PAMELA
I
THE WEEKEND
She was nervous. And, yes, frightened. But the fright only added to the
little worm of excitement that was wriggling inside her, making her nipples hard
and keeping her pussy damp. She was dressed, according to his instructions, in a
tight blouse and a very short miniskirt. That was all she had on, except for her
shoes. No underwear, he had stipulated. Nothing else on her body. No jewelry, no
rings, no wristwatch. Just her.
Some of the men on the plane kept looking at her. She avoided their
eyes. She knew how she must look, with almost all of her legs on view, and her
fear and excitement making her breathe a little harder than usual, causing her
breasts to rise and fall beneath the tight blouse, the shapes of her hard
nipples making little bumps in the thin material.
Why, she thought for the thousandth time, why had she agreed to fly
across the country to give herself for a weekend into the hands of a man she had
never met, never spoken to? A man she knew only through e-mail, and through the
stories he had sent her--stories of men subjecting women, stories of whippings
and torture and rape and degradation...
She closed her eyes. It had been too long since she had been able to
abandon herself to her deepest desires, to give herself unconditionally to a man
who she knew would be cruel, demanding, merciless...who would do things to her,
and make her do things, that would not only punish her body, but would violate
her soul, her very humanity, and turn her into a thing. A toy. An object of
pleasure. His pleasure. Her pain. A tiny whimper came from her throat, and she
opened her eyes to see that the woman in the seat next to her was staring at
her. She tried to cover the sound with a cough, looking away out the window.
Since David she had tried to keep her desires under wraps. She couldn't
subject herself to that kind of relationship again, she told herself. Not on an
ongoing basis. She couldn't. Or...was it just that she didn't think she would
ever know a man like him again. In any case, she had tried to lead a normal
life, pouring her needs and fantasies into the secret stories she wrote and
posted anonymously on the Internet. The Internet, through which she had met the
man she was now going to give herself to for a full weekend. She had read a
story he had posted, a story of torture and domination, which had turned her on.
There were many such stories posted, but so few people really wrote well about
these things. At the end of the story he had appended a little note: "If you can
see yourself as the woman in this story, contact me." Something like that. She
didn't know why, it was crazy, but in her excitement, on impulse, she sent him
an e-mail: "I do. I do. God knows I do." He had replied, and it had gone on from
there.
The plane was landing. There was no turning back, she supposed. Her legs
felt weak as she stood up and moved with the crowd toward the exit.
As they came into the terminal she spotted him immediately from the
picture he had sent her. The deep-set eyes, the snow-white hair, the strange
silver beard that made him look something like an Old Testament prophet. He
spotted her too, and was waiting for her as she moved past the rope barriers.
"Miss Prentiss?" he said. No, that wasn't her name, what was he doing?
He flashed some kind of badge. "Federal agent," he said. "You're under arrest.
Turn around please."
"What?" Before she could think he had turned her around, pulled her arms
behind her and was putting something on her wrists. Handcuffs! What was--
"Nothing to see here, folks," he was saying to the staring,
rubbernecking crowd. "Routine arrest. Move on, please." And with that he pulled
her away by one cuffed arm, moving her away from the titillated crowd toward the
terminal exit.
The cuffs were tight, painful, pressing cruelly into the flesh of her
wrists. The unyielding constriction of the hard steel thrilled her, even through
her fear and confusion. Was he really arresting her? Was this one of those
stings she had read about, where the government used agents to entrap perverts
on the Internet? But surely ôhat was just for pedophiles. No, she decided as her
panic subsided. It was just a ruse he had used to explain to the crowd what was
happening, while he immediately took charge of her, showing her that she was his
captive from the first moment. Her relief at this realization combined with the
arousing pain of her crushed wrists to make her feel somewhat giddy. "Aren't you
going to read me my rights?" she said, almost flirtatiously.
They had come outside now, and he was walking her along the front of the
terminal in the direction of the parking lot. As they passed the corner of the
building he pulled her around it and pushed her into a recessed entranceway.
There was no one nearby, and his broad-shouldered body mostly hid her from sight
of anyone who might be watching.
"Read you your rights?" he said. "Sure, bitch. I'll read you your
rights." And suddenly, viciously, he raised his hand and slapped her hard across
the face. She stumbled against the side of the entranceway and cried out, as
much from the shock as from the pain.
"You have the right to be my whore," he said. And he slapped her again,
this time with his left hand, but as hard as the first time. Again she cried
out, instinctively jerking at her imprisoned wrists. "You have the right to do
whatever I tell you," he said. Another slap, the right hand again. "You have the
right to keep your mouth shut." Slap. "You have the right to suck my cock."
Slap. "You have the right to eat my shit." Slap. Slap. Her head jerked from side
to side with each blow. "Do you understand these rights as I have told them to
you?" he said finally.
She was sobbing now, and her knees were wobbly. When she didn't answer
immediately, he grabbed her hair and pulled her head back sharply, making her
cry out again. "I asked you a question, bitch. Do you understand?"
"Yes!" she gasped out, her neck straining, her scalp on fire with the
cruel pressure as he maintained his grip on her hair. "Yes! I do!"
"Good." He pulled her to him then, still not letting go of her hair, and
mashed his mouth down on hers. Her mouth was wide open, gasping and sobbing, and
he plunged his tongue into it, probing, searching, raping her mouth, grinding
his lips against hers for a long minute before he pulled away.
"You'd better learn to kiss me a hell of a lot better than that," he
said. Then he took her arm and they moved on toward the parking lot.
There were not too many cars there at that time of the morning. She
realized that it was even earlier that it seemed to her, due to the time
changes she had flown across. She realized this with one small part of her mind,
that small rational part that never quite slept, while the bulk of her thoughts
and emotions were whirling about chaotically, churned up by what was happening
to her, by what had just happened, by her mixed reactions to this still strange
man, by the throbbing pain of her face, and the lingering pain in her scalp, and
the worsening pain of her wrists, by her fear and wonder and uncertainty and
pounding, undeniable excitement.
They stopped when they got to his truck. As he walked her around it, the
bulk of it hid them from most of the parking lot. He stopped her and stood in
front of her, looking into her eyes.
"We haven't even started yet, Pamela," he said. "It's going to get a lot
worse. I think you know that. Worse than you imagined, probably. More than you
bargained for. You want to back out? This is your chance. Last chance, Pamela.
Say the word, I'll take the cuffs off and take you back to the terminal, put you
on a plane. But you better say it now."
She gazed at him, into his steady eyes. Cruel, hard, masterful eyes.
Eyes that made her tremble. She stood and gazed at him for a long time. Then,
slowly, awkwardly because of her cuffed hands, she sank to her knees in front of
him. Lowering herself slowly, but dropping heavily at last with no way to
support herself, her knees hitting the hard asphalt with a thud. She lowered her
head and knelt there, trembling. Showing him that she was his.
#
"Good bitch," he said. "Good little slave slut." His hand was in her
hair, tugging, raising her head. He stepped forward, pressing the front of his
trousers against her face. She felt the bulge of his cock rubbing her mouth. It
was semi-hard, but throbbing. "Suck me through the cloth," he commanded.
She opened her mouth, surrounding the bulge with her lips as best she
could, moving them over it, licking it with her tongue, getting his pants wet,
the taste of khaki in her mouth, the bulge growing as she suckled it through his
pants, kneeling there on the hard ground.
"All right," he said finally, stepping back from her. His hand still in
her hair, he pulled her to her feet that way, as she tried unsuccessfully to
stifle her squall of pain. "You can finish that in the truck." He opened the
passenger door and waited for her to get in. With her hands behind her it took
several tries before she managed to climb into the cab, but he didn't help her.
When she was in he closed her door, then went around and got behind the wheel.
"You can't suck me that way, bitch girl," he said, as he started the
engine. "Turn sideways and kneel up on the seat." It was a struggle, but she
finally got herself into the position he wanted. By the time she did he had
unzipped his fly and his cock was sticking up stiffly.
"All right, cocksucker," he said. "Listen up. It's a half-hour drive to
my house. Until we get there you will not take your mouth off my cock. And you
won't stop sucking it either. You hear me?"
"Yes," she said, and immediately knew that was not enough. His hand
slashed across her face. "Yes, Master!" she gasped, her head still twisted from
the blow.
