The Barefoot Girl
From Crimes & Lovers by Lizbeth Dusseau © Copyright, all rights reserved
In a land beyond time, in another world, in a country of castles and kingdoms, of slave queens and noble whores, a barefoot girl with the virtue of an angel stood shivering before an audience of thieves, and traders, gawking noblemen and their ladies, her future ripped asunder, irrevocably altered by a foolish whim.
Torches blazed serving as fire-spewing heralds to the evil done in the counting house dungeon. The theatre had not yet begun this night, and the chaotic company chattered like magpies. Gossips whispered tales into the shocked ears of the unknowing. Gamblers laid their last illegal bets on outcomes, and under the table, money was exchanged that would not be taxed by Lord Nor’s magistrates. Under other tables, whores took cocks in their mouths for pleasure, while roving hands lifted the skirts of rich harlots and gentle ladies, their asses fondled in plain sight. Breasts were bared for the eyes of ogling men, nipples were pinched and squealing women blushed to have their wares displayed so lewdly. Two, three, even four rounds of ale had been poured into tankards held by outstretched hands. And the drunkenness that followed only lifted the last shreds of decency in this teaming mass of uncivilized humanity.
The master tradesman beat his gavel for nearly ten minutes before the barbarous assembly finally took their seats to gape at the spectacle about to be performed before them. And yet, none desired to miss this brutal ravagement. It was, after all, what they’d come to see. The laying waste of an innocent maid, a mere breath of spring, one of the earth’s fair flowers, just as she was about to bloom, was an act so repulsively vile, so cruelly treacherous, and yet so deliciously pleasing as to make it a ritual that warranted its repetition. For twenty years without exception, in the spring of the year, the rite launched the legal bartering season. Lord Nor blessed this act of graceless savagery to appease his restless masses after a bitter winter, even though he’d not attended the ceremony in several years. He was superstitious, and often feared these ravaged maids were strangely magical with the power to upset the steady waters of his kingdom. With that in mind, he was often away at war or hunting—those activities twin pleasures he pursued with as much relish as this throng in the counting house dungeon relished the moment about to explode before their eyes.
The barefoot girl was already on stage. Her hands were chained behind her, her head held proudly high, though the fear in her eyes was alarming. She quaked beneath the thin frock that covered her slight form. With torches flaming behind her, the outline of her fair body could be seen in silhouette. Her breasts were yet slight, surprising perhaps, since she was of the right age, eighteen. Many previous girls were much more well-endowed than this one. Ah, but her body was delightfully curvaceous, her hips well-rounded, her waist slim and her nipples were curiously large, the two generous buds poking through the sheer fabric of her attire. Her pale red hair was tangled in wild locks that dangled across her face. Though she tried to fling them back, tossing her head, she was hardly successful. But how that hair gleamed in the light of the flickering orange flames—as though a part of this innocent lamb was as savage as the company she faced. The pale scared eyes peering out from behind that hair looked panic struck. She stood frozen with fear, though her heart beating hotly in her chest. Perhaps she’d fought when she was captured. The spit and fire would be expected and enjoyed. Such moments bred all kinds of speculation.
In the clamoring crowd with necks straining to get a better view, one pair of womanly eyes looked on, with both the lust of her fellows, and the sheepishness of the tender flower before her—thinking back in time.
The master tradesman pounded the gavel again, irritated. This year’s assembly was especially rude.
“Shall we give the maid a reprieve, or will you nasty folk hold your tongues,” he roared.
There were a thousand shushes around the room, the agitation subsiding for a moment, though it would only be brief for the way it still brewed just underneath the surface of their collective quiet. The master snarled and then sneered, though it was unclear for whom that sneer was meant—the girl or the audience.
“You have another, my fine folk,” he addressed the crowd, “plucked from the teaming streets, a babe, a mere child, a virtuous innocent. Shall we celebrate her purity?” The master posed the question seriously and the crowd murmured, stirred, but yet silent. “Or shall we rip her virtue from her and make her an offering to lust?” The crowd roared, hands pounded the tables and boots hit hard against the floor. It took another ten minutes of the master’s hard hitting gavel to calm them again.
“So be it!” he roared as he smashed the heavy hammer into the block of wood.
The crowd roared again, but quieted on its own as three men advanced on the fainting beauty from behind. One stood at each side, dressed only in trousers, their brawny muscles had been oiled and gleamed like the maid’s lustrous tresses. Their hair was loose, falling around their shoulders. Their faces had been freshly shaved. The third man stood behind her, with his bald head oiled and gleaming as dearly as the chests of the two men at her side. He wore a leather vest and leather britches with a laced codpiece, and boots polished to a shine. His dire expression was meant to capture the eyes of the audience. The girl gazed side to side, but she did not see the man behind her or his menacing grimace. Yet, she could feel his hands enclose her bound ones and hold them tightly.
“She is your prize,” the master shouted, “how would you have her?”
A thunderous clamor began, “Bare her breasts!” And the boots pounded the floor again as the throng cheered.
“Whip her,” other voices shouted from the sidelines.
“Strip her! Make her dance!”
The whole room rocked wildly. Bets were placed on how long it would take to de-virginize this appointed damsel.
While the bald man held the maiden’s hands, one of the men at her side, grabbed the bodice of her dress and ripped the garment to her waist, exposing the delicate breasts to the teaming air and the eyes of the entire theatre.
Tears steamed down her flushed cheeks as she tried to look away. The bald man’s free hand massaged her breasts from behind. His lips descended to the crook of her neck and the barefoot girl shuddered.
“The whip, the whip, the whip,” the crowd roared and one of the bare-chested brutes withdrew the dreadful implement from the belt around his waist.
“Against the cross!” The crowd knew each act of this ghastly play, each scene, each line by heart.
Hearing the crowd’s commands the three men complied. The bald man released the girl’s hands, and then turning her about, shoved her toward the two crossed beams of wood that had been pushed into the center of the make-shift dais. The three, binding her wrists to the ends of the cross, and her feet to the massive beams below, immobilized her. One of the long-haired pair would begin with the whip against her back. She was to be flogged with force—and finesse. For these spectacles it was not wise to deplete the maiden in the first minutes. She would have to last some time to satisfy this expectant crowd. And she’d have to fight, to scream, to suffer and then to be pleased. Not one step in the thrilling process could be missed or wasted.
The flogging began gently, and the maid’s fair-skinned back jerked softly with each blow of the three-taloned leathers that hit the tender surface. As though teasing the audience that wanted the full force of the whip laid on, these first strikes were more like caressing love-play than invigorating cuts that would send shocks of pain through her body. Yet, as the leather played with her undulating shoulders, the cries for more force rose throughout the close confines and began a chant that the whip-wielding brute heeded. Laying on the talons with a crescendoing fervor, he made the barefoot girl shriek. Her cries, both sad and anguished seemed as loud as those of the hundred men and women in the theatre who demanded this beating. As the intensity mounted, so too did the lust of the audience. Seeing her striped back take on the color of a setting sun inspired more brutality, and then the next phase of the girl’s torture.
“Bare her body!”
“Thrash her ass!”
“Her cunt, her cunt, her cunt!” Even the women in the audience screamed.
The flogging ceased and the three men descended on the limp child, pulling her from the cross. The master tradesman rose to the podium again as the girl was brought around to face the crowd. She tugged at their confining hands, an angry spirit in her rising. The crowd went mad.
“Let’s see her fight!”
“Let her kick!”
“Impale her ass!”
The roar was deafening.
From the second tier of spectators, a woman’s eyes swam with tears, even as she cheered with the others. Those around her jabbed her with their elbows and shouted in her ear about the assets of this poor young maid. She smiled and cried inside, at the same time her salty tears stung her eyes.
The master tradesman banged his gavel once again, and once again the wild crowd subdued its incessant demands, heeding the man’s booming voice.
“You have your offering gentle people. She stands before you the sacrifice of spring. There are dozens more slaves awaiting your inspection, would you not have compassion on this one, let her be free, auction this beauty with the others?”
“No!” the shout rose in an instant.
The gavel hammered again and the crowd squelched its cries.
“Then you shall have her,” the master informed them. “Make her naked,” he said turning to the three who held the girl captive.
“NO!” she shrieked. “Please.” Her wail was breathtaking and pitiable. She had no clue to the trial that awaited, and yet, she rightly feared the worst.
“Let her plead,” some rabble rouser in the front row barked.
“Let her beg us,” another chided with glee.
The master turned to the barefoot girl and she looked at him with anger and sorrow both mixing with her tears.
“Ah, master, please!” she whimpered so that hardly anyone could hear her, though the audience could see she was desperate. “Please.”
The master looked on as the girl and crowd played two sides of a jarring song in a dissonant counterpoint. He was persuaded by both. Though he was not an inconsiderate man, he was more a man of expediency and self-interest. He took his eyes off the barefoot girl, and with a sneering glance to the crowd turned to her three attendants and gave the order.
“Strip her naked!”
The crowd went wild. Officials with staffs moved before the dais to block an onslaught of zealots from charging forward. The girl shook with fear.
“Take your seats!” the master ordered the crowd with the gavel hammering the block. “Or I shall have her removed!”
Quiet reigned for a time, the audience reduced to hushed and passionate whispers as they watched with anticipation.
While the two long-haired attendants held the struggling girl’s body by her arms, the bald-headed man stepped around her and placed his hand at the waist of her dress. Then with a fierce tug, he ripped the cloth into shreds, leaving it to settle at her feet, as he exposed her nether regions for the eyes of the audience.
More tears streamed down her face. She trembled, tried wearily to jerk away, but knew her fate was written. Her perspiring thighs quaked while the curls of her pubis took on a lovely rose-brown hue, glistening with female dew, leaving some to believe she was aroused. The bald man stepped to one side of her and sunk to his knees so that most of the audience could see the full disclosing. After prying open her thighs with his hands, he parted the pubis so the pink skin and bud of her clitoris could be seen by those in the first several rows.
The girl blushed, but not so anyone would notice, save perhaps the woman in the second tier, who could read the young beauty’s expression as though it were her own.
“Rip her free!” the crowd began to chant.
“Let the blood spill!”
“Give her to us!”
They were driving for the end, perhaps too quickly, but that was to be expected. It had been a hard winter in Nor’s kingdom, and his minions needed relief. They needed the spectacle of this sacrifice and perhaps even more they needed what would happen in the hours afterwards when the auction of slaves would proceed. The good master tradesman knew them well, he knew that the timing must be precisely right. He knew the time for plucking this flower from the bed of virginity was now. And he gave them their most desired wish. “Pass lots and take her to the stone!” he announced. Then he swept from the podium and waited in the wings while the ravagement proceeded.
The girl struggled with every ounce of strength she had, trying to wrest herself from the grasp of the two long-haired men. Yet, their strength was too much for her and they pulled her to the stone bench in the center of the dais.
While she struggled, the bald man made the rounds of the room with an earthen vessel filled with stone tiles. Each man in the room drew a tile from inside until three had pulled out the marked stones that gave them the right to plunder this girl’s virtue.
With the girl laid back on the cruel granite bed, her thighs were spread wide by her two attendants and her hands clutched tightly overhead, secured in the fist of the bald-headed man. Prepared for the violation, the three lucky men descended on her. As the first stepped forward, he stood some moments looking into the girl’s frightened eyes. Banging his erection against her pubis, he watched as her eyes filled with tears, but he was too aroused to be moved to sympathy.
“Please no,” she murmured softly, but he could not hear her for the noise of the crowd cheering him on. Then, too overcome by lust to draw out the moment any longer, he plunged his erection deep into her unspoiled vagina, and the crowd thundered to hear her anguished cry rise as if it was going heavenward.
