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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.