"Address me as Sir," he said. "Not Master. You're not worthy to have me
as a Master. Are you, cunt?"
"No, Sir," she whispered.
"Don't forget it. Now get your mouth down here." He put the truck in
gear and pulled out of the parking lot, evincing no reaction whatever as she
bent down and took him into her mouth as deeply as she could. Slowly, with all
the skill at her command, she began to suck him as best she could in her awkward
and insecure position.
When they got out of the airport the roads were rough, and she had some
difficulty even remaining upright on her knees. She sucked him steadily but very
carefully, trembling to think what he might do if she accidentally bit him.
Crouching that way, with her head in his lap, her ass stuck up in the air. She
could tell by the breeze coming through the truck window that it was barely
covered by her short skirt. She wondered how visible it was to other drivers.
She had no idea how much traffic there was, if any. The rush of the air through
the window and the rattling of the truck drowned out most other sounds, and of
course she could see nothing. Who was it that said the only thing wrong with
oral sex is the view?
Her mouth was tired long before they arrived, her body exhausted from
the effort to keep from falling off the seat. Finally she felt the truck
slowing, but he warned her not to stop sucking as he brought it to a stop. He
turned off the engine and sat back.
"Faster, cocksucker," he ordered. "And let me feel that tongue."
She speeded up her movements, swiping the underside of his cock with her
tongue at each stroke. Finally she felt his body stiffen, and he clutched a hand
in her hair, twisting it, bringing a stifled moan from her stuffed mouth. "Don't
swallow yet, bitch," he said in a strained voice. "Just hold it in your mouth.
Every fucking drop." And with that he erupted, shooting burst after burst of
come into her mouth. It filled her mouth, and it was with some difficulty that
she refrained from either swallowing it or letting it spill out, but she
managed.
When he finished coming he pulled her head up by her hair. "Good girl,"
he said, panting a little. With his free hand he stroked her straining throat.
"Now you can swallow. While I watch."
She looked straight into his eyes as she swallowed his come. Twice,
thrice, four times her throat worked as she took it down, slowly and
deliberately, under his deep gaze, as his hand stroked the taut skin of her
neck.
"Good girl," he said again. "Now we'll go inside. We should have a
little welcoming ceremony to celebrate your arrival, don't you think? Luckily,
we have time for a nice long whipping before lunch."
#
He didn't show her the house. They went through the front door into the
living room. It was a masculine room, sparsely but comfortably furnished. There
were several exposed beams running across the ceiling. There were several ropes
and pulleys dangling from the beams. Pamela's throat went dry, and her heart
raced.
"I've been preparing for your arrival, you see," he said. "And now, as I
said, a nice introductory whipping is in order. Don't you think so, Pamela?"
She swallowed. "If that's what you want. Sir."
"Of course." He sat down in an easy chair, gazing at her as she stood
facing him, her hands still cuffed behind her. "But not with your clothes on.
Strip for me. Now."
She stared. "I--But--but my hands..."
"Yes, I know. That will make it more interesting."
"But . . . how can I . . . "
He sighed. "Come here, Pamela."
She moved up to his chair, standing in front of him. He reached up, in
no particular hurry, and grasped each of her nipples through her blouse, between
thumb and forefinger. Then he squeezed them both hard, pulling on them at the
same time. She cried out and bent over, her body suffused by the sudden pain. He
kept his grip on her nipples, pulling her down until her face was close to his.
She was gasping and whimpering, her bent form twitching spasmodically as he
tightened his cruel grip.
"When I tell you to do something, bitch, you do it, you understand? No
hesitation, no questioning, no thinking. You just do it. Whatever it takes.
Immediately. Is that clear, cunt?"
"Yes!" she choked. "Yes!"
With both hands he twisted her nipples viciously, and she screamed. "Yes
what, cocksucker?"
"Yes, Sir!" she howled.
"Good." He let her go. "Now go back where you were and get your damn
clothes off. Now."
She stepped back. She was panting hard and trying to control her
sobbing, but the waves of pain that radiated from her nipples were sending
perverse messages of arousal through her body, and she knew she was wet between
the legs.
But how was she to strip with her hands fastened behind her? Well, all
she was wearing was a blouse and skirt. Actually, the skirt she could maybe . .
.
There was a button and a small zipper on the side of the skirt. By
twisting her hands in the cuffs she was able to get hold of the waistband at the
back. Then, with some difficulty, she began to pull at it, sliding it around
her, working it around slowly until the button and zipper came under her hand.
She was able to open the button fairly easily, but had to struggle to pull down
the zipper. At last she got it started, and the tiny skirt fell down around her
feet.
She was aware of his eyes on her body as she stood there naked from the
waist down, but her self-consciousness was overshadowed by her concern about how
she was to continue her task. Straining and twisting her constricted hands, she
managed to grasp the material at the back of her blouse, but what was she to do
with it? She tugged at it ineffectively, feeling the front of the blouse tighten
against her breasts, but that was all.
She looked at him for some guidance, but he only gazed back at her
impassively, waiting for her to carry out his order. She had to do it somehow.
She pulled harder against the unyielding cuffs, gathering up more of the
material, bunching it in her straining fingers. When she had as much as she
could get, she paused for a moment, mustering her strength. Then, with a sudden
tug, she pulled down on the material as hard as she could. A button popped, but
the blouse stayed closed. With a small cry of frustration, she tugged again.
Nothing happened. Again she paused for a moment. Her arms ached, her wrists felt
bruised, her fingers cramped. Nonetheless she took a deep breath and tugged
again. This time there was a small ripping sound, and more buttons popped off.
Progress! Gasping frantically, she pulled and pulled again at the recalcitrant
material, and finally the last button gave way and the blouse ripped apart. Her
breasts surged free, the nipples sticking out stiffly.
Those breasts bounced and jiggled as she continued to pull at the ruined
blouse, working it off her shoulders and down her arms. She was still tugging at
the remnants that hung around her cuffed wrists when he told her that was
enough.
His eyes were traveling slowly and deliberately up and down her body.
"Not bad, bitch," he murmured. "Not bad at all. Turn around for me. All the way
around. Slowly."
She turned. Her bosom was still rising and falling rapidly from her
exertions, and her whole body seemed to be throbbing. By the time she faced him
again he was rising from his chair. "Yes, not bad," he repeated. "It will be a
pleasure to whip that body." Pulling a key from his pocket, he walked behind her
and opened the handcuffs. But she had no time to rub her aching wrists, for he
immediately brought them in front of her and began to tie them together with one
of the ropes that dangled from the ceiling.
Her heart beat faster with the thought of what was to come. Fear and
excitement mingled inextricably in the pit of her stomach until she couldn't
tell one from the other. He tied her wrists swiftly and expertly. The tight rope
felt more yielding than the hard metal of the cuffs, and yet somehow more cruel,
biting into her flesh. The rope ran up over a pulley set into a ceiling beam,
and then downward to a kind of winch device, to which he now moved. As he turned
it her arms were pulled up over her head, and then, slowly but steadily, her
body was pulled upward, pulled up by the rope at her wrists, until it was
strained to the utmost. Still he didn't stop, but kept turning the winch until
her feet left the floor and she was dangling several inches above the ground.
Her arms were pulled taut; they felt as though they might tear right out of her
shoulders. Her flesh was drawn tight over her bones, her breasts lifted and
partially flattened by her upraised arms. Her toes reached reflexively but
vainly for the floor. For a moment or two her body struggled instinctively, her
legs kicking a little; but this only added to her torment, and she soon tired
and simply hung there, helplessly, little moans issuing from her mouth.
He tied off the winch and came to stand in front of her dangling body.
He was holding a length of rope in his hands, the same kind of rope he had tied
her with, thick and rough and cruel-looking. "This has been soaked in water
overnight," he told her. "Makes it more flexible and hard-hitting. I think
you'll be surprised at what an effective whip it makes. Unpleasantly, I hope."
With that he walked around behind her. She couldn't see him now. She
could do nothing but wait, her helpless hanging body swaying slightly, listening
to the sound of her own fearful, accelerated breathing.
Then there was the soft half-whistling sound of the rope sailing through
the air, and then the sickening smack as it slashed against her flesh. A line of
fire across her upper back, and she was screaming, though she wasn't even aware
of it at first, screaming and kicking and jerking her tethered body, the agony
rippling through her. The shock of it flooded her brain, overwhelming all other
consciousness. She had expected pain, intense pain, god knows she had wanted it,
had sought it . . . but this . . .