The girl thrashed about in anger and lust. The pain present, but not foremost in her thoughts, she seemed on a strange precipice between revolt and sensuous joy. Her body deceived her. And even her cries were not the screams of a maiden being tortured. The longer the hefty cock pummeled her insides, the more she seemed to relinquish to the incessant probing. Her attacker held off his climax for some time, which only added to the amazing spectacle of raped victim and the rapist finding some common ground within her body. Though she might have spat on him when he withdrew from her and moved to her face, she licked the depleted stalk almost lovingly.
Her next assailant was poised for her mouth as well, coming forward almost before the first was finished. Mounting the granite slab, he straddled her chest so his organ could be taken by her open mouth. He drove it deeply, forcing his way inside beyond her moaning cries and her attempt to gag and spit him out. He implored her to give him entrance, to suck the hot rod with lips and fondle it with her tongue. Though she resisted to the end, he was not displeased with her, and she not as disgusted as any witness would think. The more she got used to the taste of a manhood in her mouth, the more this too was less vile. When the climax finally came and he spilled his seed about her face, she looked at him without contempt, unconsciously licking her lips of his residue. She was lost to herself, vacant and depleted, wary and yielding, yet strangely satisfied.
The woman in the second tier recognized the look because she could recall the feeling in herself.
With the third man descending on the withering maiden, the crowd began its rumbling again. Cries for the final justice resounded off the walls. It was time to complete this ritual and time to move on. The agitation in the room grew strong. The master tradesman was tempted to return to his gavel, but he remained on the sidelines watching the proceedings carefully, lest they become too tumultuous as they had several years ago when the victim did not survive the sacrifice.
This crowd was, however, immediately deterred by the man with the marker. He was a roguish, blackguard from some territory beyond Illusia. His dress was peculiar, marked by a gold threaded cloak that covered most of his hefty form, and skin the color of freshly turned earth. There was just a fuzz of hair at his chin, while his head was as bald as the man that held the maiden’s hands. As he approached the barefoot girl, she whimpered seeing the blackest of eyes peering at her.
“Give her to me,” he said with a power of command that her captors could not ignore. He’d removed his cloak, handing it to a young man that attended him. Reaching the girl’s loins he took her hips in his hands while her attendants freed her. Then with a gentleness uncommon at such rituals, he turned her about, drawing her knees under her.
“You shall take her ass?” one long-haired man whispered to him.
“So, I shall,” he agreed, though first he brought the girl’s nether crack to his face and ate of it as though he was eating exotic fruit, and drank of it as though it was fine wine. His tongue probed both orifices and the girl began panting and cooing. It no longer seemed to matter that this indignity was being witnessed by an attentive company that would never forget the look they saw on her face.
The more she took this pleasure, the louder she cried. Her body bucked freely against his face. He had his fingers in her vagina and his tongue at her nether hole when she cried the loudest. Then, at the moment when her body wrenched wildly with orgasm, he pushed her down, grabbed hold of her sides and planted his erection beyond the mellowed sphincter, deep into her ass. He stretched her wide and made her full. But she rode him without the pain that might have marked this violation. Though she screamed in reply, only the woman in the second tier guessed the girl’s state of mind. Sharp pleasured spasms ripped wildly through the maid’s ass until the black man’s climax broke free as did her own.
From the novel Bad Girls & Dangerous Men by Lizbeth Dusseau, copyright © all rights reserved
I remain barefoot in my summery dress. The colors are blue and green, soft and shimmering like gazing into the sky through trees that flutter in the breeze. The hem skims my legs, tickling, and the neckline plunges deep in front hinting clearly at the abundance of my breasts. My hands are tied again, while I’m still in the vestibule. There’s nowhere to go, no window, two locked doors on either side of the small space and a tiny gaslight burning at the wall. Other than a hard bench to sit on, there’s nothing else in the room but cabinets I cannot open. They grey-haired man donned his robe, took my note to Bailey, and left me to myself, no further explanations, suggestions or commands.
I wait at least an hour. Interminable. Uncomfortable. My ass aches from the bench. My legs still feel weak when I stand. When the door suddenly opens, I’m leaning against the paneled wall, eyes closed, trying to sleep.
“It’s time for your indoctrination,” the man tells me. He holds out his hand, but of course, I can’t take it. It’s just as well.
My cell connects to a sort of indoor amphitheater with several graduated rows of seats circling a dais at least twelve feet below the upper rim. The entire room is paneled in the same dark and dreary wood that decorates the entry, the ballroom and the vestibule I just exited. Gazing dazedly into the scene before me, I see each seat is filled by one of my many captors, the members in a club of sadists all wearing brown cloaks around their shoulders, over their dressy suits but open down the front. Their business is solemn and the mood grim, although there is a gut wrenching swirling energy about that no one can dismiss.
I swallow hard, holding back my tears, forcing my fear to subside. But the more steps I take into the pit, the more I realize how momentous these moments could be. This is not another of Scofield’s plots. He’s a scam artist. Perhaps he led these men to me, but they would never make him a member. These are heavyweights in their worlds. I know. I know them by the power they exude now.
At the dais, I’m told to circle before the room.
I raise my eyes to the company and slowly step in place turning, greeting every eye I can find. If they are going to have me, abuse me, use me, whatever their scheme, they will know the woman they are dealing with, they’ll know my strength—what strength I have left. When the circle is complete, I’m again staring into the grey-haired man’s smooth cool eyes. But he backs away, his presentation of me is over. A second later, I can’t distinguish him from the others.
Randomly, two, three, four at a time, the men descend on me, using their hands to inspect my body. They tear away the neckline of my dress, pulling out my tits, pinching my nipples, and then putting them back inside again. Other hands reach up under my skirt, toy with my pubis, tug my labia, insert fingers in my cunt and ass. Their probing of my anus makes me screech—the entrance is dry and ungiving. They work wordlessly, purposefully, having done this before and knowing what they are looking for. At least a dozen men maul me, then disappear, blending back into the crowd. I’m surprised that I’m still clothed, disheveled yes, but still wearing the summery dress, the only significant color in the room. I feel like a battered crocus rising out of the drab winter ground.
I hear some murmuring in the seats of the theatre, discussing my attributes, I guess. When I’m assaulted again, the skirt of my dress is lifted away and held by unseen hands behind me, while in front of me, kneeling, one of my anonymous captors carefully smears my labia, inner and outer, my clitoris and the soft tissue around it with a heavily scented, spicy concoction. The pungent odor stuns my nostrils, but more unnervingly, my skin warms. The devilish stuff stings, turning my already randy crotch hot. The hand applying the potion continues to fiddle with my privates. I can’t stand still, my body gyrates, twists. I bite my lip, feel the heat inspire new tears of pain. The man in back changes places with the one in front. While my dress is held out of the way, my anal cleft is pried apart and the stinging stuff is rubbed around my anus, and just inside the tight rosette.
“Oh! Please….” I plead under my breath. No one hears, or hearing, cares to listen.
My dress is untied and discarded, my hands raised to a bar above me and attached with cuffs. My feet are spread wide and fixed to either end of a spreader bar.
“Speak to us!” a voice shouts.
I don’t know what he means.
“Speak!” he insists.
“Speak!” another voice repeats the order.
“I don’t know what you want!” I sob, defiantly.
“Tell me what you want!” My entire crotch is on fire. I can think of nothing to say. I’m not even angry now. I just want this to end, but I already know these men are hardly through with me.
Other men attack my cunt and ass. They bring dildos on sticks that are shoved into both orifices at least eight inches deep.
“Dance, slut!” they order me.
Dance? How? I can hardly move.
“Dance!” They are furious with me.
I try. My ass wiggles, but there is very little range of motion. These dildos have spread the fiery potion deep into my entrails and my cunt. My groin becomes an inferno, fire and flame leaping and contorting inside out. Beside this poisonous stimulant, my body demands release in the only way it knows. The spasms are fierce, banging me from left to right, jerking the bars so I think my flesh will tear. I scream… and as my mouth opens I remember what the grey man said about my ungagged mouth, how the men will relish the sound of my pain.
There’s movement in the theatre around me, bodies restless with sexual urgency.
When the climax finally moves on, my crotch is still afire, but the raw wildness is gone. I shrink back inside myself, calm and wait.
Two naked women come to me, slithering next to my side with their hands spreading a soothing cream everywhere. The burning in my crotch slackens, I’m relieved. For a short while I drift with them as their breasts and legs move over me. Then they fall away, disappearing beyond my field of vision. My ankles are removed from the bar, my feet stand firmly on the dais, and then the dais begins to move upward, as a platform rises from the floor. I slump to my knees, finding myself on an altar. My arms are still fastened overhead, but the stretch is less vicious now.
“Speak slut!” they are after me again.
I’m almost instantly in tears. I don’t know what they want.
“Tell me, please.”
“Your cooperation is not necessary for the next step in your indoctrination. But it would be advantageous.” Here is the grey man again, speaking from the audience. I can’t see his face, but I know his voice. “Do you accept what we make of you?”
“What is that?” I find the words to ask.
“Our sexual possession.”
“What does that mean?”
“That we own you.”
“How can you own me?” I turn around, still not seeing the man with the voice.
“By entering your mind, taking over your thoughts, manipulating your body as we just did, forcing you to reply any way that pleases us. You will get used to it. You will adapt. Soon, you will know no other life. Your body belongs to this collective group. You will wear our mark and live imprisoned for life inside the rule of our private law.”
“How can I agree to that?” I ask from inside my confusion, trying not to argue, just to ask. The voice doesn’t like the question.
“How?” he snaps angrily. “Your instantaneous agreement should come rolling off your tongue without a second’s thought. Joshua!”
It’s the only name I’ve heard since I was abducted.
I know his name but not who he is, only that he controls me now, lowering the dais into the floor. I’m standing again, my arms stretched high overhead and the tortures resume. More of the burning potion is generously applied to my nether regions and then poured over my back and breasts, everywhere. My skin heats, my crotch grows hot again. I feel first the slight bite of a whip applied to my backside, then as the attacker moves around, I’m stung with the snapping fall from my tits to my knees. I jerk, twist angrily, and as a cat ‘o nine tails rips my body in tandem with the whip, the resulting welts burn far deeper than skin.
“Nooooooooooooooooo!” I’m screaming again.
The world falls away for a time as my endorphins become engaged. I see glimpses of something beautiful all around me, but then the pain crashes through my brain and my body will not settle.
When everything suddenly falls silent and the whips and cats stop, there is the voice again, speaking. “How many times do we need to repeat the treatment, Madison. Give in now,” he sputters. He’s close, behind me, I can feel his spit hit my back. “You can be certain that you’ll spend a peaceful night,” he’s becoming calmer.
My gut wrenches. I’m stuck inside their cruel game with no way out.
“You have me!” I sob. “Whatever you want, take it!”
A long empty silence follows until he speaks again, “Good, very good.” He sounds so civil.
The dais rises as three men approach me. I look around at their faces, one Latino, one black, one lily white. They throw off their robes, rip away their fancy clothes, and present themselves naked. Each is buff, gleaming from sweat with the natural oils of sexual arousal reeking from their bodies. Their cocks are stiff, rising from nests of thick dark hair. In front, behind and to my side, they jump to the apron of the raised alter, a step inches below the platform where I sit. One by one, they stuff their thick meat into my mouth and expect me to suck. If only I didn’t see their faces first. They are no longer anonymous and so I hate the taste of them.
