Communications Skills 4: Lip Service

Communication Skills, Part IV: Lip Service
(Sequel to Communications Skills, Fitting Treatment and Dressed and Redressed)

The slave girls who had emerged from the shadows upon Grahame's command fitted me with black leather wrist cuffs to match my ankle cuffs and collar. What the well-dressed slave is wearing this year, I mused. Then I watched him walk over to Ms. Catsuit and whisper something into her ear, gently grazing her cheek with the back of his hand, as if to remind her of a tenderness that had existed between them long ago. I yearned for that warmth to exist between the he and I, but based on his recent reaction to my oral skills, I knew that it would be a long time in coming. He glanced over and saw me observing him. He looked almost amused.

"Eyes down!" he ordered.

I lowered my gaze, but still felt the flush of anger and yearning in my cheeks. Why wasn't I enough for him?

Ms. Catsuit snapped her fingers twice and the three slave girls started to lead me away, for whatever "preparations" Grahame had pre-ordered. I felt a sudden chill, unsure if it was because I was nervous of what lay ahead or because I was wearing nothing other than a corset, cuffs, a collar and my own pair of stiletto heels.

"Wait!" he commanded.

My eyes still cast downwards, I felt the tug on my leash slacken as my "escorts" halted our departure from the room where I had just been displayed and humiliated for Grahame's amusement and apparently, for my own edification. He walked up and bent slightly to whisper in my ear, his warm breath sending shivers down my spine. I ached to reach out and wrap my arms around his neck, kiss him deeply, beg him to take me somewhere private where we could be alone, to play and to talk. But his business-like tone of voice warned me that this would not be the time.

"Dana, I've got some things that I have to take care of at work. I'm going to leave you here, under the care of these lovely ladies. Just do exactly as you're told and you'll be fine. Disobey and they've been given detailed instructions on how to handle your insurrections, as I might if we were alone. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Grahame," I answered.

"It's Sir, always Sir," he corrected softly. "First names are for equals, dear." And then there were just footsteps and the click of the door. I felt my heart sink.

"Come," one of the women said. "We're going to get you ready."

"Ready for what?" I shot back.

The girls giggled and then pulled on the leash. There were four in our little 'slave pack'--Marcelle, the Caucasian girl in the lead, myself, Kiana, the Asian girl to my left and the Nigerian, who introduced herself as Katura, bringing up the rear, so to speak. They opened a door and led me into a much brighter space, white tiles, mirrors, showers, a large whirlpool bath--just like the type of locker room you'd expect at an upscale spa. Marcelle started to unbuckle my collar as the other two girls each bent down at my sides, removing my wrist and ankle cuffs and my shoes. Last to go was my corset. I felt strange without them, as if they somehow belonged on me now.

There was silence other than the gurgle of water as they filled the whirlpool, adding bath salts and rosebuds to the mix. The room smelled divine. "Get in," Marcelle invited, her words betraying the hint of a French accent. I climbed into the tub, eager to feel the warm water comforting my newly bruised and welted skin. A moment of pure luxury, perfect until I noticed Marcelle taking off the little she was wearing, revealing one of the most exquisite bodies I'd ever seen. I stared, silently cursing myself for all the times I'd broken my diet and exercise routine. Then I noticed that she was joining me in the bath, soft soap in one hand, and washcloth in the other.

"What are you doing?" I asked, noticeably uncomfortable.

"You relax. You've been through a lot this morning. I'm going to wash you."

"That's okay, I can do that myself," I protested. I wasn't used to all this attention, especially from another woman. I didn't 'do' women, even though I'd been approached in the past, especially online.

"Miss Dana, it's my job. If I don't fulfill my assignments, the Mistress will beat me. Please allow me to do as I've been told," she implored.

I relented. I didn't want to see her receive the treatment I'd just suffered, especially for doing nothing more than her job. I closed my eyes and pretended I was royalty, Cleopatra perhaps, and that I thought nothing of having a beautiful slave girl caress each of my limbs, my torso, my most private crevices, as part of her everyday chores. I felt myself slip into an almost trancelike state as she did her duty. As the washcloth traced each welt, I relived the moment I had received it, and felt a deep desire for Grahame to touch me there, the two of us finally alone.