Again the whistle and the smack, and again the fire, the blow landing
just below the first one. She heard herself screaming now, felt through the
anguish the biting of the rope into her wrists, the terrible pulling on her arms
as her body twisted and spasmed. He was patient; he waited until her contortions
had subsided, until she hung nearly motionless once more, her head hanging back,
her racking sobs interspersed with heaving gasps. Then he struck again.
It was pure agony, even with David perhaps she had never known such
agony, and at first she thought she could never bear it, she must pass out. She
wanted to pass out. But as the whipping went on, she knew she would not. She
still screamed and twisted--though the twisting and kicking diminished as
torment and exhaustion took their toll--but the pain now was reaching down
inside her, finding her soul, claiming her for its own. Like a lover. And like a
lover she gave herself to it, hesitatingly at first, and then more willingly,
and then ardently, accepting it with all its flaws, with all its grief and
anguish, embracing it, desiring it, needing it, and wanting it to love her
forever.
Again and again and again he whipped her with the hard flexible rope,
the strength of the blows never lessening. Down over her back, onto her
buttocks, on the back of her thighs. And up again. She had no doubt that he was
using all the strength of his arm. The cracking of the rope against her flesh
sounded like pistol shots. With each lash she screamed, and with each lash the
fire inside her grew hotter and wilder. Instead of kicking wildly, her legs now
rubbed together, stoking the flame of her need.
And then he stopped. And walked around to stand in front of her. Weakly
raising her head, and looking at him through blurred eyes, she saw that he was
scarcely breathing hard. He still held the rope, which now dangled from his hand
to the floor. He smiled at her, and then reached up with his free hand to touch
her breast.
Dear god no . . .
"Look how hard these are," he said, passing his fingers over her stiff
nipple. "And look how beautiful your breasts are this way." He moved his hand to
the other one, cupping and kneading it. "Pulled up so that every bit of them is
exposed. And vulnerable. Even the undersides. Some girls go completely flat in
this position, but you have just enough so that they still stand out. So
prettily. Just begging to be whipped. Aren't they, Pamela?"
She could not speak. She was still panting harshly, moaning from time to
time. She knew there was fear in her eyes. But not fear alone.
He lowered his hand then and thrust it between her legs. "Ah. You're so
wet, bitch. You little pain-loving slut. I think you want me to whip those tits
of yours almost as much as I want to whip them. Don't you, cunt?"
Still she didn't answer, but a soft whimper escaped her mouth as her
hips jerked forward, involuntarily, pushing herself against his hand. He
chuckled, and his fingers tightened on her crotch, squeezing hard enough to make
her gasp and flinch.
"You do," he said. "Ask me, Pamela bitch. Ask me to whip your breasts."
'I--" She closed her eyes.
"No. Open your eyes, Pamela cunt. Look at me and ask me. Nicely."
"Please--" she gasped out.
His fingers tightened. "Please what?"
"Please . . . Sir . . . "
He waited.
Oh dear god. "Please," she breathed, between her labored, panting
breaths. "Please . . . whip my breasts . . . please . . . Oh sweet Jesus . . .
please . . ."
He released her crotch and stepped back. Her heart seemed to stop
beating as she watched him find the proper position. Watched him raise his arm .
. . swing it back . . . then forward . . .
The first blow landed just below her nipples.
The second one fell above them. The third caught her square across the
nipple of her right breast, grazing the other. After that she couldn't tell any
more.
She thought her arms must be dislocated at the shoulders, the way her
body was plunging and convulsing and thrashing at the end of the rope. The
ropes. The one around her wrists, the one slashing mercilessly into her tortured
flesh. She knew she had screamed herself hoarse, and still could not stop
screaming. And she knew the fire inside her was out of control, and that the
worse the torment became, the more she was doomed to crave it, to devote herself
to it, above any other thing, for all of her life. It was her life. It was her
love. It was her soul.
When he'd whipped her breasts to his satisfaction, he placed a few
lashes across her stomach, and across the front her thighs. Then he returned to
her breasts for one last blow, the hardest of all.
And then it was over.
He dropped the rope and approached her. Her head had fallen forward onto
her chest, hoarse, heaving moans coming from her lips. He seized her hair and
pulled her head up, looking into her eyes. Although she was suspended off the
ground, his height was such that their faces were level. Holding her hair, he
moved his head forward and ground his lips against her open, gasping mouth.
Instantly she responded, her tongue thrusting into his mouth, probing
abandonedly, her lips moving on his, her muffled moans vibrating down his
throat. Her legs rose as if of their own accord to encircle his thighs, pulling
her dangling form closer to his body. Her moans grew louder as she felt him
pressing against her tortured breasts, but her legs only tightened around him.
Now he was fumbling at his zipper, pulling it down, freeing himself. And then he
was inside her, taking her, thrusting hard, and she yelled into his mouth with
the pain and the pleasure and the unbearable, magnificent mingling of the two,
until finally, as he emptied himself inside her, she had to tear her mouth away
and scream out her climax to the uncaring world.
He pulled away from her then, abruptly, letting her aching arms again
take the weight of her dangling body. "I didn't tell you you could come, Pamela
slut," he said, zipping himself up. "Filthy crawling slaves like you don't come
without permission. You won't do it again. Is that understood?"
"Yes, Sir," she whispered.
"Good. For your punishment you can keep hanging there until it's time
for lunch."
#
Lunch was very tasty. She ate it off the floor, still naked, crouching
on all fours at his feet as he sat at the table. Most of the time, as she knelt
there, she sucked on his cock. The only time she was allowed to take her mouth
off his cock was when he dropped pieces of food onto the floor. Then she was
allowed to stop long enough to pick them up with her mouth and eat them. She
wasn't allowed to use her hands. She wasn't allowed to get off her hands and
knees. After a while he started tossing the food across the room and making her
crawl after it. Her body still throbbed from the effects of the whipping. Her
arms ached terribly, her wrists burned. He threw the food across the room and
watched her as she crawled after it, and picked it up off the floor with her
mouth, and ate it, and then crawled back and put her mouth on his cock again.
When he had finished eating he let her wash her meal down with his sperm.
Afterwards he had her clean the kitchen floor. With her tongue.
#
"Who is David?" he said.
She stared at him through her pain, her eyes going wide. "What? Who--how
did you--"
She was kneeling in the middle of the room. Her hands were again cuffed
behind her. Her hair was gathered in a knot and held in a large metal clip,
which in turn was attached to a rope hanging from the ceiling, the same rope
which had earlier suspended her by her wrists. This effectively prevented her
from toppling over, voluntarily or otherwise. Her ankles were bound together
with heavy cord. And connecting the cord on her ankles with her wrist cuffs was
another cord, long enough to allow her to raise herself almost to an upright
kneeling position--but not quite. In addition, there was a small spur-like
device strapped to each of her calves, about halfway between knee and
ankle--with the spurs pointing upward. In this position she was forced to
constantly fluctuate between two kinds of torment. When she tried to raise
herself to avoid the spurs, her inability to kneel upright placed an impossible
strain on the muscles of her thighs and calves. She could never sustain it for
very long before the pain and exhaustion forced her to relax them--thus lowering
her thighs onto the sharp points, which soon penetrated the tender skin and
caused such terrible agony that she had to try to raise herself again; the whole
vicious circle going on inexorably with no means of relief, and worsening
steadily as her body grew weaker and more agonized. She had been in this
position for thirty minutes, while he sat and watched her, enjoying her
predicament. Perspiration was running down her body and she was panting heavily.
"Address me properly, slut," he said.
"I--Sir. Sir. How did you--"
"You screamed that name out when you were coming," he told her. "You
filthy whore. It isn't my name."
"I--I'm sorry, Sir." She moaned as she raised herself torturously off
the spurs that dug into her thigh flesh. She knew she couldn't stay off them for
long. Already her weakened leg muscles were quivering.
"Who is he, cunt?"
"He--he was--" She swallowed. "He's dead," she said. "Sir."
"I didn't ask you that," he said. "Who was he? Your lover? Your master?"
"Yes, Sir," she whispered.