Regardless, I have no choice. I suck, cover their skin with my spit, and run my tongue around the grooves of their cock heads. They gaze down at me arrogantly, while I gaze up into their eyes with a practiced look of surrender. I’ve done this before. Perhaps I even feel surrendered to them now. I can’t honestly compute what I feel. I am numb, going through motions from my past that are familiar to me. The sex is rote, the action predictable and automatic as if there is a pornographic movie playing inside my head to lead me. For a while, I move from one cock to another, then the action switches—I can almost hear the whirring of an unseen camera just off to the left. My arms are freed, but I have no time to massage the ache away. I’m straddling the black man on this alter. His sleek body draws me into his muscled chest while he thrusts his big meat in my cunt. From behind, fingers prod my anus. I know what’s coming next. I gear up for the expected, as two, then three, then four fingers jut into the channel and make room. I find it difficult to believe that all this flesh will fit in me. But my body has no problem. It’s only my brain that thinks this is impossible. I learn the truth when the white man’s cock impales me, and the two compete for space, for equal time and attention. Jarred by their erratic rhythms, I find there is no harmony between them, and I feel as if I’m being torn apart.
My head’s jerked back by a stocky hand winding through my hair. My mouth’s impaled with the Latino version of testosterone power forcing its way inside. I gag. Sputter. Then relax and let him in.
I have to drift. I can’t think. I’m triply fucked… maybe even happy for it, being so full makes me forget. Forgetting is easy, a listless, endless, numbing thing. I’ve come too much to come again. My body is bound by its own limits, unwilling to release for anyone’s pleasure, including mine. They don’t care. My men are selfish, each one demanding more, expecting that I can pay attention to all three of them at once. I do my best, probably do a half-assed job, but they aren’t complaining. My eyes open and close. I get glimpses of the room around me, as naked women crawl from cock to cock in front of the theatre seats, giving pleasure; and the men without a woman jack off inside their hands.
I am the New Age Marilyn Chambers sucking, fucking cock behind the fawn-colored door leading to gross debasement.
I’d like to think I’m something special, but I know I’m just another misbegotten girl, lost inside her life, vulnerable and open to attack. Just my luck! It is strange to find myself musing on these things as I complete the main act of their ritual play. But it’s comforting to know that the bottom line of my debasement is the same old thing, the same old need to get off, jack off, fuck. I suspect they’ll turn into harmless lambs once they’re spent.
It’s really a great game… if it is game. The idea that they are seriously considering me as their newest initiate sex slave sort of worries me. But they’re coming now, spilling seed everywhere inside me, on my roughed up skin, in my hair, wherever they like—after all, I’m theirs.
Based on the novel Shadows of a Painted Lady by Lizbeth Dusseau © Copyright 2002. All rights reserved. May not be used without the permission of the author.
The house was freshly painted, the garden tended neatly—though it could use a little more imagination. It had been some years since Haliday House had last seen occupants—sometime in the middle 1940’s when it was a sanatorium. Its current owner was a distant nephew of the original Haliday. He found the house in disrepair, though his imagination sprouted wings when he saw the raw material of his fantasies appearing so beautifully before his eyes.
The secret society to which he belonged needed places as intriguing and austere as this one to give their purposes a place to flourish. It was the end of the 20th century, and yet, this Haliday maintained the etiquette of bygone times while practicing arcane sexual mores. Small gatherings were held for the lustily inclined, for those disposed to the darker pursuits of the sexual psyche. They practiced wit and gentility by day and sadomasochism in the evening hours, turning submissive women into slaves—at least for a day or two, or when they were under the roof of the newly renovated Victorian House. It was a gracious place, white framed and trimmed with green to match its fertile lawn. Clubs like this one were hard to find—especially in the Midwest. The lovely ‘lady’ had become a haven for those who knew that their sexual practices would be shunned by the current fashion of politics and social thought. However, those who came to Haliday House parties liked being unusual, since that made their soirees jump with sexual magic.
“Chelsea!” Master Haliday’s voice split molecules into pieces in the sultry, heated air. It cut in timbre through a half-dozen conversations, startling a sleepy crowd of Haliday guests awake.
“Yes, sir,” I awoke from my own languid stupor to the thrill of that voice.
“I need you now.”
I gulped visibly and bit my lip as I stared at Sir Haliday from the parlor floor in wonder. All afternoon my fears had been on edge, my tummy—one minute clenched, the next overpowered by suggestion. Every atom seemed to speak to a longing I could not shake. What was it happening all around me? Was I being paranoid to think that there were eyes trained on me specifically? I loved the attention, but this time I was afraid.
Scrambling to my feet, I almost stumbled in heels too high for me to walk in. My thighs were already weak, feeling like pillars that might at any second crumble into dust beneath me. The polished hardwood floor was slick, which made the few steps I negotiated toward the man more chancy. But I managed.
The room began to fill with Masters, while their submissives, either peeking into the parlor door or clinging to their masters’ sides, looked as perplexed as I was. They were as unknowing as I was. Some looked longingly; others trembled with fright, perhaps mentally putting themselves in my tall high heels. I was struggling. I’m sure everyone could see that.
The Masters stood in a ring around the room, a few choosing to take their seats. They looked a bit like vultures. I looked for my master, Nathan, not finding him. Perhaps I sought his comforting glance, but then he’d set this affair in motion. His expression would be as determined and grim as all the other masters’ were.
Thankfully, Sir Haliday ordered me to stand facing the wall. Once there, I spontaneously closed my eyes.
Where was Nathan now, I wondered? I couldn’t make out his presence in the room. The commotion was too intense; and the power of authority coming toward me was so immense that the stares were indistinguishable one from another. Normally, I knew when my Master was watching me. Now, he seemed to meld with the others.
A dozen angry beasts seemed to be battling inside my trembling frame.
Sir Haliday stood with me, just off my right shoulder. Grabbing a leather hood from his own submissive, he covered my head, effectively walling me away from all the sights and sounds around me. I found it difficult to breathe—and that breath, hot and labored inside the stiff, confining hood. With one deep breath, I tried to relax, but my thighs were like jelly and my pussy felt as though it were a runaway train. My guts were tightening as I bottled the emotions of fear and thrill inside—afraid they’d splash all over me in tears or laughter. I wanted to giggle and I wanted to cry.
The cries felt like relief, perhaps the laughter, too.
“This piece of property belongs to Master Nathan Bastian,” Sir Haliday announced. “He’ll be selling her to the highest bidder. I’d suggest an inspection first.” He jerked my arm. “Turn around.” He roughly turned me so that I stood before my audience face forward. I felt strangely dehumanized. But for the purposes of a slave auction that was appropriate—it was the body and its use that was important in these matters.
“Take off your clothes,” Haliday ordered.
“I didn’t call for you to speak,” he rudely jerked me so I’d get his message clearly.
Silently, I said, I’m sorry.
Obeying the command, I inched my long dress up my legs, at first, moving too rapidly for the pleasure of Sir Haliday who acted as the auctioneer.
“Slower,” he ordered.
I let the hem drop several inches then started over, moving slowly, taking my time, as though this were a striptease for the sport of arousal. Perhaps it would serve that function for a few horny Doms. And yet, I’m sure in these formal surroundings, their cocks would remain contained inside the trousers of their evening suits. They were a stodgy Old World crowd who relished displays like this one for every bit of sadistic pleasure they could glean from the humiliation of a slave.
Taking my time, I hiked my skirt carefully to avoid more criticism. If being auctioned made me afraid, being imperfect tore my insides into shreds. Slaves were valued for their ability to perform such things under pressure and with poise. I could not let my earlier faltering destroy me now.
The skirt reached my hips, which were encircled by a black garterbelt. The lacy fabric stretched across my undulating abdomen, while four long garters held a pair of silky stockings in their clasps. My sexual arousal bloomed as I realized that the eyes of my audience were focused there. A small black panty covered the truly important parts, where between my thighs a beautiful bush of blonde curls protected the inner folds of my sex. Should I be inspected, they would have found me sopping wet.
Moving slower still, I drew the dress along my torso, finally pulling it over my breasts. I was naked underneath, braless. Even sightless, I knew that my nipples had hardened and poked through the fabric of my dress. With the air hitting the bare nubs, they stiffened further, like so many times, standing at attention, pink and proud, begging for a pair of lips to tease them. That, of course, was what they were for. To seduce. To suck. To stimulate the regions down below in preparation for fucking.
Finally, drawing the dress off over my head, I tossed it to my side, while almost stumbling on my fear-weakened legs. I determinedly tried to right myself, only accomplishing the feat with the help of my auctioneer’s firm grip.
“Take off those underclothes,” he tore at me, “you don’t deserve to wear them. I’m sure your owner will want them back for his next slave!”
Unnerved by his cruelty, I cried more earnestly behind the mask—which only made me thankful that I was wearing it. Surely, Sir Haliday would heap more ridicule on me if he knew that my eyes were burning with tears of embarrassment.
I stepped from my heels. Then, unhooking my garterbelt, the tiny garment drooped until I could push the stockings down my thighs and over my feet.
Just as I was about to remove my panties, Sir Haliday stopped me. “Is there a submissive who’d like to remove this last article of slave clothing and present it to her master?”
Filling the anxious second, a woman scampered forward on her knees and pulled the panties down in what felt like a loving, longing, sisterly gesture.
Naked, there was nothing to protect me now.
“She’s used goods, gentlemen. Perhaps you’d like to see if she’ll be of any value.”
I could feel Sir Haliday back away. I stood alone, quaking from the Master’s mockery. As if a hoard of feasting tigers was descending on my body, I was pawed by hands, inspected, probed and poked. Several pairs of fingers stabbed my cunt, almost fucking me, but waiting for me to make some sensuous response. It was impossible not to react with at least some degree of natural delight. After all, I am a masochist who thrives on such abuse.
They slapped my breasts, tugged at my nipples until I was tempted to shriek. I held in the feeling of pain, taking a long deep breath and focusing on what that pain contrived in my fondled crotch.
“Bend over!” the auctioneer ordered pressing a firm hand on my back. “And spread your cheeks.” My body was hot with this new humiliation. But I tentatively obeyed him, placing my hands on my bottom. “Yes, slave, let them see your anus,” he encouraged.
Taking an ass cheek in each hand, I firmly grabbed the flesh and pulled the two apart. The horrific degradation hit me with a cruel blow; at the same time, sweeping me with a rush of sexual excitement unlike anything I’d ever known.
Sir Haliday then pulled me upright and the intense inspection continued with fingers probing my intimate places. One long thin digit entered my ass with a sharp bite. It must have been a woman’s finger, I thought to myself, with its polished nail jabbing me like the blade of a knife. Either Mistress Jane or Mistress Victoria, I decided. Although I figured it was Mistress Jane; Mistress Victoria was too haughty to fool with ‘used goods’.
With a second rude jab at my anus, a pained ‘ouch’ threatened at my lips, but I kept quiet. The inspection couldn’t last forever.
“Crouch!” Sir Haliday barked.
“Yes, down!” He pushed my shoulders with his steely hand.
In the humbling squat, my pussy was spread wide open for every eye to see the truth glistening there in an obvious display of my slutty arousal. Did I have no shame? I wondered to myself.
“Hold up those breasts,” he blared.
I pushed my fair breasts into a cleavage, while trying to adjust to the awkward pose. My ankles ached so that I could hardly stand the position. My nerves faltered. I wanted to tell them how much this hurt, that I couldn’t tolerate the pain.
“Let the bids begin,” the auctioneer finally bellowed. And thankfully, he pulled me to my floundering feet.
Sir Haliday helped me balance as the bidding commenced… twenty-five, fifty, a hundred… During the bidding Sir Haliday smacked my ass at intervals, reminding me to stand up straight. I did my best, but I was quaking like a leaf in spring. Confusion filled my mind—who would bid and who would buy? Was Nathan really serious about the sale? Was this really happening? And then finally, silence. A loud, premeditated silence screamed all around me.
“That’s it, we have a buyer,” Sir Haliday suddenly announced. He grabbed my arm so hard that I was sure that bruises would remain. “I’ll take your purchase to the dungeon where you can abuse her as you wish. Although, it’s customary to invite the attentions of the other Masters to break your chattel in; is that what you want?” I presume he was asking my new owner.
