Chapter 4: Whore (Continued)

My last encounter at the day care was with the lady Marge that led Shirley away before Benjamin had me suck him off. She looked at me and said, “You’re a mess.”

I simply nodded.

“Do you lick pussy?”

I wanted to say, “Hell, no!”

My lips actually said, “I will if ordered.” I didn’t think I’d ever get used to thinking one thing and having my mind produce words that were completely different.

“I was hoping so. Consider yourself ordered.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I said, not even feeling worthy to call her by name. “Where do we go?”

“We don’t have much time. Right here is fine. But first...” She took her purse and removed a bottle of gel from it. It was an antiseptic of the kind you see in every public place. “Clean your face. I don’t want their spunk making contact with my pussy.”

I did as ordered, finally glad to get a bit of the stink off me.

Marge simply stood waiting, so I knelt in front of her. I lifted her skirt and saw she wasn’t wearing panties. What I was going to do, not that I had any choice, still disgusted me. I tried to empty my mind as I did when I was sexually servicing the males, but there an oddly voyeuristic feeling that I needed to witness what I was about to do, and I could not close my eyes. I noticed her shaven mons, and then my tongue lashed out to lick her. She didn’t react as I thought she should, so I moved my tongue back, using a bit more force this time, increasing the friction. I got more of a reaction that way. I found her clitoral hood and gave it a few indirect touches. When her clit finally protruded, I touched it with the tip of my tongue, and that got a bit of a jump from her.

I felt that I should add my fingers, allowing both her clitoral area and her vaginal opening to be stimulated at the same time. I figured that I’d use my other hand to rub her nipples with my fingers, but then I realized my order wasn’t to stimulate her. The order was specifically for me to lick. I wanted to be a good little whore and do a good job on her, but the programming kept me from doing so, making me feel as if I was being punished for her poor choice of words. This was the most humiliating contact I had all day, almost as bad as fucking the young boy, and the fact that I was totally aware of every move I made and knew I wasn’t doing the best job I could made the sexual rush of humiliation far greater than I expected.

The orgasm I finally made her achieve wasn’t earth shaking. It was tiny, but being a woman, I knew it was there, and that I did manage to accomplish the job with the limited tools I had at my disposal.

Mercifully, she let me up almost as soon as her orgasm subsided. “Get to the bathroom quickly but first ... custodite praecepta tua,” she ordered, pointing at a facility about ten feet away. I ran as fast as I could and noticed that something inside my brain changed once more. In the lavatory, I was surprised to see my uniform with the fasteners restored. After washing my face twice, and taking some soap on a paper towel and rubbing between my legs, I was able to get to a mostly presentable state. I pulled my uniform on with a practiced movement, and soon exited the room.

Shirley and Benjamin were waiting for me. Marge was there as well.

“Mommy! They said they’ll accept me on a trial basis.”

Benjamin nodded. “She was better than any of the other shelter children we’ve encountered.”

I was so proud of my daughter! “That’s great, Shirley.”

“She did need to be reprimanded once.”

I looked at Shirley, disappointed. “What did you do?”

Shirley looked guilty.

Benjamin said, “It’s not important. As I said, we reprimanded her, but we also told her what she did wrong and what she should have done. She took the advice we gave her. That’s very good, actually. Kids will always be kids, but the fact that she listened when corrected was totally unexpected, especially for shelter children. I feel that she actually might assimilate into the class successfully, but we’re going to require two-week consults through the end of the current term. Your attendance will be required at these consults all day. Do I make myself clear?”

The meaning was crystal clear. I was going to lick, suck, and fuck any and all comers, just like today, every two weeks while they pretend to reconsider if Shirley was worthy. “I understand,” I said, feeling the humiliation between my legs.

“Please tell your Sponsor that your daughter came through with flying colors.”

When I got home, I felt so horny that I wanted to just about rape the little shit!

