Zippers

PART 14

 

 

The tiny muscles that ran from my inner thighs to my deep pelvis burned and the skin above them screamed as it chaffed and bumped angrily into the padding. Beads of sweat ran in highways down either side of my face, so intense was my concentration. My mind was focused on the thick shaft that I was milking, desperately following every command from my uncompromising silicon task-master. First I was tensing the muscles low down near my opening and withdraw until I could just grip the head of the training prick. The screen would let me know if I was gripping firmly enough; and if I wasn't, I would have to repeat the manoeuvre again and again until I could do it. A meter on the right hand side of the screen bobbed up and down. At the moment it was hovering at the middle of the scale, in the ‘yellow’ zone, and that was the cause of my intense efforts. I could see a little further down the bar, in the lower ‘red’ zone; there was a black line with the words 'immediate punishment' unequivocally awaiting any slip in my performance. The machine had taught me a number of different patterns or 'strokes' and was now alternating, apparently randomly, between them. I had been standing over the horse, wearing my white heels, fucking the accursed thing for half an hour now and was quite exhausted. The machine was completely disinterested in how I felt though and so I was summoning every ounce of strength to keep the needle up and to keep from failing.

 

The only respite I was getting was on the 'head ride' command, where I lifted off the shaft and caressed its end with my lips. Then I rapidly dipped onto the tip, lapping around the side of its 'glans' with my inner lips on the way back up. It gave my pelvic muscles a break. The other strokes demanded a co-ordinated squeeze from various parts of my vagina. It had started very slowly and clearly with me but had rapidly adapted to my learning of the manoeuvres. Had I known that this would happen, I would have tried to be a little more 'stupid'; ‘wasn't retrospect a great thing’ I reflected as the instruction changed to 'deep head fuck' and I once more rammed my inner thighs down onto the horse and tensed my power-depleted deep muscles on the head and shaft, hoping that the pressure transducers there were merciful to me. On this occasion they weren't.

 

'Fucking hell', I screamed as the number '20' appeared signifying how many repeats I had to perform to address this flaw in my abilities. As I gripped it for all I was worth, knowing that I had enough strength for maybe one more try. The number dropped to nineteen. The bar on the right started to slowly drop.

 

It was with tears rolling down my face, my teeth gritted and a constant shouting of 'Fuck you!!, Fuck you!!', that I managed to work my way through. The needle hovering over the instant death zone proved to be a horribly efficient motivator and to my astonishment I worked off my 'deep head fuck' debt. I hoped that I hadn’t ruptured my recently cut vagina, the burning was so powerful.

 

Finally the machine let me go. I had fucked it for almost an hour and was totally spent, saddle-sore and beaten - by a fucking machine. I never looked at it the same way again and whenever I was scheduled to return to that saddle, I counted down to it with absolute dread.

 

Trisha had set me going on the trainer before she had left with Lisa. She had said that we would both be 'rewarded' for having satisfactorily stripped each other. She was going to oversee Lisa's right then and I was to await further instructions after I finished my training. I lay on my back, the taste of salt in my mouth, sodden with my own sweat. I was exhausted and my sex ached in ways that I never imagined it could. I wondered how long it would take for me to become strong enough to keep it up for a whole session. I had no idea then that a 'session' was a fluid rather than a fixed entity.

 

The screen beeped loudly and as I turned to look at it I was met by an ominous looking set of instructions and diagrams.

 

'Shit!’ I thought.

 

'Fuck!!’ I thought as I noticed that there was a timer counting down where the performance bar had been.

 

I quickly summoned my faculties and started to follow the precise instructions.

 

The phallus disconnected from the top of the horse. I could see the numerous connections on it's mating below as I un-clicked it. It was heavier than I anticipated, obviously a very complicated and sensitive piece of engineering. The screen showed me where to re-attach it - on the side of the horse. I clicked it on. Without further ado, the screen changed colour and started to lay out the learning objectives and rules for the oral-training mode.

 

'NO!’ I wept, my fingers clenched,' please, I can't do any more'

 

I kept my blurry, tear-filled vision on the screen in case I missed something, but I wanted to stare at the camera in the corner and plead. I didn't even know if anyone would be watching.

 

After taking in the basic rules, most worryingly of which was the instant punishment 'teeth contact rule', I had my lips around the shaft, my teeth well away from the plastic. I could smell my own pussy on it and could taste the drying mix of artificial lubricant and my own juices. I felt like the lowest, most depraved little bitch as I clung onto the shaft; there was a penalty for letting go as well. I sobbed to myself as I followed the programme through to the letter. After a few minutes I was actually glad for the time spent wearing the penis gag as I would not have been able to have deep-throated the huge prick without it. As well as that, I would not have had the stamina in my jaw to have completed the programme with brushing a tooth against the penis. It kept teaching me how to suck cock for half an hour.