I couldn’t see him but I could feel the way his lust and savagery ripped another masochistic thrill through my teaming body. I can only guess that he agreed.
Pushed from the room, I was roughly handled as I made my way to the cellar stairs guided by Sir Haliday’s commanding hands. As I decided those precarious stairs, I could feel a firm hand on my ass, another with fingernails sinking into my shoulder.
“Suspend her!” the order came quickly once we were in the dungeon. Sir Haliday backed away and two hands grabbed for my wrists, placing them in tight cuffs and drawing them above my head, high enough so that I had to stand on tiptoe from the stretch.
The first hands on my body grabbed either side of my waist—they were not Nathan’s. He’d not purchased me. Nathan’s hands would be warm; these were cool.
After positioning me the way he wanted, I was suddenly attacked, struck by a rain of strikes from paddles and leather spankers, which made me jump erratically with every blow that smacked my cheeks. I contained the need to cry, remembering the submissive requirement with every bit of strength I could summon.
My front and backsides were flogged in a simultaneous rhythm that had me jerking wildly and unable to follow the path of any strike to an erotic end. The pain grew rich, but complicated. I began to sweat, my eyes fill with tears again. These, however, were not tears of grief or horror, but tears of relief. Relief washed through me, bewilderingly so. Though I was in the middle of this new owner’s insidious wrath, from somewhere outside the act, I could feel Nathan standing over the proceedings, directing the scene as if it was a play and I was on stage.
I was abused, but loved, delivered into subspace by a dozen hands extended by whips and paddles to bite and smack and revel in the resulting pain… told not in the expression on my hooded face, but in my body that jerked like a frenetic puppet.
Other hands and other implements were tenderer. There was no bite, no sting as fur and feathers tickled my roughed skin and bruised flesh.
After my stint suspended, I was taken down and thrust against the St. Andrews’s Cross, bound at my ankles and my wrists. A single tail whip flogged at the dangerous territory along the inside of my thighs, where every strike produced a shrill but silent cry from my muted lips.
The aroma of perfume suddenly reached my nostrils. Moments later, some gentle lady with fur covering her hand stroked me between the cuts that burned. Cuts from the single tail continued to mark my back with small wounds I’d remember lovingly when my ordeal was over.
Ah! yessssssss, I was content to think without speaking. “More!” my body screamed.
Finally pulled from the cross, I was taken to a spanking bench, laid face up where the torture increased. My breasts and cunt were not as accustomed to abuse as my well worked ass and wanting shoulders. Every strike against my pubic mound worked its way in pain far beyond the point of impact. Yet, every strike against my front side was altered with the feel of someone’s sensuous hand gliding kindly over the damage. A soothing bath of textures took what pained me grievously and transformed it into another experience of being loved.
Rocked inside this strange cradle of love, I remained helpless, lost and grateful… what more could I ask of life than to give me this kind of satisfaction? I could go on forever…
“Your new master wants you to himself,” Sir Haliday suddenly announced in that same bold voice of authority. Reality boldly rode back in my mind on a gallant stead, and jerked me awake.
I trembled then, afraid of the face of my owner, yet knowing I would serve whatever man appeared to me. The bodies in attendance drifted off, like specters walking through a foggy night. They quit me, leaving me in the cold. Even Sir Haliday disappeared… I almost missed him…
The laces on the hood were loosened. Then a firm hand pulled me upright and to my feet. I was prepared to see the features of my new Master’s face, what strength, what purpose he’d employ. A lot can be learned about an owner in that first meeting…
The hood started to wiggle free, inching up over my chin… I could hardly breathe when I awakened.
“Open your eyes.” I heard a hushed and familiar voice.
Obeying the command, my eyes fluttered open to see the face of my owner—my husband… Nathan.
“Oh, my! It was you,” I whispered, staring upward into his beautiful face.
The smile, so generous and rich, melted all my remaining fears with love.
Falling to his chest, he held me tight to him and his beating heart. He stroked away my tears, engulfed me in his love.
It was you! I smiled to myself.
I wanted to wilt at his feet in service to him as his slave. But he didn’t ask that of me now.
All in good time, I thought, as he led me from the dungeon, into the cellar, then up the stairs. All in good time.
THE PATIENT IN ROOM 435
From Nurse Nancy Misbehaves, Copyright ©, by Lizbeth Dusseau, all rights reserved
“Nurse McCarron,” the sexy Dr. Creighton addressed his pretty voluptuous nurse… his words dripping with lust—“while Nurse Thompson covers your shift, there’s a patient in room 435 who needs your attention. Go to his room, bend over and show him your ass. Tell him all the lurid details. Then let him know that you’re his to use. Whether you’re ready for a cock as large as his in your ass, we really don’t know.” The doctor, who had his hand on her behind, snaking its way into her anal cleft drove his fingers into her backdoor. “But you’ll find out tonight. Call it part of your punishment, and by all means,”—he paused because this was important for her remember—“seduce him. Show him a good time and love every minute. It seems to be what you do best.” The unexpected contempt in the doctor’s voice was disturbing. Not that she hadn’t heard the same tone from the other doctors; it bothered her more coming from this source. She didn’t understand what was behind it, what he wanted from her. Maybe this wasn’t supposed to make sense—it probably never would. Regardless, she felt like an utter failure in his eyes, nothing to him but a thing to abuse—which he did with a style that only made her want him more. She really wanted to be the good slut, the perfect slut, the perfect submissive. Impatiently, Dr. Creighton smacked her ass dismissively as he shooed her out. “Get going, the man’s waiting.”
She was tempted to look back, but she’d only communicate to him her desperate longing for him, which seemed to crowd out every other feeling. Better not let him know, not yet.
435… 435… she tried to remember who was in that room. But it had been several days since she’d been on that floor, and by now, the private room had probably changed patients. Like the rest of hospital at night, this floor was dimly lit and quiet. The nurse on duty had her back to her, as Nancy crept down the hall and stopped before room 435. Taking a deep, anxious breath, she silently slipped inside, immediately seeing that the privacy curtain was partially drawn. “Hello,” she quietly called, being afraid that she might startle a sleeping patient.
Hearing no response, she moved closer to the bed, at the moment, unaware that someone was moving in behind her. She pulled the curtain back just slightly. The bed empty! An intuitive tingle tickled the back of her neck, then raced down her spine. She stopped short.
“Don’t move. Don’t turn around,” she heard a man speaking. A familiar voice? Was that possible? She waited for him to say more, and when he didn’t, she recalled Dr. Creighton’s very specific orders.
“I’m supposed to show you my ass,” she told her unseen patient.
Again, when the man didn’t reply, she went ahead with her instructions. Bending over, she reached behind her and flipped the hem of her skirt over her bottom. A light from the outside window illuminated the setting, giving her fair ass cheeks a pale and pearly luminescent glow.
Remembering Dr. Creighton’s command, and wanting to do exactly what she was told, thinking that it might actually be Dr. Creighton behind her right now—if she weren’t only that lucky—she braced herself on the bed before her and began to sway her behind in a lurid fashion that would be hard for any man to resist. She massaged her cleft with the rolling movement of her legs and hips. If only she could turn around, she’d attract him with her breasts—always her favorite asset to expose. But following her orders to the letter, she used the twin mounds to entice her prey, and after a time reached back with one hand to massage her ass and all the tender places that had been so terribly abused. How they ached for attention!
While playing with her malleable flesh, she spoke in a sexy, hushed whisper, “Ooo my, I’m awfully hot… in fact, I think I’m about to cum.” She felt the impact of her words through her body. Oh, yes! A hard fuck was exactly what she needed now. “Ah, Sir, I’m yours to use. Pleeeeese, put your cock in me, please.” She could feel her bruised pussy start to spasm again—would it be disobeying orders if she came spontaneously? She hoped not; she so close to cumming that any second she expected the climax crash around her. Her undulating body looked like a cat on the prowl, a cat in heat, as her long legs continued to shift back and forth and her hips continued to roll. When the man finally reached out and touched her bottom, her entire body gasped. For a second, she was so dizzy, she was afraid she’d faint.
Nancy quickly regrouped, hissing sensuously, “Yes. Oh, just like that, yessss,” when the man began to massage her pussy and clit. His fingers traveled the length of her cleft, moving at will. Damn! She wanted to fuck! “Oh, please take me,” she encouraged her silent patient. Mimicking Dr. Creighton’s technique, he swathed her pussy in her own juices. Then running his wet fingers to her anus, he smeared the taut rosette in a gentle massage and began to probe the opening.
Oh, yes, she wanted to fuck. But anal sex? Her conflicting feelings had no resolution. But the more the man toyed with the tight entry, the less invasive the feeling was. Even though she dreaded the act, she remembered the instructions and begged him to use her. “I’ll bet you’d like to cum in my pretty ass,” she purred for him in a honey-coated twang. “It’s sooooo tight. Just think of my muscles squeezing your dick.” Her breathless urging was having its effect. She heard the rustling of his clothes, a zipper going down—this wasn’t a patient, that’s for certain—and then she felt the firm feel of a stiff cock against her ass. “Oh, yes, that’s it, darlin! Cum in me, stick that hot dick in my ass and fuck me hard. Yes, fuck me hard!”
By then, she almost believed herself. His fingering had opened her anus the way the anal plug did—but even more so. He scoured her deeply, lubricating her for that inevitable first thrust of his erection. When he finally pulled his fingers out, she shivered with fear, knowing what came next.
“Easy girl,” he spoke again in a quiet hush, a comforting hush that thrilled her almost as much as what he was doing to her behind. His cock was poised to strike; she could feel the head testing the opening. ‘Whether you’re ready for a cock as large as his in your ass, we really don’t know… But you’ll find out tonight.’ Dr. Creighton’s message echoed in her thoughts, as she imagined the size of the cock that was about to answer the pressing question. She envisioned something humongous, the kind that her pussy only liked when she was really really horny. Well, she was really really horny now, but in her ass? She quivered again from her neck to her toes.
Relax, she heard her inner voice. As she felt the stiff thing begin to slip inside the narrow hole, she finally forced her body to calm.
“Easy now,” the man spoke again, in a voice that continued to confound her, even though, she was almost sure who this ‘patient’ was.
As advertised, the man had a sizable erection; no doubt about that. The huge member inched its way beyond the opening, widening the channel to accommodate its generous size. Suddenly, her patient ended his unhurried entry and lunged forward until his entire dick was lodged in her ass.
“Oh, god, nooooooooo,” she gasped, pleadingly. She was sure the hurt would make her scream, and was about to cry. But then, to her bemusement, the impaling didn’t hurt, not the way she expected it to. Though it seemed as if he’d ripped her wide open, there was no pain, just an ungodly, unmanageable sensation. He began to move in her with the same in and out rhythms of vaginal sex. Something she was used to. But this was a selfish fuck, driven by the lust that commands men’s brains and transforms them into beasts. Yes, that was it! The fuck was beastly, abusive, like rape, like an invasion of her privacy, as if he were trying to assault her spirit, trying to own her, which, at the moment, he surely did.
Her insides felt as if they’d been pried open. Her sexual juices trickled down her thighs. Then her pussy spasmed, ejaculating a flood of liquid that dripped to the linoleum floor. She wanted to play with her sex, make it cum—just as the patient was going to cum. He must have known! Mercifully, he reached around, snaking his fingers toward her pussy hole. Finding the prize, he clutched her throbbing clit firmly between his fingers and the fucking picked up speed. While his dick pounded her in a merciless gait, she gave in to the wild mélange of sensations, realizing that that at any moment, they’d be cumming simultaneously.