"Speak up, cunt. How did he die?"
"He killed himself, Sir." She concentrated on keeping her straining
thighs away from the spurs. It was, of course, impossible.
"How long was he your master?"
"Two . . . years. Sir."
"How long ago?"
"It was . . ." She was gasping. "Six . . . seven years, I think. Sir."
"You must have been a very young slave, bitch."
"Yes, Sir. I was . . . I was in high school. Sir."
"Tell me about it," he said. "From the beginning."
She gave a cry of anguish as her exhausted muscles failed her once
again, and she sank down onto the sharp piercing metal. Was it caused by the
pain or by his command? Or both. She had to deal with the pain, the physical
pain, she had to absorb it, take it into herself, give herself to it. Let it
make her its slave. Which was what she was.
"He . . ." She struggled to speak clearly, through the pain, through the
anguish. "He came into my room. He found me trying to tie myself up. He . . . he
knew right away. He knew everything. He . . . he just knew." She had to stop for
a minute, gasping for breath, gathering her strength. Trying to raise herself
again, but no, her legs weren't ready. She forced her mind away from her
tortured body. "He . . . he said he would do it for me. Tie me up. I . . . I
needed that. I craved it so much. To be helpless. So he did. Tied me down.
Helpless. Then he hurt me. Hurt my nipples. And I . . . I needed that too. And
then he took me. Raped me. And after that . . . he owned me. I was his." She
was panting harshly.
"He came into your room?" he queried. "How was that? Did he break into
your house or what?"
"No. He . . ." She was almost sobbing. There were tears in her eyes. She
made an effort to raise herself, but almost immediately sank down again. "He
lived there," she said, with a cry of torment. "He was my brother."
For a moment he said nothing. Then he just said, "Go on."
"I . . . I . . . What . . . "
"You have another twenty minutes in that position, Pamela bitch," he
said. "Maybe more. I do enjoy watching your suffering. So you might as well pass
the time by telling me about it. Was he older than you, or younger?"
"He . . . a year older," she whispered.
"And his name was David. What kind of things did he do to you?"
She closed her eyes, but the tears still dropped from them. With all the
strain wracking her body she had to force herself to keep her head upright to
avoid the terrible pull on her scalp. "Oh god . . . everything," she panted. "He
did everything. I was . . . he could do anything he wanted. He had sex with me
every day. Sometimes more. Every way. He hurt me to make me do it, but . . . but
he didn't have to hurt me. He just owned me. But he liked to hurt me, and I . .
. I liked it too. He would beat me with his belt. He would make me beg him to
beat me and to take me. To let me do things to him. He . . . he made me have sex
with his friends sometimes. He liked to show me off, to show his power over me.
Twice he made me have sex with one of his teachers so they wouldn't flunk him in
their class. He . . . he always said he was going to make me do it with my
father. Our parents didn't know, they never even suspected what was going on.
But he said my daddy would fuck me in a minute if he got the chance, and he said
he was going to see that he did. Oh god, if he told me to I would have done it,
I would have fucked my daddy, I would have done anything. Oh god. Oh god. He
just owned me, like a toy." She opened her eyes now, sobbing in earnest. "He
called me fucktoy," she said chokingly. "Fucktoy. That's what I was. I loved
that name, it made me crazy. Fucktoy. . . "
"Fucktoy," he repeated. "Yes. That's a good name for you, Pamela cunt.
Because that's still what you are. Isn't it?"
"Yes," she sobbed out. "Yes. Yes . . ."
"Yes, Sir." he said.
"Yes, Sir."
He got up and moved toward her. "All right, fucktoy," he said. "You can
tell me more later. Now you can spend the rest of your time there sucking me off
again."
He stood over her and put his stiff cock into her gasping, sobbing
mouth. Because he had already come three times that day, he was in no hurry to
come again, and he slowly fucked her mouth as he continued to enjoy her strain
and suffering for another fifteen minutes. When he finally released her, still
leaving her hands fastened behind her, she rolled spastically around on the
floor, her body twisting, her legs thrashing, and begged him for permission to
come. He said no.
#
He left her lying there on the floor, naked, hands fettered, aching and
aroused, while he went off to take care of some business. Even without the use
of her hands she knew she could make herself come if she dared, but she didn't.
Somehow he would know. Besides, he had ordered her not to. So she couldn't. He
was gone for an over an hour. When she calmed down she turned on her side and
tried to go to sleep, but although her body was exhausted, it was impossible.
"We'll be going out for dinner this evening," he told her when he
returned. "You'll have to look presentable. You're filthy from crawling around
the kitchen floor, and rolling around and sweating like a pig. What a disgusting
mess. You need to take a shower, fucktoy."
He still left her hands cuffed as he escorted her to the bathroom. There
was a large tub, with a rubber mat on the bottom and a showerhead at one end. He
helped her into the tub, then adjusted the moveable shower head and turned on
the water. The cold water.
She shrieked as the icy spray hit her full-blast. She turned her back on
it and tried to step out of range, but he followed her with the shower head.
God, it was cold! She turned again and tried awkwardly to get out of the tub,
but instead fell to her knees on the rubber mat. He kept the water trained on
her. Shrieking and blubbering, she slid onto her side and then lay full-length
on the bottom of the bathtub, thrashing helplessly as he played the ice-cold
water over the length of her body. She maneuvered herself frantically onto her
stomach, and then onto her back, her legs kicking wildly, her arms straining
futilely at the cuffs that bound her wrists as she rolled over and over in a
desperate effort to find relief from the tormenting stream.
At last he turned the water off, and she lay still, shivering and
moaning against the white tile. He reached down and pulled her up, then helped
her out of the tub. He got a large bath towel and started to dry her off. He was
grinning.
"Not the kind of punishment you expected, huh, fucktoy?" he said. "Well,
consider yourself lucky. I could have given you the hot water instead of the
cold. Maybe next time I will."
#
Her tiny skirt was still wearable, but her torn blouse was not. He
rummaged around and came up with something else for her to wear: A thin, light
brown pullover that stretched so tightly over her bosom that it looked as though
she would burst out of it at any moment. It lovingly molded every curve and
contour of her breasts, and clearly defined the little protuberances of her
nipples. He uncuffed her hands long enough to allow her to put it on, along with
the skirt. Then he fastened them behind her again, but instead of the cuffs he
tied them securely with a thin strip of cloth. She wondered if he really meant
to take her out in public that way, and if so, how she would be expected to eat;
but she said nothing.
She soon had the answer to the first question He found a light coat
sweater and hung it over her shoulders, buttoning the top button at her throat
to keep it in place. It covered her arms and hands, and no one looking at her
casually would realize that they were tied behind her. He looked her over
carefully and nodded, then put his hands on her breasts and gave her nipples a
hard pinch. Pain and desire throbbed through her, and she knew those nipples
were stiffening rapidly. "Let's go," he said.
They got into his truck and he drove to the restaurant. She was
surprised that they seemed to be closer to some urban amenities than she had
thought. The restaurant was a neighborhood place, not too fancy but fairly
crowded. She was very self-conscious, and the attention she attracted as they
walked in did nothing to stop the fearful beating of her heart, or to diminish
the stiffness of her nipples, or the moistness between her legs. She was aware
that men were goggling at her avidly as she went by, some of them turning around
for a long look at her legs or gazing hungrily at her thrusting, jiggling
breasts beneath the tight pullover.
"Enjoying yourself, fucktoy?" he whispered to her.
Her voice was breathless. "It's...it's humiliating...."
"And it makes you hot, you filthy slut," he said.
She said nothing.
The headwaiter gave them a table away from most of the other diners, but
one which allowed them to be seen by them. She wondered if he had set this up in
advance. People were still looking at her. She tried to sit down carefully,
holding herself erect in her chair so that her pulled-back arms would not be
uncovered. Seated, her skirt was drawn back even further over her thighs. The
waiter's eyes kept dropping to her breasts as he put the menus on the table. She
glanced down and saw that her nipples were poking out the material in little
spikes.
He ordered steaks for both of them, and the waiter went away slowly. Most
of the customers seemed to have gone back to their food, content with occasional
glances at her, but some of the men were still watching her.
"There's a guy across the room who's crazy about your legs," he said to
her. "If you slide forward a little bit, he'll be able to see just about all of
them."
She swallowed..