After completing the bath and shampooing my hair, the other slaves assisted Marcelle in toweling me dry, fitting me with terrycloth robe and slippers and leading me into a second room, more of a beauty parlor, where the they blew out my hair, reapplied my makeup and gave me a foot massage and pedicure. Then Katura and Kiana left, leaving me alone with Marcelle, who proceeded to give me a manicure.

"I'd never wear that color," I said, referring to a garish red she had on the table, along with the emery boards, soaking dish and other manicure tools. "Do you have something a little less…bright?" I meant less whorish but I didn't want to offend, since I noticed that Marcelle herself was wearing a similar color on her nails.

"I'm sorry, Master's orders," she answered and continued on with her duties. That was that, apparently.

I studied her as she soaked my fingers and shaped my nails. So beautiful, apparently well spoken, seemingly smart. What was someone like that be doing here, using her brain for nothing more than obeying the orders of various Masters and Mistresses? My imagination hijacked my thoughts; I pictured the whole scene—a naïve, teen-age Marcelle, lured from her native France by some seemingly sophisticated American businessman who promised her fame and fortune modeling in America. Once here though, she found herself forced into slavery, washing dungeon floors until she came of age, at which time she became a sexual slave as well. And here she sat before me, alone, frightened, and worst of all, unaware of the opportunities that existed for women in the real world, outside this fetish shop-cum-dungeon-cum-spa.

Here was my chance to make a difference in her world!

"So, Marcelle…" I started, almost whispering so I didn't risk putting her in danger. "Have you ever thought about leaving this place?"

"Oh, no, Ma'am."

"But you're so beautiful, I'm sure you could get a real job," I continued, my voice still low. "I'm a journalist so I have connections in a number of fields. If you were interested, I'm sure I could help."

"You are funny," She laughed loudly, splitting her attention between cutting my cuticles and answering my question. "You're actually the first to try and liberate me! Most who come here just accept that a woman's position is that of her Master's or Mistress' making. Why do you not see this as a real job?"

"Do you get paid for it?" I asked.

"There are rewards greater than money, you know. You're new to this, it's clear. You don't understand yet."

" I don't understand? Understand what?" I asked, a bit taken back that she wasn't eager to jump ship.

"You think that because you read Ms. Magazine and belonged to NOW growing up, that a woman always wants to be treated as an equal by a man. It's not that way for all women though. Certainly not that way for us."

"Us?" I repeated, trying to fathom why anyone would want to be kept underfoot. A sex game was one thing but this was real life.

"Us. The women in the 'life'. What the Women's Rights Movement gave us was the ability to make our own choices. Fine. My choice is to be the property of my Master, to do as he commands. The truth is, I normally work uptown. But my schedule is flexible and my Master requires me to work here twice or three times a week. He says that it reminds me of where I belong. And of course, he's right."

"Are you a secretary there? Or a receptionist?" I asked, figuring that perhaps working here appealed since it was a break from the doldrums of typing and making coffee.

"No, actually I teach biochemistry at Columbia," she answered.

She acknowledged my look of incredulity with an air of amusement but didn't comment.

"You teach science at an Ivy League college and yet you choose to be here, constantly at someone else's beck and call?" I asked, stunned.

"Yes. It soothes my soul," she answered dryly as she walked me to a seat in front of a contraption that heated my fingertips with ultraviolet light and fanned them to a glossy finish. "Perhaps one day, if you meet each of your Master's requirements with acceptance rather than protest, your soul will also be soothed and you will understand. I wish that for you. Truly." And with that, she walked away.

A few minutes later, the bell rang, indicating that my nails were dry. As if summoned by the sound, all three girls reappeared and led me, clean, coiffed and confused by my encounter with Marcelle, to a third room, this one even smaller, dimly lit, with classical music playing softly in the background. I stood for a moment studying my new surroundings. The room was mirrored on all sides as well as on the ceiling and the only piece of furniture was a massage table, set up in the middle of the floor. This massage table was different than any I'd ever seen; it was larger than most and had eyehooks all around the edges of the mattress as well as around the padded opening toward the top, apparently set up so you could rest your head comfortably without restricting your breath. The girls tried to lead me to the table but I held back.