I led Shirley to her room, and then ran to Bob’s room, only he wasn’t there. I ran all through the house until I found him in a room that looked like an office, talking to somebody on the comm.

I tried to get Bob’s attention, and he looked at me furiously. I backed down, my horniness not abated in the least. He went back to his comm and said, “I’m sorry, I almost had a bit of an issue.”

It was obvious to me that if I frigged myself, it wouldn’t do me any good except to heighten my arousal that was already past a point I thought possible. I waited with my eyes down, and my mind emptied, temporarily giving me a slight easing on my excitement--not too much, but still noticeable--and it was if things just died down for an unknown amount of time...

“Now, what was so important that you had to interrupt my comm?” Bob demanded.

My eyes flew open, although I kept my eyes down, remembering during our marriage that Bob considered my holding eye contact with him as an actual challenge to him. “I wanted to ... you know ... be with you...”

“You’re telling me you’re horny.”

I nodded, my shame bringing my excitement even higher. I tried to bite my lip.

“And you want me to do something about it?”

“Please!”

“I’m too busy. You’re not the center of my world. Get used to it. You aren’t a person. You’re property.” He than waved his hand at me, and it was obvious I was dismissed. I tried to speak, but apparently, that wasn’t allowed. I left the den, feeling even lower than at any time up to this point, the reality of my situation clear by those few words he just spoke.

And my sexual excitement hit an even higher level than it ever reached before.

I went to the little spot in his bedroom that I claimed. I laid on the floor, curled up, and cried silently.

At some point, I actually went to sleep.

That god-damned anal probe went off again. This time I imagined it was time for me to start to prepare dinner. My sexual frustration rose to the level it was before I took my nap.

From what I learned yesterday, the dinner selection would already be made. It would appear on the kitchen comm, with links to the ingredients and preparation instructions. In a normal kitchen, I would just transfer the links to the various appliances and let them do the actual cooking, but the automatic settings were either completely disabled, or disabled when my ID attempted to use them. I had to cook the old fashioned way. How primitive, and how frustrating!

The only exception to this was my own meal. After the main meal was just about ready, my own meal selection would appear and I would discover that I would once again be eating the same slop I had every time. And I do mean slop. It was some prepared meal, probably bought at minimal expense and in large quantity lots. It contained some unknown beans along with soy in various forms, with vitamins and what-not injected into it so I would have the basic necessities to keep me alive, but absolutely no discernible flavor. That would be sent automatically to the microwave, and it would accept its automatic programming. Everything, from pulling the already-prepared mix from the freezer or wherever my slop originated, to cooking, and presentation was automated, unlike the other meals I had to cook by hand.

The little shit apparently wanted me to work for my meal, and get paid in slop. I was no better than cattle, except cattle didn’t have to figure out how to cook. Instead of feeling humiliated, I decided to accept the challenge. Actually cooking meals took talent, more than just telling the comm to start and having the meals cook themselves. Cooking was an art, I found out, as I read the “manual links” that came up when I went to prepare their meals.

Right now, I had no marketable skills. I was a history major in college, and anticipated teaching at a university. It wouldn’t be a lot of money, but I enjoyed history. I gave up my degree to get married when the little shit entered my life and after marriage, I still kept up on history as I could until my circumstances made even “free” access to the Uniweb a luxury I didn’t have time for. Raising Shirley was a full time chore, not that I didn’t love every minute of it.

Anyway, there could be a market for a human that knew how to cook. The little shit’s punishment could actually help me once my contract was up. There were a few retro restaurants that offered non-automated food preparation as a gimmick. Perhaps I could find employment that way.

Of course, thinking about life after my contract expired wasn’t useful now, except to keep me from associating having to cook myself as a humiliation. You know, I’ve heard the expression, “When life gives you lemons, make lemonade” a million times, but it actually helped in this particular situation.