"Do it, fucktoy," he said.
She felt herself flushing deeply, but she moved forward in her chair,
and her skirt pulled up almost to her crotch. He grinned. "There'll be a lot of
guys here thinking about you when they screw their wives tonight," he said.
As they waited for their food she began to feel uncomfortable in her
erect position, but she was reluctant to move around too much for fear that
someone would realize that her hands were tied. Her slight twitchings and
squirmings only seemed to add to his enjoyment of the situation.
Finally the waiter brought their steaks, his eyes again devouring her
blatantly displayed body, while trying vainly not to be too obvious about it.
When he had finished asking if they wanted anything else, and trying a few more
delaying tactics, and had gone away again, she looked at him helplessly. "How am
I going to eat, Sir?" she asked.
He was busily cutting his steak up into bite-sized pieces. "With your
mouth," he said calmly.
"What...what do you mean?"
He went on cutting the steak, and when he finished he took her plate and
put his in front of her. "There you go," I said. "all ready for you. All you
have to do is bend over, pick up a bite in your mouth and chew it up. Just like
you did in my kitchen, remember?."
She stared at him, her eyes wide. "I--But . . ." she stammered.
He looked at her. "You're not refusing an order, are you, Pamela cunt?"
"I--No." She swallowed. "No, Sir. But everyone will--"
"Yes," he said, smiling. "That's the idea. To show them what a little
animal you are. A little animal slave bitch. Now do it."
"Oh god," she whispered.
"Eat!" he said. "Now!"
She looked wildly around, then took a deep, shuddering breath and bent
over her plate. She swiftly picked up a bite of meat with her teeth, and then
straightened up with it in her mouth. Her face was flaming.
"That's a good little piggy," I said. "Now chew it up and swallow it, and
you can have another one."
She could see that a lot of people were staring at her now, having seen
or been told by their companions what she had done. It took her a long time to
chew the bite, but she finally got it down.
"Now take another one."
She made a little whimpering noise, but after a second she bent her head
to her plate again and snared a second bite. A low buzz went around the
restaurant, and through a haze of humiliation she saw their waiter conferring
worriedly with one of his colleagues.
After she had taken the third bite, the waiter came over to the table,
looking a little nervous. "Excuse me, sir," he said politely. "Is
there...ah...anything wrong?"
"No," he said. "Everything is very good."
The waiter nodded doubtfully. "Is...ah...the young lady all right?"
"The young lady is fine," he said. "Her hands are incapacitated at the
moment, so she's using her mouth instead. The young lady is very good with her
mouth," he added.
Oh god, she thought. Oh dear god.
The waiter, who was a dark-complexioned young man in his late twenties,
looked at him sharply, as if to see if he could have meant what he seemed to
mean. She couldn't look up from her plate. "Her . . . hands? . . ." the waiter
said inquiringly.
"They're tied," he said. "Behind her back."
Without looking, she could feel the waiter staring at her. The moment
seemed to go on forever. "I see," the waiter said finally. She realized she was
breathing hard.
"Actually, what the young lady needs," he said to the waiter, "is a place
where she can kneel on the floor, and use her mouth . . . properly. Would you
have such a place here, perhaps?"
The waiter hesitated only a moment. "I think we may be able to be of
service, sir," he said. "If you and the young lady will follow me . . ."
He got up and motioned to her. The waiter held her chair politely as she
rose. Her breathing was quick and shallow as they followed the waiter to the
back of the restaurant, and through a door into the kitchen, where several
people were working. Beyond that, he led them into a small room that was
evidently used as a pantry, with cans and boxes of food stored on shelves along
the walls. When they were inside, the waiter closed the door and slid a bolt.
"Will this be satisfactory, sir?" he asked.
"This is fine," he said. "Now if you would care to make use of the young
lady's mouth . . ."
"I certainly would, sir," the waiter said.
"Kneel down, Pamela slut," he said to her.
"If you don't mind, sir--" the waiter said hastily. His hands made a
tentative but eager movement toward her tightly outlined breasts. "May I?"
"Please do," he said.
She closed her eyes as the waiter's hands came to rest greedily on her
protruding bosom, but the watching man ordered her to keep them open, and she
did. For several moments the waiter played with her breasts, rubbing and
caressing, squeezing and palpitating, testing the hardness of the nipples.
Pamela stood motionless except for her heavy breathing, which sounded loud in
the little room.
"Thank you, sir," the waiter said. "I am ready now."
He nodded to her, and she sank to her knees on the floor.
The waiter unzipped his trousers and released a quite sizeable pole,
which sprang fully erect into the air. Pamela brought her head forward and took
it into her mouth.
She began to suck him slowly and thoroughly. As her head bobbed up and
down, she could hear the sound of him panting above her.
"I told you she was good with her mouth," the watching man said.
"Oh yes, sir," the waiter moaned. "She is, indeed....Oh yes,
indeed....Ohh she is...wonderful....Ohhh...Ahhh...Ah yes...Ohh yes!..."
Pamela obediently continued to pleasure him, her head gradually moving
faster over his rock-hard cock. When she sensed that he was close to the end,
she heard the watching man say, "The young lady would be obliged if you would
come in her face."
"Of course, sir," the waiter said chokingly. And a moment later, he
pulled his cock out of her mouth and with a small cry shot several spurts of
semen directly into her eyes. Pamela didn't move.
"Very good," the watching man said. "No, don't get up, Pamela slut.
You're not finished yet. Not by a long shot. Tell me, young man, how many other
male employees are there on duty this evening?"
"Well, there are two more waiters, sir," was the reply. "And two busboys.
And the chef, of course. And one of his assistants, I believe."
"Do you think you could arrange for them, discreetly, to come back here,
one by one, and enjoy the lady's favors as you did?"
"I don't think there would be much of a problem about that, sir," the
waiter said.
"Good. Please do so. I can see I'm going to have to leave a large tip
this evening."
The waiter left, and returned a minute later with one of the busboys. He
was somewhat bemused by the situation, but showed no reluctance in bringing out
his penis and letting her suck it, and he too, on request, ejaculated all over
her face. He was followed by the roster of employees the waiter had mentioned.
Pamela stayed on her knees throughout, and she sucked off each of them in turn,
and took their come on her face. She was still sucking the last one when the
watching man left, saying that he wanted to go back and finish his steak before
it got cold. When the last one left, the waiter returned for a repeat
performance. When he finished he helped her to her feet and told her that the
gentleman was waiting for her at their table. She asked him if he would please
wipe her face for her, but he refused.
She went back to the table, her knees dirty from the pantry floor and her
face covered with sperm. She couldn't look at the other diners. She sat down
tremblingly, breathing hard. "He wouldn't let me wipe my face," she got out.
"I told him not to," he said, smiling. "All right, fucktoy. You did well.
We can leave now." He stood up and put some money on the table.
"My face..." she said apprehensively.
"It looks beautiful," he said. "Let's go."
"Ohhh..." But she got up, and, looking straight ahead of her, her breasts
bobbing, her bare legs soiled, and her face dripping with come, she walked with
him through the restaurant, past all the tables of gawking, gaping diners and
out into the street.
Once outside he pulled out a handkerchief. "I'll wipe your face off now,
fucktoy," he said. Carefully, he cleaned the still-wet sperm from her features,
being sure to get every drop. Then he told her to open her mouth. When she
obeyed, he stuffed the handkerchief into it.
"There," he said. "Now you can suck on that all the way home."
And she did.
#
When they got home he took the binding cloth from her wrists, had her
strip, then used the cuffs to resecure her hands behind her. Then he took her
into his bedroom. "It's been a long day for you, fucktoy," he told her. "I'm
sure you're tired. You need a good night's rest to prepare you for tomorrow's
delights." Something in his voice told her that her night would be anything but
restful, and she was right.
He led her to the end of the bed, where there was a high footboard that
came up to just below her waist. Turning her so that she faced the bed, he had
her spread her legs, then tied each of her ankles to the bottom of a corner
bedpost, using stout cord to secure them. There was another of his ubiquitous
rope and pulley devices hanging from the ceiling just above, and he tied the end
of that rope to the chain of her cuffs. When he pulled on it, her arms were
drawn up painfully behind her, putting such a strain on her shoulders that she
was forced to bend forward, over the footboard. He continued to pull until she
thought her shoulders would surely be dislocated, or her arms ripped from their
sockets. By the time he tied off the rope, she was bent over as far as she could
go, her arms pulled up almost vertically behind her, her hips pushed tightly
against the footboard, her breasts hanging freely, her face pressing into the
bed. She was moaning and whimpering with the pain and strain in her arms and
shoulders, but she was so helpless, so defenseless, so utterly vulnerable, that
a part of her rejoiced in her captivity, and in her suffering. Captivity and
suffering was what she was for.