"What now?" I wavered, fear of the unknown creeping into my voice again.

"Nothing bad," assured Kiana in a whisper, pushing me forward. "Just some massaging, some kneading, some stretching. Just as Master Gaines ordered. Relax!"

As they lay me down, face down, they pulled my arms forward past my head and clipped them into place and spread my legs about 18 inches apart and where the girls' hands held them into place. My head went over the padded opening and my collar was secured as well. Unable to even turn my head from side to side, I could see nothing but the floor, and that left me very uneasy. Though I was comfortable, it was also clear that I had no choice but to stay put until they decided otherwise.

The massage began. To my surprise and relief, it was like any other massage I'd ever had, except that five pairs of hands were working me at once, one on each leg, one on each arm, and one covering my shoulders and back. Any area that wasn't hidden under a collar or restraint was kneading and soothed with warm oil, easing out the kinks. After about five minutes, I relaxed and gave myself up to the pleasure of it all.

After about 15 minutes, I heard Ms. Catsuit enter the room, her stilettos giving her identity away, and simultaneously bringing an end to my massage. Hands were repositioned to my thighs and ankles, again restraining me and forcing my legs apart.

"Well, Dana, how do you feel now? Properly relaxed for your Master, are we?" she asked in her Dutch accent.

"Yes, Ma'am." I'd almost forgotten about the wrist restraints. I pulled at them now, testing them. There was no give. The same was true with my legs; the girls' grip was stronger than I had imagined.

"Ah good. Time for some stretching then," she said wryly.

Working with the girls' assistance, I felt her brusquely attach some straps around my hips and then ran something that felt like a hard piece of plastic through my crotch, opening up my labial lips, so that it was positioned right on my clit. It pinched my lips a little, prompting me to try and wriggle to reposition it but my efforts were useless. Then I felt something much bigger slowly being pushed up into my cunt. I instantly tensed, making its path even more narrow and painful, as I bucked against the girls' hold on me.

"Stop, oh God, stop!" I begged, unaccustomed to the feeling of a dildo inside me, no matter how lubed it might be. My words were ignored. I tried desperately to jerk away and force it out but I felt her attach something else through my crotch and over my hips that secured it into place; I assume it was a harness of sorts. Apparently, there was to be escape from the dildo tearing my cunt open or the plastic apparatus covering my clit.

"Oh, I wouldn't bother about that, Dana," the Mistress said, acknowledging my attempts to escape the intrusion. "That's going to provide you with the pleasant part of this exercise.

Then the girls attached my ankle restraints to the eyeholes on the table. I tested the hold, and sighed with relief when I realized they hadn't attached my legs too tightly. There was definitely some give there, some wriggle room. But I had sighed too soon. Ms. Catsuit snapped her fingers and I heard one slave walk to my left side. Together they lifted me up by my hips while the third slipped what felt like a large bolster underneath, lifting my ass up and outwards. Not only was the position awkward, but also any slack my legs had once had was gone. My body strained uncomfortably against the bolster as I heard the slaves leave the room.

"Now, down to business," continued Ms. Catsuit. "Master Grahame has asked me to ask you something. Truth only, do you understand? For your own sake."

"Yes, Ma'am," I grunted, the dildo in my cunt causing me considerable agony.

"Have you ever been sodomized, Dana?"

My body automatically tried to lurch in response to the image that question evoked, but the bolster and restraints kept it securely in place. I suddenly realized that my back and cunt were not the only exceptionally vulnerable parts of my body. My ass was totally exposed, offered up in sacrifice, in fact, and I couldn't do anything to defend it.

"I asked you a question. Answer!" she demanded.

"Y-Y-Yes, Ma'am. If you're asking if I've had anal sex, then yes. But it was a long time ago and…"

"How big was he, Dana?" she interrupted, uninterested in my explanations.

"I-I-I don't remember. Average size, I guess…but I really didn't enj…"

"Quiet!" she barked. I obeyed.

"Hit the table three times Dana, with your left hand."

