with one of the most masculine and handsome black dudes around.
‘You’ll serve in the house perhaps, and my new slave will serve in the boudoir.’
Thompson shook. Fuck, she had said it. The code allowed for this. A house slave contributed 60% of wage to mistress but only served outside the bedroom. The housecleaning chores would multiply. There was an unwritten hierarchy, the boudoir slave was the top dog because of his licking. If the new man earned a big wage, then Alice would become increasingly rich whilst doing no work herself.
‘You will sniff and lick panties’ she said, guessing his feelings of abject rejection, excluded from her crotch.
Thompson thought about that, standing in the utility room, licking the dried semen from the crotch of her knickers, hating the thought of them going into the washing machine. He would want to secrete a pair a way to smell until the poisonous soul destroying scent crippled him no more.
‘Yes Mistress’ he answered. He felt like throttling her then. He wanted her, worshipped her and loathed her in roundelay measure. Once she had rewarded him, but as her power and control grew he had got less and less for all that he gave. He couldn’t run, there was an addiction. He couldn’t run, Carl’s men would find him, eventually.
They drove to the slave market, Thompson silent, sunk head in the back of the Landrover Discovery. Mistress looked irritated with him because he sulked. If he didn’t brighten his demeanour soon, she would use the collar on him. The farm was packed. There must have been a couple of hundred people there, drinking, eating at the carvery and finally filing into the barn to view the hirelings.
The slave that they had come to view was called Weston. He was thirty two years old. His service to date had been in a very large house with a young mistress in her early twenties. A spoilt young mistress with so much income had different needs, so even a Weston might be put up for hire. Thompson, his mistress and master inspected the man within his cage. They had booked a ‘sampling’ and so Weston was led forward by the auctioneer and Mistress had lifted her pleated skirt. Thompson felt physically sick watching the younger man lick her. The fucker was good at it. He held his hands behind his back in the polite manner. He looked up at her wide eyed as he suckled on her sex. The fellow was impeccably trained.
Weston worked in IT from home and he earned, well, let’s say that he earned twice as much as Thompson. That seemed Mistress Alice declared, ‘ideal’. Weston had a cowed look about him for all his pretty boy younger male looks. He knew, Thompson knew, that he had been auctioned for service to an older woman. The slope was always downwards.
‘Have you managed an underling before Weston?’ she asked him primly.
The man looked at Thompson. He looked at him and his eyes narrowed.
‘No Miss, but I believe in discipline. A mistress shouldn’t have to worry about order in the house. A master should never have to consider it.’
Alice smiled. Of course there would be squabbles and there would be tears. But she could well imagine Weston pushing Thompson down the hierarchy. He would learn.
The man looked cute in his gold collar. His mistress had obvious taste, the way that she had displayed him for sale.
‘Good’ said Alice.
Thompson watched and he listened. The auction was running. He guessed that around thirty per cent of the slaves up for attention went to new mistresses. It was after all a discerning business. Thompson sucked down a breath. May be, may be he could hope. Perhaps Weston would prove way too dear?
When the bidding began, Thompson’s heart soared, Christ Weston was on a premium price. He was a cultured and a good earning slave. Weston ‘scrubbed up well’ as a servant for social events. The man had so many pluses. Thompson shuddered. The thought of that man becoming habituated to Mistress’ Alice’s pussy appalled him. The fellow was going to suffer a psychological angst, being transferred, swopping one addiction for another. Best that didn’t happen thought Thompson.
The bidding rose steadily. Carl matched anything that was offered. A beautiful young woman in leather jeans, seated in the gallery, watched them bid. It was Weston’s previous mistress. When the price rose to his master’s limit, Thompson hoped. He hoped like crazy!
‘I will add £2000 more and a trade in, ‘ Master Carl said.
Thompson’s heart almost stopped.
‘I offer Thompson, a hard working, decent earning slave. He can labour, garden, tend stables.’
Thompson felt the nudge in his back. Was that from his mistress?! He shuddered. Then the sharp push came from his master. He was propelled into the arena. His master looked up at the young woman in her designer leather jeans. He smiled. He saw her look. He saw the cruelty in her eyes. That was a thrill, the humiliation of it all.
‘But you’ll have lost your house slave in the trade won’t you?’ she asked before a hushed audience. The young woman was almost laughing. This was such a turn on.
‘Alice wants to piss pot train Weston’ Thompson’s master said calmly.
The young woman smiled again. She knew something. She just how much Weston would hate that! It was a delicious thought! She consulted her lover. They nodded.
‘I will take your trade in, you will find me £1000 more and I will gift in a house maid for you. She’s completely broken in, I hope that will please you sir…’ She nodded to the auctioneer who bowed.
Thompson’s master smiled. He bowed his head towards the young woman. This was a joy wasn’t it? The woman had such spirit. It was…well….it was horny. He looked at Thompson who was openly scowling now.
‘Done’ said Master Carl.
Thompson jerked. Just a touch of the button. His mistress had shot him the warning charge. Don’t you dare resist. He was cast off like old shoes, worn through, the uppers failed. Thompson looked up into the gallery at the young mistress who had bought him. She could only have been twenty two. Now though he would be a stable hand. He would lick the young bitch’s boots. That was as near as he would come. Tears filled his eyes.
Thompson glanced across at Weston. The bastard was smirking. The fucker was SMIRKING!!!! Somehow, somehow he would learn to be a piss pot. Mean while, his look said, ‘how are you at sweeping out stables?’
Two rather gruesome and hard muscled men came down from the gallery with a plain heavy leather collar for Thompson. It simply bore the stamped crest of the young mistress’s household. There must have been dozens of collars, may be dozens of serfs. They waited while Mistress Alice removed her collar from around Thompson’s neck. He scowled at her openly. BITCH! It was a moment, just a moment when the full hurt, the fill loss the full insult could swirl through his head and trigger the look back at her, the look of hatred.
She watched the men fix the new collar around Thompson’s neck, heavy, with big buckles at the back.
She slapped his face for him.
‘Don’t you DARE look like that toward a lady ever again!’ she told him.
As if the reinforce the message, one of the new minders ‘pinged’ him with the collar. Thompson tensed involuntarily.
‘Sorry Miss’ he yelped.
The young woman in the gallery smiled. She had the maid brought forward. She was called Julie. Once upon a time, once, she had been Weston’s wife! It was a nice touch. A humiliating touch. She checked Weston’s face…he was scowling too it seemed.
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