"Are you comfortable, Pamela bitch?" he said. "You look very nice that
way, fucktoy. Very tempting, with your ass sticking out like that. Reminds me
that I haven't fucked it yet. But I think we'll leave that till the morning,
when we're both fresher. For now I'll just give it a few kisses with the cane,
to stimulate me so I'll have pleasant dreams about hurting you further." He went
to a closet and took out an object, then moved into her line of vision to show
it to her. It was a thin bamboo cane, and when he swung it back and forth a few
times it made a wicked whistling sound. Her stomach turned over.
He smiled and walked around behind her. She closed her eyes, tensing.
She heard the whistle almost at the same time that she felt the cane slash
viciously across her buttocks. It was agony of a somewhat different quality from
that of the rope she'd been whipped with earlier, but it was agony nonetheless,
and it was enhanced by the sharp harrowing pain in her shoulders as her body
jerked reflexively under the blow.
Again the whistle, and the spasm of her body in its limited position,
and the shriek of anguish she couldn't keep down. Again the cane slashed into
her ass, and again. Then a blow on the back of her thighs, and another. She was
sobbing and biting at the bedclothes to stifle her squalling. Then he stopped
and put his hand between her legs. She knew it came away wet. He moved around
and held his dripping fingers to her face. "Taste this," he said.
She turned her head and took the fingers into her mewling mouth and
sucked off her own juices.
He dropped the cane then and took off his clothes, then got onto the
bed. He moved down so that his erect cock was under her mouth. "You know what to
do, fucktoy," he said.
She did. She took him into her tired mouth and sucked him off through
her pain. When he had come and watched her swallow his sperm, he said, "Keep my
cock in your mouth, Pamela cunt. I'll expect to find it there when I wake up."
And with that he composed himself for sleep.
The night went by slowly. The unrelenting ache in her straining arms and
shoulders became unbearable, and yet she bore it. She had no choice. And she
didn't want a choice. Her exhausted body begged for sleep, even in her stringent
position, but she was afraid he would wake up and find that his penis had
slipped from her lips. Still, she did drop off briefly from time to time.
Fortunately, she was awake when he stirred at one point in the middle of the
night, and woke to announce that he had to take a piss.
"I don't feel like getting up," he said, yawning. "So you can be my
toilet, cocksucker. Take it all down now, and don't spill one damn drop on my
bed, you hear me?" And with that he began to piss in her mouth.
She drank it. She held her lips tightly around the base of his penis so
that nothing could escape, and fought off her desire to gag as his foul-tasting
piss streamed into her throat and filled her mouth. She forced herself to gulp
it down, praying she would not choke, and kept swallowing and swallowing it as
it came, until he was finished. Then he went back to sleep.
She still held his cock in her mouth. She was his toilet.
#
He did not release her in the morning. He got up and went about what
seemed to be his morning routine, leaving her still painfully bent over his bed
with her aching arms in the air. He returned finally, still naked.
"Good morning, fucktoy," he said. He picked up the cane and gave her one
quick hard slash across the buttocks. She yelled. "Just a little wake-up call,
Pamela slut," he said, dropping the switch again. "And now, since you are in
such a perfect and tempting position, I'm going to fuck that fine sweet slut
ass of yours. Would you like that, you little pain-loving, piss-drinking twat?"
"Yes, Sir," she whispered hoarsely. What else could she say?
"Well, we'll see," he said. He came up behind her and put his hands on
her ass cheeks, spreading them apart. Then she felt the head of his hard cock
pressing against her anus. She held her breath, biting at her lip.
He didn't bother with lubrication. He just pushed his way in, forcing
himself brutally past her instinctively clenching sphincter, then ramming
himself up into her tight narrow passage with a series of powerful thrusts,
battering at her body. Her pinioned arms wrenched agonizingly at her shoulder
muscles with each lunge, and though she pressed her face against the bed, she
could not stifle the cries and squalling noises that came from her mouth. He
bent over her and his hands moved around to clutch at her hanging breasts,
squeezing them and vising the nipples, holding on to them as he thrust at her.
As much as he was hurting them, as terrible as was the torment of her shoulders,
which she was certain must now be dislocated, the pain of his unprepared and
unrelenting invasion into her small resistant back passage seemed even worse.
She closed her eyes and willed herself to endure it, even as she felt herself
responding to it, felt her helpless tortured body reaching out to it, coiling
and tightening and opening itself to it... Oh god, no, she thought. I can't
come. Oh please god no. I can't. Please. I can't...
She did.
Immediately he stopped moving. He straightened up and pulled out of her,
then stepped back and stood watching the helpless spasming of her pinioned body.
"I'm sorry," she sobbed, when she had caught her breath. "I'm sorry,
Sir. I couldn't--I didn't mean to--I'm--"
"Shut up, twat," he said. "You came without permission. That was direct
disobedience."
"I'm sorry!" Pamela pleaded. "I couldn't help it! It just--"
With one swift motion he picked up the cane from the floor and brought
it down viciously across her back. She screamed.
"Shut up, I said. From now on I don't want to hear a word from your
cock-sucking piss-drinking cunt mouth unless I ask you a question, you got
that?" He moved to a table by the bed and opened a drawer, taking out a small
packet, along with a book of matches. Her eyes widened when he opened the packet
and drew out a small thin cigar. Putting it into his mouth, he struck a match
and slowly and deliberately lit the cigar, watching her face.
"Maybe this will teach you proper manners, fucktoy," he said. "As well
as maybe putting some life into that lazy ass of yours."
Her breath quickened as he moved behind her again. Her mouth was dry.
She held her breath, half expecting to feel the burning heat of his cigar
against her buttocks. But what she felt was his cock again plunging brutally up
her ass. He didn't stop until he was all the way inside her, his hips against
her backside, her arms strained to the utmost, the footrail cutting into her
stomach to add to her torment.
"Come on, Pamela cunt," he gritted. "Move that ass for me, cocksucker."
She tried, but there was no way she could move. The best she could do
was to twitch a little, trying to flex her thighs and buttocks for him. The
movement was tiny and barely noticeable, but even so it put further strain on
her arms and added to her pain.
"You pathetic bitch," he said. "All right, let's see if this will help."
Holding the cigar in his right hand, he brought it around to the front of her
torso and touched the tip lightly to the side of her dangling breast.
She screamed and reflexively tried to jerk away, sending a wave of agony
through her body.
"Well, that's a little better," he said. "Did that hurt, Pamela bitch?
Let's do it again, shall we?" And again he placed the glowing cigar briefly
against her breast. Another scream, another painful spasm as she tried vainly to
move away.
"Oh yes, that does hurt, doesn't it, Pamela? Oh, but it feels real good
to me. Do that again, cocksucker." This time the cigar did more than touch her
breast; it remained there for several seconds, while Pamela howled, her body
convulsing sharply within the limits of its bonds.
"Oh, that really hurts, right, fucktoy?" he panted. "Oh yes, that's
wicked, isn't it?" He moved the cigar away long enough to flick the ashes from
the tip, then brought it back. "Let's try the other one now, okay?"
Searing pain as the burning cigar found her other breast. She was lost
now in a mist of pain, through which she dimly heard herself screaming and
shrieking, dimly yet clearly heard his words as he savored the enforced
writhings and squrmings of her ass around his cock. "You gonna come now, Pamela
shit? You gonna disobey me again, hmm?" Another burn. "Ahh, yes, that was a bad
one, huh, fucktoy. But you like to be hurt, cunt, remember? So just think of
them as hot little kisses. Hot burning kisses all over your sweet fucktoy tits."
And the cigar continued to kiss her, moving from one breast to another, touching
lightly, then more lengthily, grazingly then searingly, while her helplessly
jerking, bucking body brought him closer to culmination. And then, when he was
ready to come, he jammed the cigar directly onto her nipple and ground it out
slowly but firmly against the cringing, quivering flesh. She had screamed
herself hoarse again, but another loud guttural shriek forced itself from her
throat as he shot everything he had into her torturously twisting ass.