Confused, I did as she asked.

"That's your safe signal. If you want things to end, that's what you need to do. Remember though, safe signaling will have the same ramifications as safwording. Everything will stop and you'll be free to go. But Master Grahame wanted me to remind you that safe signaling will also mean that once you leave this place, you will never see or hear from him again. Understood?"

"Yes, Ma'am," I answered, tears starting to well in my eyes. I had a feeling I knew what was coming.

Sure enough, Marcelle suddenly came into my vision, a leather phallic gag in her hand. "Shhh," she whispered, warning me against crying or resisting. "This can go so much easier for you if you just relax. Believe me, I've been there! Now open wide. She'll cane the both of us for any delays, you know."

I considered my choice: either the radiating anguish of the cane that I had endured only about an hour earlier, or a revisiting of the terror of being totally out of control, now losing my voice as well as the use of my arms, legs and vision. Then I realized that there wasn't a choice. I could take the gag or I would take both. Reluctantly, I opened my mouth and she pushed the leather penis inside, pushing the straps up either side of my head so they could be attached from above. As my eyes filled with tears and resignation, she gave me a wink and disappeared from sight.

"Two holes filled, time for a third," chirped Ms. Catsuit. It was the happiest I'd heard her this entire morning. "You must be stretched for your Master's pleasure, Dana. Nothing must impede his pleasure of your body, least of all an unaccommodating cunt or asshole. We'll use a dildo one size larger than an average cock. Understood?"

I grunted in agreement, my mouth stretched and filled with the acrid taste of leather.

"Here's what's going to happen, Dana," she continued. "I will strap on a 7" cock, lube it up and give you 100 strokes. As I'm raping your ass, I'll also remotely switch on the vibrator that's resting on your clit. That way, you'll have some pleasure mixed with your pain, an important association for you to experience. Now, if the pain becomes too much to take, you can signal me to stop your rape. To do that, you must hit the table once. Do that now for me, please."

I did as she asked, at least relieved that I had some power in this exercise.

"Very good. When you hit the table, I will take a one-minute break, but the vibrator will also stop, and won't be turned on again until after the next five strokes when I resume. Pure intrusion, no pleasure. Your penalty for the delay. Understood?"

Again, I grunted in the affirmative.

"The amount of your discomfort will be directly tied to how hard you resist the cock. Accept its path, accept that you must endure this to better pleasure your Master and you'll fare much better."

I heard her move around a bit and I pictured her putting on the strap-on and lubing it up. I'd had even less experience with this than I'd had with a dildo but I kept trying to force my sphincter muscles to relax. I heard her climb onto the table and felt the leather member at the tip of my anus as she mounted me. I wanted to grit my teeth to brace myself but even that privilege had been stripped from me by the gag. I dug my nails into the mattress instead.

She turned the vibrator on low. Ripples of pleasure began to invade my cunt but before I could focus on it, she plunged her cock into my asshole, no gentle introduction to my torture as I felt it rip me apart. "One." The voice was familiar; I realized that Grahame must have returned and was watching my ordeal from behind what must have been one-way mirrors, counting my torture through a microphone. Ms. Catsuit's plunges were savage and deep, becoming faster and faster as the encounter continued. Grahame counted each stroke, every number coming out as an unimpressed monotone.

I didn't know where to concentrate first. I was torn between the pleasure on my clit and the relentless invasion of my ass, the pinching in my cunt from the dildo there, the tight restriction of my limbs from my restraints, the smell and taste of the leather, the sound of Grahame's voice. I was a mass of pain and pleasure and sensation, an entity outside of my own body.

At around number 25, I could take no more. I banged the table once and both the strap-on and the vibrator ceased. There was silence in the room for about a minute as I tried to recapture some sense of reality. But there was nowhere to go, no reprieve from this lesson in humiliation unless I banged out my safeword and in doing so, giving up my dream of having Grahame to myself, ever.

After a minute, the cock resumed its drilling into my ass and I heard Grahame's voice again. But I hadn't realized how the vibrator had lessened some of the pain I had been enduring. I groaned with each of the next five strokes, feeling them split me in half, like a fish being gutted, its entrails being pulled from its body. My fingertips and toenails bore into the mattress so deeply, I'm sure I tore the sheet covering it.