“Yesssssssssss,” she hissed, sucking in air. “Fuck me harder!” she demanded, as if she was in charge. Heeding her command, her unseen lover pinched her clit tighter still and rammed her hard. With just a few more meaningful thrusts, she was cumming all over his hand, writhing her hips in a crazy dance, and squeezing the cum from his erection. At the moment of climax, he withdrew his fingers from her clit, and grabbed both of her ass cheeks in his hands. An instant later, he jetted a load deep into her channel. His guttural noises resounded in her ears. They made her spasm again, until he stopped hanging on, stopped ejaculating and finally withdrew his spent organ.
Nancy’s legs felt like rubber; her ass as if it was still wide open. A cool burst of air soothed her heated body, but not the throbbing sensation, which seemed to go on as if it would never stop. Feeling a bit dizzy, she collapsed forward onto the table.
Unfortunately, she had little time to recuperate before her assailant was barking commands.
“Clean up the mess, nurse, and pull yourself together. You’ve got work to do.”
“Yes, sir,” she immediately responded. She was certain… but not quite certain. The voice seemed to mutate every time he spoke to her—her memory was fuzzy, even her recent memory of Dr. Creighton’s voice. Could it have been Dr. Lyman, or Dr. Stone? Certainly, it wasn’t Dr. Merriman; his gravelly tone was distinctive—and it didn’t match this horny patient in 435. Yes, it could have been Dr. Creighton. Then again, it could have been a patient in street clothes, and not one of her doctors. Would they tell her the truth? Probably not.
Nancy’s ass hurt long after the fucking was over. She felt as though someone had scraped her insides, leaving the channel feeling as raw as the cleft of her ass felt from being spanked. But she was also more subdued, feeling calmer and more peaceful than she could recently remember. The discomfort that remained nurtured that state of being. This was a quiet feeling, a sensuous quiet that seemed to have climbed inside her bones and settled in like a cat settling in for a long nap.
She walked home at four that morning, her head still in the clouds, as she dreamily made the ten-block trip to her apartment. She wasn’t sure what possessed her to leave her car in the lot and take it on foot. Something about the early morning breeze she decided, perhaps, the bracing feel of something inherently cool on her flushed skin. Maybe it was a defense against that angry feel of her body begging to climax again. Like taking a cold shower, she was invigorated and revived, but not aroused when she finally turned the knob on her front door and let herself inside. The only thing that kept her from falling asleep right away was the gnawing need to know who the man was that took her ass. She knew who she wanted him to be. But just as surely as she fixated on that possibility, she’d find out she was wrong. What a disappointment that would be.
Caught in the Shower by Lizbeth Dusseau
From the novel: An Innocent Obsession (c) all rights reserved.
Steam billows from the bath, rolling like warm mist off the ocean. Leaning against the door frame, I stare through the shower stall at Alan’s body whitened by the fog. Rivers of water run down the glass, and down his thighs, and through the thick, dark hair on his chest and legs. Savoring his tight ass—like rounds of grapefruit I could pluck—my body quickens.
If he knew I was here, he’d invite me in.
So certain of that fact, I wander on tiptoe across the emerald-green tiles, inviting myself inside his shower. The door squeaks and he turns around, startled. Then his smile brightens as he sees the water soaking through my tee shirt. The sexy truth appears from beneath that clean, plain white. My broad aureoles bear lazy nipples at their centers—the buds tiny and teasable. These mounds look as though they are made of white cotton suspended on air inside my translucent shirt, floating toward him begging. I beg for what I want, wondering if he’ll accept the seduction or send me away. This is only the second time I’ve sneaked into his apartment and I worry that he’ll be mad.
With his scrotum in my fingers, I move the liquid sac across my palm as I stare into his brown eyes looking for approval. His cock begins to harden, throbbing rapidly to an erection, and then he tears away my nylon shorts, letting them drop like a wet rag to the shower floor. So, now he has my crotch in his hand, like I have his in mine—though his hand grabs while mine caresses. I don’t need more approval than that. Alan’s other hand squeezes my ass until I feel a painful, pleasurable surge of satisfaction, and slipping from his grasp, I drop to my knees, water falling from overhead like raindrops to drench everything still dry.
“Good bitch,” he says hissing, a hand running through my wet curls. I like him talking nasty, hearing the edge in his voice, as though he were demanding I serve him like a slave. I do this on instinct, the experience a natural one, as if my life were meant to be understood on my knees, gazing upward.
Now, my eyes rest on the organ beating at my face, as the swollen spear sticks up straight, pointing somewhere skyward. Wiggling into his crotch, his night musk lingers in the air about my nostrils and I breathe in its mysteries—he hasn’t yet washed the fragrance away.
He doesn’t smell clean, and I wonder where he was last night. And who he was with? Is that another woman’s perfume I sense, or did he just jack-off to porn? I smile thinking all these things, then swallow that smile as I swallow his cock. With my lips opening, the head glides inside. Drawing back the skin with my hand, my fingers slide along the stalk, moving up and down, while my tongue laps away the last of the salt and sweet cum I taste there.
He purrs hungrily as an animal would, winding his hands through my hair and pressing himself deeper down my throat. He’s anxious, wanting me as much as I want him.
We get to rocking inside this slippery stall, so hard he finally takes his hands away and grabs for the sides while I work the climax from him. Does he really understand how well I manage him? He thinks he’s in control, but I know better. So what if I have to do this from my knees, and listen to his crude conclusions about my soul when we’re not having sex.
I know he thinks I’m a whore, though he doesn’t have the guts to say so. It wouldn’t matter to me. I know what I am. Whore doesn’t fit, but the slut word does. I’d never take cash for what I do; if I can’t enjoy screwing my men without money then they aren’t worth my time.
In the center of this driving rainstorm of water, I taste something sweet; and although it quickly drowns away, there is the fresh sexual scent of him as he begins to erupt. I let the cum spurt down my throat, pulling it inside me as though I need it to live. I know my survival hinges on this. Hummm, sweet cream. Like I could nurse at this erection all day long. Were that so, I’d find one man and stick with him. But since the anatomy of my life doesn’t work that way, I keep moving from one man to the next.
“Get on the bed and stay on your knees,” he says while slapping my water-soaked face. Impishly crawling from the shower stall, I inch my way along the emerald tile and the dark carpet covering his bedroom floor. Scampering like a puppy to the top of his mattress, I wait, heinie waving like a red flag; cunt and everything else about me dripping wet. When he comes to me, ambling slowly from the bathroom toweling his face, I know he’s admiring my ripe flesh, almost wishing he hadn’t cum so soon. He would have liked poking that rod deep in my belly, shooting himself to the ends of the channel as though he were making babies. I’m surprised he even bothers with me now; once Alan’s had his fix, he rarely spends the time required to get me off.
Today, I’m lucky. He presses his hand at my snatch and begins to play. I know I don’t have long, but I only need a few quick moments until I’m far from the planet, mindlessly ecstatic. My randy home bursts. The muscles in me crunch down wishing for meat, but are content with a few deft fingers. I squeeze, bear down, squeeze more, and clench with my half-loaded pussy, while my ass grinds on air. His thumb moves higher, pressing at my anus. It’s too much to hope that this will be some drawn out venture. It’s come and gone in less than sixty seconds, but well worth that swaggering journey across his emerald tile.
“So, did I leave my door unlocked?” he asks.
“Un-huh,” I answer as I pull off my wet tee shirt and sit naked on his bed.
“What are you going to do about your clothes?”
“Borrow yours,” I conclude. “Or stay here long enough to use the dryer.”
“Can’t. I have a meeting in…” he consults the clock on nightstand, “in twenty minutes, Clarise.”
“Then a tee shirt and shorts will do.” Alan’s slim enough that we can share clothes; though, I’m sure it won’t be a habit—not with this man.
He stares warily my way.
“Come on, hon, I can’t go out of here like this,” I whine a bit.
“I think you look just fine,” he tells me smirking.
“Of course you would.”
I wait as he searches through his dresser and pulls out what I need. Blue nylon running shorts and a tee shirt from the Boston Marathon, 2005—faded but wearable. Might even improve my image.
“So, were you planning to seduce me, or was this an accident?” he asks.
“Sort of planning.”
“Of course, and I thought of you first.” I lie, and he probably knows this, but we’re not worried about that sort of thing. Lovers like us always lie. I think the ego stays intact better that way. I was actually thinking of Joseph this morning when I woke up, but he’s away on business for a week and I can never see him this early. Stockbrokers wait until the last bell sounds for sex. I have been hungering for him lately—more than the others, and I don’t understand why. He’s aloof, inconstant and sometimes brusque, while I treat him like royalty. Anyway, Alan, the book editor, had to do. He’s rarely ready for work before ten. Too bad he has a morning meeting or we might have done it right and spent an hour in bed.
“You look good,” he manages the compliment while I’m shaking out my hair. The curls are like little rivers, with the muddled colors of my streaked brown hair becoming more noticeable when they’re wet. When my hair is dry, it sort of floats together like it’s natural—as though I don’t spend hours with Ziggy, the hairdresser, getting it right.
I’m vain about just this one thing—my hair. If my body is a little plump by current standards, it doesn’t matter. I have a theory about bodies, that size doesn’t matter, or shape, or even comeliness. Only energy matters, form without substance is lifeless and can never be sexy. I know my form generates warmth, and that the look of everything about me—wild hair, full breasts, and a hip-rolling ass—turns men on. I have plenty of men—falling into relationships I don’t ask for as easily as walking down the street. They like how I look and even better how I feel. Choosing the ones I want, I go with men who alarm me, and make no promises.
“Thanks,” I say in the wake of Alan’s compliment. He hasn’t stopped staring and that’s an even better compliment. “And thanks for the unlocked door.”
“And if it hadn’t been?”
Sporting a cocky grin I say, “I would have waited until you were out of the shower.”
“Then I would have been late.”
“Then we would have had to fuck fast,” I rejoin smiling as I jump off his bed.
“This was fast,” he reminds me.
“But it was good,” I sway myself past him looking for my sandals.
“You’re always good, Clarise.”
“But try to keep a lid on this sort of stunt.”
“I mean not so often in the morning.”
“It’s only been twice.”
“And what if I’m here with another woman? That’s a strong possibility.”
“No. But I have other women and it could get awkward.”
“It doesn’t have to. I’d sidle up to both of you.”
“I wish,” he says disparagingly. “Women I date don’t do women.”
“How would you know, have you asked?”
“Trust me. They’d be giving up too much control.”
“Really? I would think that giving up control is what sex is about. Makes sense to me.”
“But not for some.”
I laugh. “Suppose that’s why you have me,” I quip while I’m starting for the door.
“Clarise,” he calls.
I turn back. “The office this week?”
“You have a message you want me to deliver?”
“I’m sure I can find one.”
We stop the banter there and I leave thinking it was a pretty good morning.
I’m always on a high and relaxed after good sex. My bicycle moves under me like I’m part of it. After great sex, I can’t ride at all, since I’m too removed and unfocused. That’s why quickies work during the day.
But for today, this is just what I need.
“Don’t” Please. Don’t Make Me! by Jo-Anne Wiley
Why hadn’t she gone home at six o’clock like she had originally planned. Well because there was one last e-mail to be answered and Angie liked to start her business day with a clean slate. She was just wrapping things up, ten after six, when her desk phone rang.
“Herb, I thought you’d be busy getting ready for the party.”
“I know… I know. But I’ve hit a snag, Angie. My fault. I just didn’t plan things too well. That’s all. But I’m glad I caught you. I need you to drop around to the house on your way home. I’m sorry; just didn’t plan things too well,” he repeated.
Alarms were going off between her ears: As shrill as any inside a fire hall. “It’s a bachelor party, Herb… a STAG! You don’t invite girls to a stag party!”
“No… no… no,” he tried to mollify her. “I just need help with the food.”
And now Angie was curled-up into the corner of the couch. She held one of Bernice’s cushions in her lap and tried to hide her nipples in the folds. She could have wished for a larger cushion.