#
When he released her he told her she would be allowed her to clean
herself up, and then get some rest. "I'm having some guests for lunch today," he
told her. "I want to show them my latest plaything. You will be putting on a
little exhibition of obedience for them, to show them what a low, crawling slut
you are. Among other things, you will be required to fuck the guest of honor.
Now go take a bath."
There were about half a dozen guests, all men. She was naked. She was
not tied, but she was on her hands and knees, forbidden to rise. As each man
arrived, she was ordered to crawl to him and kiss his feet. When they were
seated around the lunch table, their host gave her the same instructions as he
had the day before. Even after her rest, she was so sore and exhausted and
filled with pain that she could hardly move. It didn't matter. She still had to
crawl all over the room to retrieve the bits of food he threw. She still had to
eat them off the floor, with her mouth. The guests watched appreciatively,
complimenting the host on her docility. This time, instead of sucking him off
for dessert, she was ordered to suck off his guests. All of them, one after
another. Crawling from man to man under the table and swallowing their come.
All this, she was made to understand, was a prelude to the main event,
in which she was to fuck the guest of honor. She wondered who the guest of honor
was, but knew better than to ask.
It was after they had moved into the living room, and the men were
seated around, with Pamela still on all fours in the middle of the floor, that
the guest of honor was brought in. He was led in by the host on a leash, with a
collar around his neck. He was a large, black, fierce-looking Doberman dog.
Pamela stared in frozen shock as the other guests laughed and applauded.
"This is King," the host said. "He's our guest of honor this afternoon,
and your lover, Pamela bitch. Because you are a bitch, aren't you, Pamela?"
He was going to make her fuck a dog.
She felt faint.
He was waiting for an answer. She could hardly speak. "Yes," she got
out. Then, "Yes, Sir. I am."
She was.
"A fucking animal," he said. "A crawling dirt-eating worthless mongrel
animal bitch. Aren't you?"
"Yes, Sir."
"Tell us," he said.
She was shaking. There were tears in her eyes. And there was a tiny
little worm squirming deep inside her, a perverse little worm that quickened her
breath and stiffened her nipples and moistened her crotch, a worm that fed on
degradation and humiliation, and grew as it fed, and demanded more.
He was going to make her fuck a dog.
A dog was going to fuck her.
While they all watched.
Degradation. God...
"I am," she panted. "I am a fucking...crawling...worthless... animal
bitch. Yes. I am. Yes."
Not even a person any more. An animal. A thing.
The Doberman was straining at the leash, whining. "I think he likes you,
Pamela bitch," the man said. She could see the dog's big stiff red cock beneath
his belly as he reared up on his hind legs. "Or maybe it's just that he hasn't
been with another dog for a couple of weeks now." He advanced a few steps,
allowing the panting, eager beast to get closer. Fear made her cringe, but she
didn't move. "Turn around, bitch," he said.
She turned on hands and knees, her ass now facing the dog. She was
shaking harder, and little whimpers came from her mouth along with the sound of
her heavy breathing. "Down on your elbows," he commanded. "Face on the floor.
Spread your knees, so King can get at you."
Her face in the carpet. Her ass up in the air. Waiting to pleasure a
dog. To be a dog's plaything. That's all she was. And she could hear the men
murmuring and laughing, see them lean forward in their chairs to watch her
debasement. That's all she was. A naked, crouching, groveling object for their
pleasure. For the dog's pleasure.
Now he brought the dog close enough to reach her with his mouth. She
felt King sniffing at her ass, felt his nose, his hairy face, felt his tongue
licking eagerly at her flesh. Her whimpers got louder. And now the host was
standing beside her, still holding the leash, standing on the other side of her
so he wouldn't block the view of the watching men, while the dog mounted her.
She cried out as his sharp paws slid across her skin, felt the weight of him on
her back, heavier than she had imagined, heard his panting, whining, growling
breath in her ear. Then his huge cock was stabbing blindly at her, sliding over
her flesh, poking at her backside as it attempted to find an entry point. The
men were laughing.
"Help him, Pamela bitch," the host said. "Put him inside you."
Dear god.
She reached back, all the way back, groping, searching, until she found
the dog's member. He growled dangerously, pulling away as she curled her fingers
around it, but on the second try she managed to grasp it and bring it down to
her vagina. Once he felt the opening he needed no more guidance. With a shrill
yelp he lunged at her, burying himself inside her with one push.
Her cry was as shrill as his. He was so large and thick that she was
afraid he would tear her insides as he immediately began to hump at her with
short but vicious strokes. He seemed to swell even larger inside her, stretching
her unbearably and battering at her wildly with his rapid-fire lunges. And still
the men laughing at her, enjoying the spectacle, savoring her pain and
degradation.
It didn't last long. King yelped again, several times, as he poured his
canine sperm into her belly. His weight was even heavier on her after he came,
but he soon scrambled off her, his still swollen tool bringing another cry from
her as it tore out of her vagina.
But it wasn't over.
"King's not finished yet," the host said. "He usually likes to go two or
three times, at least. And it's been so long for him. But I'm sure he'd like a
little encouragement, Pamela bitch. Why don't you suck his cock for him."
A murmur from the seated men.
She couldn't believe it.
Yes, she could.
Suck the dog's cock. How low could he make her sink? What was next? Lick
the dog's asshole? Eat his shit? She would do it. Oh god, she would do it, she
would do anything, that was why she was here, that was what she was. God help
her.
"Yes," she said. She didn't recognize her own voice. "I'll suck his cock
for him."
"Turn over," he said. And she turned and lay down on her back, and the
dog stood over her, still panting, and she slid down until her face was under
his cock. It was not as large as it had been before he had fucked her, but it
was still red and shiny, and it twitched and throbbed, and there was moisture
oozing from the tip. And she raised her head and opened her mouth and took the
dog's cock into it.
She held onto his legs as she sucked him, taking as much of him as she
could, sliding her lips back and forth, even licking him with her tongue. He
emitted a low, steady growl as she did it, and his cock swelled and stiffened.
The worm inside her was a monster now, eating away at her, devouring her
mind and her soul and her very humanity, leaving her an empty shell, a lifeless,
brainless object who lived only for self-abasement, for suffering, for the
pleasure of others. Human and otherwise. The monster worm was her true lover,
and she surrendered to it utterly, feeling the familiar overwhelming lust rising
higher and higher as she sucked on the dog's filthy cock, and the host urged her
on with foul words, and the seated men laughed....
But she must not come. She concentrated on not coming, and then the dog
was pulled away from her, and the host was pulling her up and sitting her in a
chair and pulling her legs apart, hooking them over the chair arms so the dog
could mount her frontally. And he did, standing on his hind legs with his body
pressed against her, his strong rough tongue swiping over her face, drooling on
her face as he again fucked her roughly and painfully, and she was crying and
moaning and twisting and trying not to come, trying so hard not to come, and
then he was finished again. And again she screamed as he finally pulled out of
her.
"You want to come, don't you, dog-fucker?" the host said.
She made a sound, unable to form words.
"Tell me, bitch. Ask me. Nicely."
She forced herself to speak. "Yes," she choked. "Yes, Sir. Please.
Please let me. Please."
"Do it," he said.
And she slid off the chair and rolled over on the floor and put her
hands between her legs and came, helplessly, convulsively, irresistibly, in
front of them all, came again and again, rocking back and forth and moaning and
gasping and coming, as if she would never stop.
#
When she did stop the host asked the men if any of them wanted to fuck
her. But none of them wanted to follow the dog. So they put her in the bathtub
and all the men pissed on her before they left. The dog pissed on her too.
#
It was time for her to go home. She got herself cleaned up, and she put
on her little skirt and the small pullover he had given her, and he drove her to
the airport. Before she got out of the truck he told her he had a parting gift
for her, and he brought two small objects out of his pocket.
Nipple clamps.
Her throat tightened as she saw that they were the kind with tiny screws
set into them, to allow the pressure to be adjusted to whatever degree was
desired. Or required.
"Aren't you going to thank me for the gift, fucktoy?" he said.
"Thank you, Sir," she whispered.