I looked at my slop as it was cooking in the microwave with loathing. If it was anything like yesterday’s, it would be cold by the time I got to eat it, and it seemed that the people that prepared it surgically removed anything that could possible imbue it with any kind of taste whatsoever. I saw some parsley in a container, and took a pinch from it before the servos returned it to its storage. I then opened the microwave and put the few flakes onto the slop. Parsley was vegan--no animal products whatever. It should be on my diet, as there was no feeling of “wrongness” when I did it.

Immediately, an alarm sounded on the microwave and it stopped its cooking. There was no reset button that turned it off, and telling the comm to reset the microwave didn’t work. There was nothing I could do! I couldn’t even take the dish out of the oven, as it was hot!

I finally found a spoon and opened the oven and fished the flakes out. As soon as the last flake was removed, the alarm turned off.

The little shit was enforcing the tasteless nature of my meals!

“How is your dinner, Shirley?”

“This is tomato sauce, right?”

“Yes, dear.”

“It’s different than we had at the shelter.”

Bob piped up. “It’s made with real tomatoes here, Princess.”

“And real meat in the meat balls,” I added, envying the few that were on Shirley’s plate. There was no way I could steal one. My vegan diet was a rule, and hence, an order. No way to disobey. My stomach growled in protest as I spooned another bit of the tasteless glop I was forced to eat into my mouth.

“And Mommy is still on her special diet,” Shirley observed.

I tried to make a smile as I ate a bit of my meal. “Yeah.”

My chore after dinner was to do the dishes. We had a dishwasher, but it would not respond to my commands, just like most of the other devices in the kitchen. That meant I had to do everything by hand, including sterilizing everything after they were washed. It was a long, dull job, and I knew that after the remark that I was simply his property, Bob considered me nothing more than a slave.

Still, one didn’t have to intentionally make life difficult even for a slave! The devices all had automated controls. Disabling them took effort and indicated that it was intentional.

Actually, that may be ascribing too much evil to Bob ... as if that was possible. Bob wasn’t into micromanaging my life. Just my life as it pertained to him. He probably had the system set up in some sort of “housekeeper” mode, so that me being a PA would do things manually, but my own stuff might go automatic. It didn’t explain the parsley alarm in the microwave, but it explained most of the rest.

The slow and repetitive chore, combined with the fact that I was following his order as I did it, seemed to give me a bit of respite from the constant sexual frenzy I spent most of the day in. That enabled me to do some thinking.

Making a secret trip to the clinic with a forged paper that asserted that Bob wanted me emancipated early would never work. I had been triggered somehow at the day care to follow their orders temporarily. It was more than conceivable that a clinic would have similar methods available to prevent such shenanigans. So, that was a silly idea. I still needed to go to the clinic to get advice on the steady diet of urine I was receiving. I couldn’t imagine it to be healthy, but there might be something they could do to mitigate any health risks to me.

One thing that was for sure was I needed to wrest control back of my life. I needed a foolproof plan. Unfortunately, the collar had been around for at least twenty years by now, and I never heard of anybody that ever broke its hold. That wasn’t to say that it hadn’t happened, but I would imagine that any attempts would have resulted in new security features to make such attempts always unsuccessful afterward.

No. My only path to freedom was...

I stated to feel queasy. Suddenly, I felt sick to my stomach. And in my mind, a loud voice was yelling at me. A good little whore doesn’t escape from her Master! It yelled it over and over and over again...

Well, that seemed to have been a security measure right there! Thinking about obtaining freedom from the collar resulted in amplified retraining.

The funny part was, I wasn’t about to think about breaking free of the collar at all! The thought I had been trying to make was “my only path to freedom was to get Bob to emancipate me early.” Surely that wasn’t a disallowed thought!

I tried to reason with my mind that I hadn’t been trying to escape. It was a true statement, and after a few moments, the alarm started to die down in my mind. My stomach felt better, and I was able to stand up. Hopefully, I hadn’t triggered any alarm to Bob, because I didn’t want him to think I was attempting to be disobedient!