Blue collar Master, white collar slave

I sit on the couch in my owner's house, dressed every bit the

slave I am. My body from the tips of my toes to my eyelashes is

completely and permanently hairless, smooth, soft and beautifully

tanned. My upper body is clad in a thin, soft and pink rubber T-shirt

and my ass is clad in a pair of outrageously short and equally

outrageously tight, pink rubber hotpants. Their tightness exposes my

hatefully restrained cock, now without an orgasm for more than three

years, most humiliatingly, a constant reminder of what I now am. On my

feet is a pair of ankle high, pink plastic boots. They are not men's

boots, but rather very feminine a pair of extremely small stilettos with

seven-inch heels made of ultra thin metal. Finally I, like most slaves I

suppose, have a collar. While the "fashion" for slaves is either black

leather collars or collars of unbreakable steel, mine is a narrow strip

of very solid plastic. And it is white, shiny white. It is my Master's

way of reminding me not only of what he is, but also of what I once was.

Chapter 1

I saw the man who was to dominate my life completely and

utterly for the first time passing a construction site outside the

building where I worked then. I was twenty-five years old, one year out

of college and working as an analyst for small bank downtown and on my

way to work I passed the site. There were four or five men doing

something in a hole in the ground and as I passed it one of them came

up. He was a very large man, perhaps six feet eight and very muscular

with deep chest and by the looks very strong arms too. He looked to be

around forty and had the beginnings of the weather-bitten looks one gets

from working outside. As he stepped onto the pavement in front of me, he

looked at me. Only he did not just look at me; he looked me over, his

eyes moving up and down my body until they grabbed my eyes.

My sexual debut had been only two years ago and I had still not come out