What she wanted, was a really good cry, but that wouldn’t help right now. She needed to get dressed and get the hell outta here. Home! But someone had hidden her clothes. Her jacket was still there, hanging from the back of the bar stool. And her high heels lay upturned at the end of the coffee table. Angie groaned when she recalled how she had kicked them off just before climbing up to dance for the men.
God. It was almost midnight and she needed to call her husband:
“…hello dear… yes, well the reason I’m late… some of the guys from work wanted to fuck me. No big deal. Soon as I get dressed, I’ll be right along. There’s some leftovers in the fridge…”
Her cell phone was in her jacket pocket. And that was clear on the other side of the room. She would have to stand up and pass by the table where the men were playing poker. Right now, their attention was focused on the cards. But she feared that might change at the sight of her nude legs. Maybe she should risk it; just slip her shoes on, walk over to the bar, pull her jacket about her shoulders and leave, bare-assed. Unless she got stopped by a cop, she would be home-free! Sort of…
Angie figured she was safe to drive. The effect of the vodka that had given her misguided courage earlier, was wearing thin, leaving her cold and empty inside; empty except for the moisture that was leaking and leaving a sticky smear on the inside of her thigh; a dull reminder that she had fucked two of the men earlier.
Oh Lord, she thought, as the hazy memory began to solidify behind the solitude of closed eyes.
She didn’t know which two!
Angie looked about the room, trying to determine the identity of the guys she had serviced. And serviced was the word for it! She studied the men in turn but there was only one she could positively eliminate: Abe. He weighed in at close to two-hundred and fifty pounds. The guys in the bedroom were of average build. Angie massaged the eyelids with the balls of her thumbs and tried to make sense of the events that had turned her Friday evening into an unprecedented disaster.
She remembered she had gone upstairs to use the bathroom and someone had the gall to suggest that he be allowed to watch. She at least had the presence of mind to draw the line at water-sports. But who was it? Who wanted to watch her pee? As hard as she tried, Angie couldn’t remember his face. Maybe she had just sneered, without really looking; that must have been it.
When she had finished up in the bathroom and washed her hands, she stepped through the door and was surprised to find the hall lights had been extinguished. Angie remembered being jostled about in the darkness. Then went blank for a moment before finding herself flat on the carpet with someone hovering above her. Very close.
It had been so dark. A liquid black that defeated her attempts to focus. Angie searched with her fingers; felt the stout wooden leg and the frills hanging to the floor. It was a bed! She was on her back across the floor of a bedroom!
And there was a penis between her legs.
Lord help her, she hadn’t even heard his zipper drop, but he was already burrowing into the folds of her vagina; already in there with two fingers and the tip of his penis. She could feel them; moving.
Angie had a mild panic attack. Wasn’t she supposed to be fighting him off; with tooth and nail? Defending her virtue, not to mention her husband’s private domain?
But it was like the old tree in the forest, thing… if she couldn’t see the guy, couldn’t identify him, was he really there?
Was she really cheating on her husband? The rationalization reduced what she was doing down to an acceptable, though naughty, adventure. As innocent as flirting, or masturbating, even. Just that she didn’t have to plug in her vibrator.
Her husband couldn’t possibly object and she could relax and enjoy having her sex manipulated. Wonderful! She had justified fucking on her friend’s bedroom carpet like a common slut.
Somewhere in the back of her sodden mind, she realized the argument was ridiculous, but just then the guy removed his fingers and there was the long, unfaltering push. He stretched her pussy like a bull-headed trout, bulldozing up-stream. And any reservations she might have had, were pushed to the back of her subconscious as she consoled herself by spreading her legs wider. What the hell. The guy, whoever he was, was good!
He was long and smooth and so very nice and firm. Angie felt the pressure build and then the long deep slide as her body yielded. With her head swimming in premium vodka, she didn’t stop to think about her reputation, her self-respect, what he might pass on to her. Didn’t think of her husband waiting patiently at home. She didn’t even care who’s penis was stretching her vaginal canal. All she could think about was how good it felt to have her sex bullied about. To be probed deeply by a strange penis that belonged to a faceless man. She lifted her feet, shamelessly, so he could get all the way in and she had the satisfaction of hearing him exhale deeply when he bottomed-out. God, it had been so long…
His hands were low down and Angie lifted her hips so he could reach under and grip her bottom; a cheek in each hand. With the extra purchase, he moved with determination; driving forward again and again. It was a maddeningly beautiful rhythm. Fingers were fluttering about her breasts, bending and pulling at her nipples. She was startled. How could that be? The man she was fucking still held her low down. Slowly the realization dawned: they were not alone. There was a second man!
She recalled a girlfriend who once admitted she had slept with two men. Angie had been appalled and her friend had labeled her a “prude!” Now, in her thirty-ninth year, successful and happily married, she found herself lying naked, on the floor of her friend’s bedroom with two men. She went all delirious inside. She should have felt shame. But instead she was yearning.
Angie sensed the second man floating above her eyes and when she stretched inquiring fingers along the carpet, she discovered a knee positioned either side of her face. She felt the rhythm of his movement through the muscles of his thighs. And Angie detected the sound now, the steady thumbing of his hand above her. Did he expect that she would take him into her mouth? But before she could fathom an answer, the man she coupled, paused and leaned forward; lifted on his hands. Angie heard the quiet smack of his lips and the groan from the one above. She had always been curious: Two beautiful boys sharing. And now it was happening a scant two inches above the tip of her nose. And she couldn’t see a thing!
The penis moved inside again: Long, slow, if not somewhat distracted strokes. It was good. Very good. And if Angie could have unwound a little, pushed away the realization of what was happening, she could have had, maybe, a powerful orgasm. But she couldn’t relax. Not outright. Too much was happening; too much for her brain to process. She felt startled, jostled, her leg danced with nervous tension. She stared into the darkness, eyes wide and restlessly blinking. Her perception abruptly changed. God. She was being raped.
But before she could struggle, her partner faltered. Pushed deep and held. And he came.
When he had finished, he rolled to one side and the other man took his place. Angie held on and accepted the other penis.
My iPod was playing in the background, as I surfed the net. I had been checking out a few porn sites and came across one dedicated entirely to Femdom stories, videos and pictures. They peaked my interest a little. No, actually they excited me quite a lot. By the time I finished reading one about a young college guy who was tightly strapped over a bondage horse and having his ass brutally whipped, my cock was as hard as a fireplace poker and steadily dripped drops of per-cum. I read on, as he endured a savage beating from a beautiful woman clad in sexy black leather lingerie.
I pushed my jeans and underwear down to my knees and stroked my dick while I continued with the story. She used a long, thick leather strap to redden his ass and leave dozens of dark purple welts crisscrossing his butt. He screamed and yelled from the intense pain, but his cock was as hard as mine. As the intense whipping continued, he fought and struggled against his bonds, trying to escape the agonizing pain, yet wanting more. I imagined that it was me who was locked helplessly over that padded bench. I wanted to feel every stroke of her whip across my ass. I would have changed places with that guy in a heartbeat. My hand rubbed harder and faster, as the tawse painfully bruised and blistered his tender flesh over and over again. As his Mistress finished his brutal torture, my balls rumbled and roared, releasing their load. Gobs of steaming sperm shot from my hard cock. Long ribbons of creamy cum streamed from my long, throbbing shaft. The immense pleasure of my orgasm raged through me. It was far more intense than ever before. At that moment a profound lust for sexual pain and submission was permanently etched within my brain. I finally leaned back in my chair and caught my breath.
“Holy shit… I wonder where I can find a woman like that,” I asked myself.
After putting that story site into my favorites, I came across some pictures of a beautiful dominatrix who was looking for a slave to serve her. She wore a black leather bra and a tiny little thong. Her fishnet stockings were held up by a matching garter belt, and she wore really tall, stiletto-heeled boots. In her gloved hands was a cat o’ nine tails with vicious looking knots along each of its long, braided strands.
I eagerly studied every inch of that picture over and over. My God, she was magnificent. Finally I printed it out and hung it on the wall next to my bed. She was my Goddess. I was in love. Something came alive in me that night. I reread that story dozens of times and went to bed every night mesmerized by the picture of my perfect Mistress. I fantasized about being totally naked at her feet and feeling the agonizing, but pleasurable pain of her whip. I jerked off to her image and longed for what she had to offer. I wanted her. I dreamed of serving her. I would be her slave forever.
Hour after hour and day after day I read those stories and was drawn in ever deeper. I couldn’t get those thoughts and desires out of my mind. God, it seemed like I was living with a perpetual hard-on. Even dreams at night contained scenes of bondage and torture, and yet I wanted more.
Those thoughts filled my life, but it was going nowhere fast. Mornings were no better than my evenings. I had flunked out of college and was renting an older, furnished studio apartment by the month in downtown Albany. It wasn’t much, but it would do. I didn’t have a job, but I was eagerly looking for one. There was enough money left from my college loans to last for a few months if I was careful.
Every day I picked up the previous day’s newspaper from the convenience store down the street. The manager there saved it for me, so I could check the classifieds and look for a job. He told me he would give me some part time work as soon as a spot opened up.
During the day I went from store to store looking for work. I went to job fairs but never seemed to get a call. I remember someone once said that you should spend as much time looking for a job as you would working at one. I did. Looking for something was my job every day. After all, there was no way I wanted to go home and live off my parents. I couldn’t anyway. We didn’t get along and hadn’t spoken in months. It was constant. I filled out applications and checked on them every few days. I couldn’t understand it. Nothing seemed to work. I realized I had no experience and couldn’t even put together a decent resume. I was going nowhere fast.
I got some part time work at the McDonalds down the street. The manager knew I needed the job and didn’t have any money, so he let me eat some of the stuff that had been sitting around too long. They were going to throw it out anyway. Sometimes I ate well, and other times it was a little slim.
Nights I stayed home and read on my laptop. I didn’t have the money to do anything else. Luckily I was able to get free Wi-Fi from someone in the building.
One night an older woman, who lived on the first floor, stopped me when I came in. She needed some help. She had dropped some clothes over the back of her washer and couldn’t get them out. Of course I helped her, and she treated me to some homemade chocolate chip cookies and milk. As I ate, she noticed that my clothes were a little dirty and suggested I bring them down so she could wash them for me. I didn’t want to put her out, but she insisted. She knew I was desperate. I went upstairs and got them, and she put in my light colors. We talked for a while, as I emptied the plate of cookies. I was hungry, and I guess she was lonely. The first load was finished, so she threw my darks into the washer. It was a rather pleasant evening, and I had clean clothes without having to go to the laundromat. That costs a lot on money. A few days later I put on a clean pair of jeans and found a twenty dollar bill neatly tucked in the pocket. I knew where it came from. Mrs. Hansen became my guardian angel.
One afternoon I asked a cute little blond who worked at McDonalds with me if she wanted to go to the movies. I told her it wasn’t really a date, because I could only afford the movie. She laughed at me and walked away. That night I sat at my computer, read some more stories and later jerked off.
That month my cell phone was turned off and things just got worse. Now they couldn’t even call me for an interview. Finally Bob at the convenience store had me work on Saturday nights from four to eleven. It wasn’t much, but it helped.
There was a small television running in the office at the Stewart’s Shop. Between customers I saw a small segment here and there. I caught just the last bit of some controversy about people who advertise in the personal section on Craig’s List. I went back to the register and sold a guy a pack of Marlboros. He looked eighteen. Hell, he looked thirty, so I didn’t bother to check his age. Someone in the main office just happened to see me not check his ID on their surveillance camera. I lost my job over that one the next day. Bob was unhappy about it, but he didn’t have a choice. I wasn’t mad. It was my own damn fault.
A couple of nights later I decided to see what all the excitement was on Craig’s List. I clicked on the Personal Ads for Albany, NY.