When the vibrator resumed again after stroke 30, I renewed my determination to focus the best I could on the pleasure. At about number 45, the pain suddenly dissipated and all I felt was the warmth of the room, the fullness of my orifices, and the ecstasy mounting between my labial lips. I was confused…where was the pain? Why had I been spared? I was almost afraid to surrender to what I was feeling…utter calm, a total lack of tension, just floating along as if part of the entire universe, with no separation between the body and the air around it.

At number 60, the orgasms started to rip through my body, one after another, unabated, just adding to the euphoria I was experiencing, building a stepladder to paradise. I felt each contraction flow from deep inside me to the ends of my toes and my fingertips, and then released into the world, surrounding me, swathing me in peace and pleasure. The orgasms continued until I heard Grahame intone, "One hundred." And everything ceased except for the floating feeling I was enjoying, something I'd never known before. "This must be what heroin feels like" I thought to myself, lost in what I hoped would never be taken from me.

"She's bleeding," I heard Ms. Catsuit say, though she could have been a thousand miles away. I heard footsteps, followed by the ministration of aftercare—the swabbing of cotton and antiseptic, the release of the restraints, the massaging of the muscles in my arms and legs. They sat me up and removed my gag, made me drink a glass of water. I felt it all and yet, it was like I was outside my body, looking down and watching what was happening to me. "Where did the pain go?" I asked, my voice raspy from both the gag and the ordeal I'd been through. "Welcome to Endorphin Land," I heard Grahame's voice say, in almost a tender way. Ah, I thought. Endorphin rush. I'd heard of this. Now I know what they meant and why people found it so addictive.

"Lie her down," ordered Ms. Catsuit and I felt myself being lowered and reattached to the table at the ankles and wrists, this time face up. "Let her sleep." Then everything went black.

I don't know how long they let me sleep but when I awoke, I felt somewhat disoriented. It took me a moment to focus and then realize that Ms. Catsuit was by my side, slowly stroking my hair. Then I noticed something else. She was naked. I looked up at her quizzically but had learned enough to refrain from speaking without being spoken to first.

"Did you enjoy your exercise, Dana?" I heard Grahame ask from behind the mirrors. Ms. Catsuit twirled my hair around her fingers, entertaining herself.

Like they say about mothers who have experienced labor and childbirth, I couldn't remember the pain I had endured; all I could remember was the pleasure that followed it. "Oh Sir…the endorphins…they're amazing. I never knew anything could feel like that!" I gushed, my unattached collar allowing me to turn my head right and left, searching for him in the semi-darkness of the room. No success.

"So what do you say to the Mistress, Dana?" he asked, as a father would ask a five-year-old.

"Thank you Mistress," I said, looking her in the eye and trying to sound as sincere as I could. While she had been the source of great humiliation to me, I felt I could afford to be gracious and obedient. Anything to relive those moments of absolute pleasure and to please the Master who had orchestrated it.

"Don't you think she deserves a tip, Dana?" he continued.

"What do you mean, Sir?" I asked.

"She worked hard, don't you think?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Hard work deserves to be rewarded, Dana. Don't you agree?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Well then, since we're in agreement, I think at the very least, she deserves the tip of your tongue."

"Excuse me?" I asked.

"You heard me. Reward her."

Before I could launch into a long reminder of how I was "hopelessly het", the naked Ms. Catsuit had straddled me, her knees by my ears and her butt between my neck and my breasts. She poised herself just a few inches from my face, pushing her proffered shaved cunt in the direction of my mouth. My nostrils filled with her musky scent as she lowered herself even further, holding her lips open with her fingers, waiting.

"I don't know how to do this," I called out in panic, wondering if her pussy would muffle my cry.

Grahame wasn't giving me any slack. "Better learn quickly, Dana. After all, you have the same equipment and you know how you like to be pleasured. Believe me, you'd better do your best because if she doesn't enjoy it, I'm going to make sure the beating she gives you will make you sorry you were ever born."

