Chapter 21

The week of “Cumantha Revenge” had left me utterly broken, both in body and spirit. My former colleagues, now the ruling leadership team of the organization, had taken it upon themselves to seek retribution for past slights and indiscretions. Upon my return home, the only solace I found was in the arms of my owners, Mistress Nina and Master Kevin, who, despite their cruel methods, had a surprisingly nurturing side. They tended to my bruised and weary form, all the while reinforcing my new reality as their submissive plaything.

My month of transformation had been swift, as if the days had flown by on the wings of a hummingbird. I grew accustomed to the moniker “Cumantha Cum Whore,” a degrading yet oddly delightful twist on my former identity, Samantha Ruth Prabhu. This new name, a constant reminder of my degradation, somehow sent thrills of arousal through me each time it was uttered. Under their dominion, I learned to be the epitome of obedience, excelling as both a “Cocksleeve” and “Pussymop.” These titles were not just names, but roles that I embraced with an unexpected fervor.

Each day now began with the ritual of waking my master and mistress in the most intimate of ways. I would eagerly take Master Kevin’s engorged manhood into my mouth, sucking and licking until he reached his peak. Then, I would glide over to Mistress Nina, my tongue dancing over her velvety folds, savoring her sweetness until she too was satisfied. Following this, my duties shifted to more mundane tasks, as I served them breakfast and saw to their every need around the house, from cooking and cleaning to performing any other domestic chores they demanded.

Life as an owned slave was not confined to the four walls of their abode, however. I had become the “Office Bitch,” a humiliating yet strangely liberating position at the workplace I once ruled as CEO. Ma’am Isis, my former secretary and now the new queen of the corporate throne, had granted the entire leadership team free rein over my body, to be used and abused as they saw fit. This was a stark contrast to the power I once wielded, but in my current state of mind, I found myself craving the painful pleasure of their domination.

Another daily ritual that had become surprisingly enjoyable was my stint as a “Glory Hole Whore” at Ma’am Angel’s pub, located conveniently near the office. During my lunch breaks, I would kneel before the anonymous penises that poked through the hole, worshipping them with a hunger that had grown insatiable. The taste of cum, once repulsive, was now a delight that I craved like a drug, and each time a man spurted his seed into my mouth, I felt a strange sense of satisfaction.

Yet, the most mortifying of my tasks involved Miss Natasha, the ebony transgender woman who had been appointed as my handler at the office. Initially, my racist and transphobic past had filled me with revulsion at her touch, but as a slave, I had no say in the matter. One evening, she led me to a pub on the outskirts of the city, a place where my former arrogance as a white woman would be thoroughly stripped away.

Before we left, she made me change into the most degrading outfit of my new life. A white micro mini skirt that barely covered my crotch and was so sheer that it left nothing to the imagination. A pastel pink tube top that barely contained my breasts and showcased my pierced belly button, adorned with the humiliating tattoo “BLACK OWNED CUMBUCKET.” To complete the ensemble, I was forced into a pair of 7” transparent high heels that made my legs ache just looking at them.

Walking into the dimly lit pub, I was acutely aware of the lewd stares and snickers that followed me. The clientele was predominantly black, and the sight of a white woman dressed so provocatively and clearly marked as property was a source of great amusement for them. Miss Natasha led me through the jeering crowd, her grip on my leash firm, to a secluded table at the back of the establishment. The pain of the heels on my feet and the tightness of the skirt around my waist served as a constant reminder of my lowly status.

The table that Miss Natasha had chosen was nestled in a cozy corner of the pub, offering a semblance of privacy amidst the rowdy atmosphere. It was positioned such that it afforded us a clear view of the entire place, allowing me to feel both on display and exposed, yet somewhat shielded from the leering glances of the other patrons. The mere thought of their curiosity about our relationship sent a shiver down my spine, but I remained silent, my eyes cast downward in submission.