There were dozens of ads for men looking for women, but very few where women were searching for a guy. Actually most of them were guys looking for guys. Then a different ad seemed to jump right out and grab me.
“Woman seeks young submissive male for fun with ropes, whips and paddles. I’m in my early 30’s – tall and slender and love to show off my sexy body in leather lingerie. No long term commitments, just an evening of exploring your limits. Call me at 518 four five five 6170. No $. Let’s talk.”
I read it over several times and looked at the picture that I had previously hung on my wall. Then I reached down and adjusted my jeans, as my cock began to grow.
“Fuck! I wish my phone worked.”
After writing down the number, I went back to reading stories and looking at pictures. I suddenly looked at the clock. It was 9:15. I had time. It only took me about ten minutes to walk to the convenience store. I figured I could borrow a phone for a couple of minutes if Jeff was working.
I smiled as I walked in, because he was there.
“Hey Jeff, can I use your cell phone for a minute? Mine got shut off.”
“Mind if I use it outside?”
“No, go ahead.”
I stepped outside and pushed the number. On the third ring she answered.
“Ah… ah… I just read your personal ad on Craig’s List.”
“Yes, are you interested?” she said in a real sexy voice.
“I think so.”
“You call me about being tied up and whipped, and you only think so? How old are you?”
“So what makes you think you can handle this kind of stuff? Do you like pain?”
“I’m not sure, but when I read stories about kneeling at a woman’s feet and being brutally whipped, I get… ah… ah… I get really hard.”
“Why not get a girlfriend and try some normal sex or just jerk off, if you’re that horny?”
“I have, but that’s not what I want. I need something else.”
“What do you want?”
“I want to… ah…. Look. I’m on a buddy’s cell phone. Mine was shut off. I flunked out of college and rent a small studio apartment off Henry Street. Can I email you or talk to you on webcam?”
“Sure. What’s your first name?”
“Do you have Skype?”
We exchange information. She said we’d talk around ten thirty.
I gave Jeff back his phone and thanked him.
“You get a job?” he asked.
Later I was in my meager, one room place when my computer beeped and started doing its thing. Suddenly she was there. I was mesmerized, as I saw her. She was beautiful. I could see her full breasts and her long blond hair. Yea, I’m a normal, well almost a normal male…. I noticed her round, full, upturned breasts before anything else.
“Wow,” she said. “I don’t know why you aren’t out fucking some hot young babe tonight instead of waiting for me.”
“Thank you, Mistress, but you have something to offer that those young girls don’t have.”
“Ah… whips and ropes and that kind of stuff.”
She chuckled. “Are you ready for what I have waiting for you?”
“Have you ever had a whip laid across your ass and felt that kind of pain?”
“No, but if you do it, I will gladly accept it.”
She laughed. “Once I start, there will be no escape.”
“I know. That’s the way I want it.”
“You’ve probably heard the expression, ‘Be careful what you wish for.’ I think Eminem and maybe even Daughtry did a song with those lyrics. They sang, ‘Be careful what you wish for – ‘cause you might get it all.’ Are you ready for all of it?”
“Remember, there is always the possibility of unforeseen and unpleasant consequences. Are you ready for those as well?”
“Let me warn you one more time – be careful what you wish for.”
“I will Mistress.”
“Then tell me everything that I should know about you.”
“Well, I’m 19 years old and have no future. I drank, drugged and screwed my way out of college.”
“No future? Everyone has a future. You just don’t know what it is yet.”
“Yea… well things aren’t going too well for me right now. I can’t find a job, and I’ve pretty much exhausted any money I have.”
“Things could always be worse?” she reminded me.
“I doubt it.”
“Well in spite of all that – describe yourself physically for me.”
“Ah… well I’ve got dirty blond hair and dark green eyes as you can see. I’m five foot ten and weigh about 150 pounds. I have always worked out, so I’m in really good shape, and I have a… ah… ah…,” I explained as I looked down.
“Go ahead. How big is it?”
“About eight inches.”
“Nice. What about family?”
“We don’t get along. I don’t speak to them and haven’t in several months. They have no idea where I am or what I’m doing, and they don’t care. Personally I don’t either. My mother’s too busy with her new boyfriend to even return my calls. She’s probably afraid I’ll ask her for money or something.”
“That’ll change some day.”
“Maybe, but I rather doubt it.”
“What about your dad?”
“I haven’t heard from him in six or seven years. He’s somewhere down south I think. Ran off with some young chick he’d been screwing.”
“Look, this is Wednesday. Come by Friday night at seven. I’d like to meet you and maybe play a little to see if this is what you really want to do. Let’s call it a trial run.”
“God, that’s great. Where do you want to meet?”
“Do you know where the Spectrum 8 Theater is on Delaware Street near the Medical Center?”
“Just a block from there is Hulbert Avenue. I run Rare Dragon Antiques just three stores up from the corner. Think you can find it?”
“Yea… I can.”
“Now listen closely. I want you to wear a dark colored, hooded sweat shirt and a pair of sweat pants with absolutely nothing on underneath. Take the bus and wear the hoodie up covering your head and face as much as possible. Can you do that?”
“Look, I don’t advertise or anything. I like to keep this part of my life a secret. Only those I invite know about my dominate side. I am a legitimate, respected business woman here in the city. So I expect the upmost privacy. Please don’t discuss this with anyone or let anyone know where you’re going. If anyone asks, tell them you have a date. I hope you understand.”
“Oh I do, Mistress,” I responded as my hard cock raged within my jeans. “I want this to remain a secret just between the two of us as well.”
“Will you do one other thing for me?”
“Anything…. What do you want Mistress?”
“Stand up and show me that big, beautiful cock.”
Without a thought I did as she asked. I unzipped my jeans and slowly pulled them down along with my underwear. By then my cock was already rock hard.
“Nice… really nice. Most guys would give their right nut for a cock that size.”
I blushed a little but smiled, knowing that size really does matter with most women.
The rest of the night was spent reading more stories of Femdom and slavery. I was so intrigued and just couldn’t get enough of it. God it made me so fucking hot. Finally about three in the morning I just jerked off to the picture on my wall and went to bed.
I found it impossible to sleep however. All I could think about was the guy in the story who got his ass beaten by his dominatrix. That was going to be me. I found her. After a while I drifted off.
Friday night couldn’t get here fast enough. That morning I decided to go down to see Mrs. Hansen about doing another load of laundry. I needed to wash my sweatshirt and sweatpants for tonight’s activities, so I took her a whole load of jeans and stuff. That was no problem; in fact she had even made me a pan of chocolate brownies.
Later in the afternoon I showered and got ready as if I was going out on a date. Finally it was time. I left my room with my key and just enough money for bus fare both ways. I did as she asked, wearing just the sweatshirt, sweatpants and sneakers, nothing more. I pulled the hoodie up over my head and hid deep in its dark folds. I didn’t want anyone to see me.
A fear of the unknown swept over me, as I got off the bus just up the street from the theater. Slowly I walked down the sidewalk until I reached Hulbert. It’s the third door up I told myself. Suddenly I was there. The antique shop loomed in front of me. My heart started to pound, and my cock was rock hard and ready. I think I was trembling with excitement.
I stood there for a few minutes more. Finally it was 7 o’clock. I sucked in a huge breath and entered her shop. A small bell hung on the door and rang as I walked in. I was a little scared. Moments later a gorgeous woman appeared, and all my fears disappeared.
“Nick… I presume?”
“Ah, ah… yes, Mistress.”
“Please come in. Let’s go on into the back rather than stay out here with all these big open windows.”
I followed her around a variety of well-used junk. There was that distinct stale smell of old hanging in the air. When we got in the next room, she turned and looked at me. Slowly she reached up and put my hood down with both of her hands. She smiled, as she looked deep into my eyes.
“You’re really cute,” she said as she ran her fingers through my shaggy hair.
I grinned and blushed a little.
“Thank you, Mistress.”
She was wearing a long black satin robe which she slowly opened in front of me.
I’m sure my jaw dropped open when I saw her. She was gorgeous. She was just as I imagined.
“What’s the matter Nick?”
She stood there in a black leather bra and….
“Holy fuck…,” I whispered.
“Isn’t this what you expected slave?”
“Oh God yes,” I said, as my hand reached out and lightly touched the soft leather of her garter belt where it came around her hip.
She took my hand and raised it up until I gently felt the smooth leather that barely covered her firm breast. She watched my every expression before she spoke.
“Now it’s your turn. Off with those sweats so I can see what you’re so proud of.”
I never hesitated and anxiously pulled my sweatshirt over my head, tossing it into a nearby chair. She ran her hands over my hairless chest and circled my small nipples. Her fingers soon reached the waist band of my sweatpants and slowly pushed them down over my hips. She laughed as the soft material caught onto my fully erect cock.
“Do I excite you a little slave?”
“Yes, Mistress… a lot.”
“I see that. I’m glad. If I didn’t, I’d be really upset.”
She ran her hands up and down the entire length of my hard organ a couple of times.
Moments later I was standing before this magnificent Goddess totally naked. I really thought I would have been a little reluctant to be here like this, but something stirred within me. I wasn’t bashful in the least. My balls churned, and my cock throbbed in anticipation. Small droplets of pre-cum glistened on its tip. I stood there submissively with my head down a little and waited. I wondered if I should get down on my knees. I was ready to be her slave.
She walked slowly around me sort of surveying the merchandise. Her hand ran across my ass cheeks. I tightened them just a little. She chuckled. After completing her little circle, she reached down and hefted my rather small balls. They aren’t huge and hang way down like a lot of guys, but everyone is a little different I thought.
“You don’t shave anything do you?”
“I like that… just naturally blond and with hardly any body hair at all. If it wasn’t for this long, hard, magnificent cock, I’d think you were only about twelve years old. But this monster,” she chuckled, as she ran her hand up the length of my shaft once more, “makes all the difference doesn’t it?”
“I wonder why you aren’t out having some young, sweet little pussy dancing on the end of this beauty tonight instead of standing here naked with a woman nearly twice your age.
“Are you gay?”
“No, Mistress, definitely not.”
“I knew you weren’t when you got so hard so quick just looking at me and my leather outfit, but I had to ask.”
She stepped off to the side and picked up something from a small table.
As I did, she grabbed my wrist and snapped a handcuff around it. I could feel the cold steel and hear the ratcheted sound as it closed snuggly against my flesh. My balls rumbled, and my cock throbbed even harder from the excitement of that moment. I reached around with my other hand eager to become her captive. She laughed and fumbled with the cuffs for a moment or two and then turned me back around.
“I fixed the double locks. That way they can’t get any tighter and cut off your circulation. You never know what position or where you might end up before the night is out.”
Then I smiled. “I’m yours to do with as you please Mistress.”
“Oh I will, now on your knees slave.”
Immediately I sank to the floor before her. Her leather clad pussy was right there in front of me. I stared at the folds of smooth leather that disappeared into the junction of her legs. I could smell the intoxicating mixture of the leather and her sex. Slowly she slid her tiny leather thong down over her hips and then spread her legs a little once it was off. A very narrow strip of dark hair led my eyes to her moist lips.
I looked up at her and then back down to her waiting pussy.
“Normally I would have never let you even see me at this point. You would have had to lick my boots and serve me for many months to prove that you are worthy, but I’m especially horny tonight. Lick my pussy slave, because it will be the last one you will see for a long, long time.”
My head was pushed back as she pulled me between her widely spread legs. I pushed in a little deeper, so my tongue could explore every inch of her moist pouting lips. She eased forward a little more and worked her pussy over my face, as the lust surged through her. I could smell her scent and taste her passion. I wanted her.