 

When the screen finally relented and let me go I lay in a ball on the floor. I wept with relief and massaged my jaw muscles. My tongue ached from licking, my lips from sucking and my throat felt sore and swollen from the uncompromisingly deep prodding I had been forced to withstand when I had had to swallow its entire seven inch length.

 

Feeling deeply humiliated and ritually violated I pulled my knees up close to my chest and waited for the screen to beep and make me take the thing in my ass. I was, if nothing else, becoming more of a realist.

 

I was surprised when it told me to take two paracetamol, two ibuprofen, drink a pint of water from the fridge, thoroughly bathe, wash my hair and then go to my bedroom table. The screen then blacked out. I noticed that the power lights stayed on for the rest of the system though.

 

As I lay in the hot, scented bath-water sipping the icy drink, I felt better. I rubbed at my thighs and gently stroked my sore pussy lips, trying to work the residual pain away. The cold water felt good in my throat. I was glad when the taste of the probe finally started to subside. I looked at the clock, still before midday. I held my nose and bent my knees so that I was submerged in the soothing water. My eyes tightly shut; I tried to convince myself that I was still in the womb, far away from my reality as a novice prostitute. In the moments before my air ran out I imagined that I was just getting ready for another boring day at the office. I tried to feel the mundane safety that, until so recently, had been my life. As I gasped in the air and opened my eyes, the first thing that I saw was the brown-yellow of the bruising around the nipples of my swollen tits; there was no getting away from it.

 

In the bedroom, following the instructions that Trisha had slipped onto my dresser, I blow-dried my hair. Using hairspray, I was to shape it as instructed. She had left a series of diagrams and even some photographs of other girls. It was the opposite of how I had done it before, instead of calming my curls I was actively blasting the hair outwards and holding it there with the spray.  It was all blown up and away from my face. The mane at the back was similarly blown upwards and infused with spray to make it look ‘big’. The shaping that she had cut into it the week before now appeared to have another purpose. Curls that had flown down around my face now arched upwards defining the outer border of a sheer volume of loud red that to me, and probably most other people, screamed ‘attention-seeking bimbo’. As I saw how the style was supposed to look, I found myself primping here and correcting there before locking the whole ‘slut-do’ in place with the best part of a can of hairspray.

 

As I looked at myself in the mirror, the image of this girl flashed into my mind. I saw her with her eyes closed, her lips massaging the base of a huge cock, the tip twitching in her throat as she swallowed again and again sending waves of pleasure coursing over its head and causing it to pump its load deep into her. As I parted my puffy, collagen lips slightly, I could see that I now looked every inch the part; and that was just the hairdo.

 

Working my way down Trisha’s list, I removed the varnish from my nails and re-applied the new colour that she had provided. I looked at the bottle, the shade was apparently called ‘Playmate Pink’; a glossy silvery pink lacquer could be seen behind the logo of a smiling, buxom cartoon glamour-girl. True to its name it looked like the colour a porn star would wear. The obedient girl that I am, I applied it perfectly to every nail on each hand and foot before replacing the cap and waving my hands to dry them.

 

Then I made myself up. Exactly as I was told, I applied a generous cake of foundation to cover the remaining bruising on my face. Then I carefully put on a light metallic blue eye shadow, blending it laterally with a silvery white shade. I followed this up with plenty of blush and a lip gloss that partnered the nail varnish. My new bubbly lips looked huge and moist with the light metallic pink gloss. I then took a purple-red lip liner and worked a careful line around the gloss on my lips. It emphasised them even further and created a look that could only be described as ‘dirty’, no self respecting woman would wear make-up like that. It made my lips look like just another inviting pleasure organ.

 

‘My God!’ I thought as I looked at the whole picture. I was scared at how good a slut I made, at how the looked seemed to work so well with my features. I realised that I looked like a gorgeous, glamour girl. I looked good enough to be a pin-up, a man’s wank-fantasy. I gulped at what I was becoming; there was no way I could be seen like this.

 

I opened the bundle on the bed and pulled on a pair of soft grey pants and a grey pullover. It was a relief to not be completing the porn star look. Finally, I slipped my newly painted feet back into my white sandals, wound the straps up and around my ankles and buckled them on. Following the final instructions, I grabbed a pair of my old flat shoes to drive with, picked up the street map that Trisha had left and made to leave the flat. I unbuckled my collar and hung it next to Lisa’s on the coat peg on the way out.