"You're welcome. Lift up your shirt."
She pulled the snug top up over her breasts. Her nipples were already
stiffening with that combination of fright and anticipation she knew so well. He
fitted one of the clamps onto her left nipple and slowly turned the little
screw. The clamp grew tighter and tighter, and still tighter, until in spite of
her efforts to be stoic, she emitted a short, sharp cry and bent forward.
"Straighten up, Pamela cunt," he said, and she did. Her breathing was
ragged. He gave the screw another half-turn, and a thin whining sound came from
between her tightly clenched teeth.
"That should do it, I think," he said, and picked up the other one.
This one was even worse, because her right nipple, the one that had been
burned, was still blistered and sore. But he set the screw just as tightly as
the other one. The pain throbbed through her whole body, and though she waited
for the worst of it, the first shock, to diminish, it only seemed to grow
stronger. She knew the pain was her lover, but right now it was a love-hate
relationship. Sometimes that love could be so cruel!
"Now listen, Pamela slut," he was saying. "This is my last order to you.
You will not take those clamps off, you will not loosen them, you will not even
touch them, until after you get home. Or until after you get fucked, whichever
comes first. Do you understand me?"
"Oh god..." she moaned. How could she...
"What's that, slut?"
She swallowed. "Yes, Sir."
"Furthermore," he went on, "you will not come either. Until after you
get home, or after you get fucked. Understand?"
"Yes, Sir."
"One more thing." He took out a small cellular phone and gave it to her.
"When you do take them off, no matter where you are or what you are doing, I
want you to call me. My number is there. You will call me before you take them
off. I want to hear your cries of pain as the blood rushes back in. I look
forward to that."
"Yes, Sir," she panted.
"Now go," he said.
#
She was getting more strange looks than ever. No wonder. In addition to
the tiny skirt, the ultra-snug top now clearly outlined the shapes not only of
her breasts, but of the nipple clamps as well. She wondered how many of the
people who stared at her chest knew what they were. But she couldn't worry about
that. In a haze of pain she boarded the plane and found her seat. She looked out
the window, seeing nothing as the plane took off. Her shoulders were hunched,
and she twisted in the seat, unable to keep still. The agony was doing its thing
with her now, taking her over, her crotch was wet, but the terrible throbbing
never let up. She longed to at least touch the punishing clamps in a vague hope
of some tiny assuagement, but she did not. It was not allowed. She found herself
rubbing her legs together; oh god, yes, she wanted to come, she needed to come,
her cunt was throbbing in time with her nipples, the need rising with the
anguish. But it was not allowed. All she could do was try not to moan, try not
to squirm too noticeably. But she couldn't keep still, oh Christ... how much
time till she got home? Hours yet. Hours...
"Are you all right, Miss?"
"What?" It was the man next to her. She hadn't even noticed him when he
sat down. Hadn't noticed anything. How long had they been flying? Hours to go...
"Is something wrong, Miss?" the man asked, looking at her curiously. Oh
Jesus. Looking at the odd shapes on her chest. At her legs. At her writhing,
twitching body.
Then she heard the voice in her mind. "Until after you get home. Or
until after you get fucked."
Oh god.
But not him.
He was fat. Really fat. And bald, and sweaty, and his teeth were bad.
No.
"You look like you're sick, lady. You want me to call a stewardess?"
"No. No thanks. No."
Not him.
Please not him.
"Can I get you anything? A drink? Is there something you need?"
Why not? she thought. He was perfect. He was what she deserved. He was
disgusting, and she was a filthy cunt. She had fucked a dog. This man was at
least human. He was more than she deserved.
"Yes," she said. "Yes. I need your cock."
He stared at her. "What?"
"I need your cock,' she said, panting now. "I need you to fuck me.
Please. Please, I'm begging you. Don't you want to fuck me? I'll be good for
you. I swear, I'll do anything you want. Please fuck me. Please."
"Jesus Christ!" the man said. He looked like he'd been poleaxed. "Jesus,
lady, I...I mean...shit...how? Where?"
"The bathroom," she said. "Come on. Come on." She pushed at him and he
got up. She squeezed past him, remembering at the last minute to take the little
cell phone with her, and led the way to the lavatories in the back of the plane.
She didn't care who was watching or what they thought. She couldn't think about
that. She only knew she needed to do this, she needed it like she needed her
breath.
He was so fat that the two of them could barely squeeze into the tiny
lavatory. She gave a cry of pain as he pressed up against her, crushing her
tormented breasts. There was no room to lie down, and she didn't see how they
could do it standing up. She was backed up against the little iron sink, with
its midget counter surface, and now desperately she hoisted herself up on the
edge of it. With him standing, the height was right. With a groan she pulled up
her skirt and spread her legs wide. "Do it," she panted. "Come on, you bastard.
Do it to me."
He fumbled at his zipper and managed to get it down, and to pull his
cock out. It was hard, and as ugly as the rest of him. She pulled him to her. He
reached out his hands to put them on her breasts. "No!" she cried, suddenly
hitting out at him, even kicking at him. He backed off as much as he could,
bewildered. "Don't touch me," she gasped, almost sobbing now. "Don't fucking
touch me. Just fuck me. Please. Come on. Oh god, please."
He moved close to her again, his hand on his cock, guiding it to her
crotch. Even so she had to help him find her. She was sopping wet and he went in
without any trouble. She groaned loudly and pushed back at him. The pain was
worse than ever, but she belonged to it now, she loved it without reservation,
and if it was cruel to her she wanted that cruelty, she needed it, she craved
it. And this strange disgusting man was fucking her and she was coming, not for
him but for her lover the pain, coming, she was CHRIST...
She screamed so loud that she thought the passengers must have heard,
but she didn't care now. The man was coming too now, and as he spurted into her
she climaxed again. She had a third orgasm as he withdrew from her, but when he
started to say something she just yelled at him to get out. Looking more
bewildered, and more unattractive, than ever, he hastily zipped himself up and
left the bathroom.
She slid off the counter, but her legs wouldn't hold her and she sank to
the floor, where she lay almost in a foetal position, panting, a diminishing
series of mini-climaxes shuddering through her. She had been fucked. Yes, thank
god, now she could remove the clamps. But no. First she had to call him. Call
him so he could hear her pain when she took them off. His last order.
She found the phone on the floor and picked it up. With shaking fingers
she pushed the buttons. A pause, then the ringing. Two rings, three. Then he
answered.
"Hello?"
"It's me," she breathed. "Pamela. Sir."
She could hear him chuckle. "I knew you wouldn't make it home, fucktoy.
You got someone to fuck you on the plane?"
"Yes. Yes, Sir."
"Where are you now?"
"I'm--I'm in the bathroom. Sir. On the floor."
"Tell me about it."
She did. She told him everything. She knew he could hear the anguish in
her voice, the pain, the degradation.
"Very good, Pamela slut," he said when she had finished. "And now I
suppose you want to take the clamps off."
"Yes, Sir. Please. Please."
"All right. Keep the phone to your mouth so I can hear you."
She tried to keep the phone in place with her shoulder as she lifted up
her top, but the involuntary twitchings and twistings of her body made her
fearful of dropping it, so she held it with one hand and used the other to
unscrew the clamps. It was more difficult that way, and more painful, but she
did it. As she loosened the first screw and drew the clamp away, the unexpected
severity of the pain as the blood rushed back to her nipple did indeed cause her
to scream into the phone. She writhed on the floor, clutching her breast, and
now she was frightened of loosening the other one. But of course she had to.
Again her cry of agony echoed around the little room, and now, having satisfied
his desire to hear her pain, she dropped the phone and rolled over on the floor,
coming again.
When she picked up the phone again he was still there. "That was very
gratifying, Pamela," he said. "Excellent."
"Thank you, Sir." Panting,
"I would like you to come to me again, Pamela," he said then.
"Unfortunately, I will not be here next weekend, but the weekend after is free.
I would like you to come to me then. Will you do that?"
For a long moment she could not speak. She felt faint. She felt fear,
terror, even panic. But she knew what her answer would be.
"Yes, Sir," she said finally. "I will."
"Good," he said. "I will be looking forward to it."
"Thank you, Sir."
"Oh, one more thing, fucktoy," he said.
"Yes, Sir?"
"You may call me Master now."