I was hot as well. My cock throbbed and pulsated with every heartbeat, as I continued to serve her. I think she was as excited as I was, having a young stud between her thighs. My tongue worked deep within her moist pussy, and my nose rubbed her ever-hardening clit. I licked and sucked and savored her sweet nether lips continuing to worship her. Finally I worked up until I could latch on to that erect little button with my lips.
“Slow down slave. Take your time. Enjoy it while you can,” she whispered.
I moved back down and ran my tongue in and out of her love tunnel. I tongue fucked her for several minutes before moving on. Finally I slid back up to her special spot. She put her hands on the back of my head and held me there. I covered my teeth with my lips and sucked her clit between them. I worked my tongue over that hard bundle of nerves for a couple of minutes. Finally after a few more brutal lashes with my tongue, she moaned with pleasure. Her girl cum gushed from her sweet pussy, as she came over and over again, drenching my lips with her musky offering. I savored every drop of it, as she moaned and cooed. I never stopped my eager assault. I licked and sucked and worked my mouth over her hungry pussy, as she screamed with unending pleasure. Her orgasms roared through her, one after another.
Finally she stepped back but continued taking long, deep breaths.
“Holy shit! For a young guy you’re really good at that. You must have had lots of practice doing that while at college. I bet you made a lot of girls really happy.”
I smiled, as she stepped back and pulled her little thong back up covering that beautiful treasure. Then she reached around and picked up something else from the table.
“Open wide slave.”
I opened my mouth, and a large red ball gag was wedged between my teeth. It filled my mouth as the leather straps were pulled around behind my head and buckled tight.
Then she reached over to the table and picked up a second set of cuffs. They were much heavier with a short, six inch length of chain between them. These were closed snuggly around each of my ankles.
“Now turn around a little and bend over this table,” she said as she picked up a thin riding crop.
As I did, she continued, “I’m going to give you a dozen hard lashes with this crop across your ass. Have you ever been whipped before?”
I was a little scared, as I shook my head back and forth.
“You have to pay for the pleasure you just had. Since you don’t have any money, you’ll pay with a little pain. That’s why you came here though isn’t it? You want the pain.”
My head nodded up and down a little, as I tried to mumble, “Yes.”
She ran her hand across my unblemished globes. They were smooth and ready for her to decorate with dark red stripes and thick purple welts. My bottom was a blank canvas for her to paint in black and blue. I was ready. I wanted it.
I heard the swish of her whip, as it came around and slammed across both of my ass cheeks.
“M – m – m….”
“That hurt slave?”
I nodded my head up and down and tried to mumble through the gag.
“Do you want more?”
Eagerly I nodded yes once more.
Another line of pain sizzled across my ass. God it hurt. It cut deep into my flesh, but I never made a sound. Again she brought the whip around and left another deep red welt just below the last one. Its fire burned across my butt. As she continued whipping me, the intensity increased. Each one hurt more than the last, but I was determined to take it. I never made a sound as the ninth and tenth lashes fell hard. The eleventh one went diagonally across both cheeks with even more force than the others.
“M – m….”
The last one was the worse. It landed in that crease where my ass meets my thighs. My cheeks clenched tight, and I moaned once more.
“Is that what you expected?”
I didn’t know how to answer. I really wanted more. I wanted to be fastened to some bondage bench and whipped some more. Finally I shook my head up and down as the throbbing continued.
She chuckled as she reached between my legs. My cock was fully engorged with hot sex-charged lust and desire. It begged for more. I looked up at her as she smiled. I think she was impressed by the way I took her whipping.
“Did you like that slave?”
I nodded my head up and down.
“Do you want more?”
As I indicated my desire, the moment was shattered. We both heard the bell on the front door of her shop jingle. Someone entered.
“Shit!” she said. “I must have forgotten to lock the door and turned the open sign around. I’m sorry. Don’t move or go anywhere. I’ll be right back.”
Yea, chained up like this and being totally naked, I’m going to run right out in the street, I thought to myself. Of course I’d wait for her. I wanted more of her – much more.
“Just a minute,” she yelled. “I’ll be right out.”
“Take your time,” some man replied. “I’ll just look around a little. You never know what special thing you have here that I might be able to take home with me.”
Then she turned to me. “I’m going to borrow these.” Quickly she slipped into my sweats to cover herself up and went out into her shop. I could hear them talking.
“Oh Mr. Mueller… I didn’t expect you quite so early.”
“Well, I was in the area and saw the lights on, so I thought I’d stop in. Is there any possibility of picking up my newest acquisition tonight?”
“I guess so, but you’ll have to give me a minute or two to get it boxed. Look around. I’ll be back in a little bit.”
“Please take your time. There’s really no big hurry, even though I’m really quite excited to see it,” he added.
She came back to where I was and whispered to me.
“Quick! Get in here Nick and don’t make a sound. He’s after something rather special,” she explained, as she opened the top of a heavy wooden box.
Being securely locked in both ankle and handcuffs, it was a little difficult, but she helped me climb in, so I could hide. The box was actually quite small, so I lay down on my side in a tight fetal position in order to fit in. It was really dark as she closed down the lid.
Soon they were both in the room right next to me talking.
“So,” he asked. “Is this one going to make me happy?”
“Oh without a doubt. I think he’s absolutely perfect. He’s exactly what you are looking for. Possibly even better.”
“Can I see him?”
“Of course Franz… he’s right in here.”
Suddenly the top of my hiding place opened, and I looked up in total surprise. Instantly our eyes met, and a strange sensation rushed through me.
“Very nice,” he said, as the top was again closed. “I think he’ll do just fine.” Then I heard some sort of latches on my box, and the click of two locks.
“No! Let me out of here,” I yelled unheard because of the gag, as I tried to move.
Immediately a feeling of overwhelming panic enveloped me. I knew I was in deep shit. There was no doubt in my mind. I tried to get up and push my way out of the box, but I couldn’t move. My hands and feet were locked in unyielding chains. The box was way too strong and locked securely shut. I screamed and yelled, but the gag kept most of my sounds inside. Finally I quieted down and lay there wondering what had just happened.
It was nearly pitch black inside the shipping crate except for a few thin steams of light that came in through the small holes that would allow me to breathe. I quickly realized that there was no possible escape. I was doomed to whatever lay ahead.
“He’s younger than I thought you would find.”
“As I told you on the phone yesterday… he’s only 19 and absolutely perfect. There are no family ties, no job and no one will realize he’s missing for several months or more. I’ll send someone to get anything important from his room tomorrow, and he will completely vanish without a trace. That’s why I told you I needed a premium price – twenty-five thousand in cash.”
I can’t believe what just happened. I’ve just allowed myself to be kidnapped. I willingly came to her for a night of bondage and fell right into a trap. I even got into this tiny box without a struggle. I pushed and shoved and fought as hard as I could once more, but it was impossible to get loose. I was stuck in this fucking crate until he decides to let me out. I screamed for help, but it didn’t do any good. No one could hear me. There was no help for me.
I could hear the muffled sounds, as the transaction took place. The money was counted, and the deal was finalized. I had just been sold. I had just become his property. I guess I would be his slave instead of hers. That scared me. It scared me a lot.
After a while I felt the crate move. I think I was put on a dolly or something, as my box shook and bounced along. There were a few sudden jars and jolts. I was obviously taken down the front steps of the building. Right there in front of anyone who might be watching, I was taken away. Then there was one more solid, bone-jarring thud before I heard a motor start. I was in a vehicle, heading somewhere into the unknown. At that moment I realized my life would never be the same again.
She was right. No one will miss me. If she sent someone to get my computer from my apartment, there would be no trace of me ever. I will have just vanished from the face of the earth.
Why would someone pay that much money for another person? That thought bounced around in my brain for quite some time. Why was I worth $25,000?
I was running all kinds of thoughts through my mind, when I remembered something she said, as I knelt between her thighs, “Lick my pussy slave, because it will be the last one you will see for a long, long time.”
She had asked me earlier if I was gay. Suddenly I got a bad feeling. The guy who just bought me is obviously gay. He was looking for a young submissive male, and it turned out to be me. I realized that I wouldn’t be eating any pussy in the future. I wouldn’t be fucking any young, cute college girls either. I would be sucking cock and probably taking his dick up my ass. I’m the one who would be fucked. There was no doubt in my mind that I just became the sex slave of a goddamn faggot.
Again I fought as hard as I could to free myself from this fucking crate and the future that lay ahead, but it was no use. I was doomed to a new life. There was no escape.
“N – o – o – o – o….” I screamed. “N – o – o – o….”
Then something else flashed through my brain. She told me something the first time we spoke. It was something about “the possibility of unforeseen and unpleasant consequences.”
I told her I was ready for those, but now I’m having different thoughts. I have heard about people on the internet who are not who they say they are. Was I that naïve? I never gave anything like that a thought. After all, it couldn’t happen to me. Who would think of being abducted as a sex slave for some gay guy while answering an ad on Craig’s List for a female dominatrix? Maybe Craig’s List really does have a few problems. The ad said “an evening of fun with chains, whips and paddles… no long term commitments.” Like everything else, it was a lie. Oh I’m sure the part about “looking for a young, submissive male” was accurate, but where’s a lifetime of slavery fit in to that listing? That sounds like a pretty long term commitment to me. And serving a man for God’s sake!
Then I realized I had missed another monumental clue back when we were first talking on Skype. She told me about being discrete and not telling anyone where I was going. She said she didn’t advertise. That’s fucking bull shit. That fact never registered. Hell, I found her because of her ad on the internet. She strung me along – telling me just what I wanted to hear. Maybe I didn’t want to know the truth. I wanted to serve a Mistress.
I guess I was wrong when I told her that I had no future. It isn’t what I had planned, but I guess I have one now.
The Blue Butterfly by Don Julian Winslow
Raynard took his place in the big chair before which Gratia now stood waiting. He smiled to see that she had dressed as he told her to, in that tailored business suit, the same outfit she wore the day they first met: the pencil skirt and silky blouse under the trim fitted jacket; the gleaming patent leather pumps. He took his time, taking in those lengthy legs encased in shimmering black nylons, pausing to admire those feminine lines and handsome features: the classic high cheekbones, the generous lips set now in a tight, tense line. She stood looking down at him, and their eyes met: hers, large and expressive eyes; deep brown eyes that were anxious with neurotic energy, yet bright with the anticipation she felt keenly rising up in her.
“Come here, closer,” he muttered. He watched the pointed shoes take a step forward on the deep pile carpet. He looked up at her.
Suddenly she felt him tense and straighten up, and she turned to look over her shoulder to see Katerina standing in the doorway — imperious Katerina looking down on them in that characteristic pose of hers: hands on hips, her long tapering torso now encased in the black armor of the tight bustier. She made an imposing figure, tall legs set apart in a widened stance, shimmering black stockings held in place halfway up her long thighs by the elastic stays, and sleek boots of gleaming leather with wicked stiletto heels.
In her right gloved hand she held the paddle they had purchased earlier that day, and the ruthless determination of her hard lean features made it clear, that this was no longer a sisterly shopping companion.
I watched the parade without much interest as it made its way slowly by, when a creaking wagon came into view and with it a particularly rare prize. The jogging cage held a statuesque blonde. This must be a captive from the Northern peoples, I realized, a rare Teuton to be sure, as I recognized the striking Nordic features that Gaius had once described to me in such loving detail. This Germanic beauty was impressively tall, regal in bearing, and elegantly made, she stood with cold blue eyes looking out over the crowd, eyes that were remote and unblinking. Mostly the favored captives who found themselves so displayed in the tall wooden cages would shrink back to huddle in a far corner averting their eyes, or they might squat down studying the planks on the floor with head held low in the utter shame of defeat. But this woman did no such thing!
She stood there boldly, defiantly facing her Roman enemies, strong legs set in a widened stance as though to compensate for the roll of the wagon. Her hands clasped the bars at either side of her pale face, as she stood regarding with icy contempt those who would seek to subdue her.