Left with little other choice, I sighed deeply and stuck my tongue out, taking a short, exploratory lick by running my tongue from back to front, trying to seek out her clit. I felt the bump and heard a soft moan, telling me I wasn't too far from Ground Zero. It wasn't as bad as I thought it would be—the taste was fairly innocuous, the smell familiar, and I did have a fairly good idea of what I would want if I were in the same position.

I tried to block out what was happening, that I was giving head to a stranger squatting above me, as I watched the entire scene in the ceiling mirror above us. Instead, I pictured Grahame, sitting behind the one-way mirror watching, perhaps stroking himself as he witnessed my denouement, my forced entry into bisexuality. Encouraged by what I imagined to be his pleasure at this image, I narrowed my explorations to the area surrounding the bump, causing her to grind her crotch deeper into my face. Her moans grew in both frequency and volume.

My confidence in my cunnilingual abilities growing, my licks evolved into quick flicks, and then into lapping, sucking and nibbling as I tried to match my own pace with the rhythmic motion of her hips. She kept thrusting against me as I went faster and faster, listening to her moan, "That's it, don't stop now, no, don't stop, don't stop, that's it, right there, faster…that's IT….uhhhhh" And I felt her body shudder above mine, her crotch pressed against my mouth as closely as it could as I devoured the last of her orgasm from her. She panted, caught her breath and realizing I'd slowed down, yelled, "Keep going, bitch." I resumed orally servicing her cunt, pulling her through another three orgasms, coming in rapid succession. As the contractions died down, she leaned back on her haunches and stroked my cheek gently. " Not bad for a debut, my sweet cunt-sucking bitch" she said as she ran her forefinger against my lips and chin to wipe off her juices, and then dipped it in my mouth. She smiled with praise as she watched me suck it completely clean.

"Was it satisfactory, Mistress?" called Grahame from his vantage point.

"Quite," answered Ms. Catsuit. "I believe you'll find her quite able to pleasure you, Grahame…with all of her holes." And with that, she was off the table and out of the room, presumably to change back into her namesake outfit.

I heard some shuffling and the door reopened. I watched Grahame approach me, poker-faced as usual. He stood above me, our eyes locked together. A moment lost in time.

"You've pleased me today, Dana," he said as I beamed with pride. "You endured a lot and didn't use your safeword. There may be hope for you yet."

"Thank you, Sir." I wanted him to touch me, to kiss me, to use me for his pleasure. But there he stayed, fully dressed, looking down at my naked, sweating, restrained body, frustratingly out of reach both physically and emotionally.

"I'd like to see you again, Dana. I'd like to start your training in earnest. But I cannot. Not until you tell me if you figured out what it is that will bind you to me, once these cuffs are removed and you are free to leave this place. Do you know it now? It's an important question…take a moment and think before answering."

It was an important task, I realized, because if I got it wrong, it could potentially be the last thing I'd ever get the opportunity to say to him. So I quickly relived the day in my mind's eye…the nipple torture in cab ride, being thrust against the storefront, my being dressed to his tastes, being displayed and caned to pay for my insolence. I remembered how I'd won the right to suck him, the discussion with the slave Marcelle, the sodomy, the endorphin rush, and finally how I had sucked off the Mistress on his command. I considered what he had mentioned repeatedly, my need to learn how to communicate appropriately. And I reveled in how I felt now…spent, exhausted, fulfilled, proud. Owned.

"Sir, I'm ready now."

"Go on, Dana. Tell me. What binds you to me?"

"It is my need to know and experience who I am and what I am, Sir. I need you to show me and remind me. Only you can teach me how to control myself so I am the best I can be for you. Your hold over me will mean nothing if I am unable to control my own will, to subjugate it to your interests. I can only be a slave to your needs once I've made those needs mine. Is that it, Sir?"

He grazed my cheek with the back of his hand, as tenderly as I'd seen him do earlier with the Mistress. A genuine smile spread across his face, confirming his agreement with my answer. I felt consumed by the warmth of his touch, wanting desperately to climb inside him and wrap his body around me like a quilt, keeping the world from ever intruding on what we were sharing together.

"Let's get you dressed, Dana," he said. "It's time to take you home."