Obediance

I

       I am writing this by candlelight in a basement.  “Basement” is too glorified a term; “dungeon” would be more accurate.  There is a stone floor, a wooden bench, a pole, and a gymnastic horse.  This is not my house.  I don’t know the name of the man who owns it; I was given to him last night by another man whom I was given to by my Master earlier in the week.  My ankle is chained to the pole.  I write these words because I just had to let someone know what is happening to me.  I have not been allowed to express myself freely for at least six months, or maybe nine – I can’t remember and have no way of telling.

       My name was Elizabeth, but no one has used it in months – including me.  It would be ironic if they did, since, despite my father telling me as a girl that I was named after the Virgin Queen, I am the furthest thing from a virgin.  I am usually called “Slut” or “Whore.”  Sometimes “Cunt.”  The word “Whore” has been tattooed on my rear, so I suppose that is as much my name as any other word now.  My husband has a name, but I am no longer allowed to speak it.  When I am allowed to address him, I say “Master” or “Sir.”  Usually “Master.”  Even then, I rarely get to speak to him, though I love him with my body and soul.  When I am near him, I am usually gagged.  Sometimes I have his sex in my mouth, or another man’s.

       My slavery began slowly and, for me, unknowingly.  One evening last year, my husband – not yet my Master – had taken me on a date to an elegant cabaret bar.  I prepared as always: I showered, shaved my legs smooth, neatly trimmed my pubic area.  I wore a sheer thong, matching sheer bra, and dark stockings.  I am not a boastful person, but examining myself in the mirror, I was attractive that night.  I am thin, but my breasts are heavy given how slender I am.  My rear is simply beautiful – all three of the boyfriends I dated before my husband said so.  Beneath my thong the lips of my sex could be seen.  Dressed like this, I knew I would make love that night.  My husband walked into my dressing room wearing a tuxedo.  He kissed me, and I was proud to be married to such a handsome and loving man.  Then he whispered to me in a voice I had never heard: “Give me your thong.”  I looked into his eyes and couldn’t read them.  I obediently stepped out of the string of the thong and handed it to him, my rear and sex now exposed.  He put it in his pocket.  Unsure what to do next, I slipped on my short black cocktail dress and my high heeled mules.  I stepped with my husband into the evening air clinging to his arm and feeling beautiful and loved, if naked.

       We had a wonderful time at the cabaret.  My husband held my hand, touched my cheek, and treated me like a princess.  I couldn’t have been happier.  What’s more, we befriended another attractive couple and asked them to join our table.  I was mildly sheepish – after all, I was wearing a short dress with no panties – but I decided that wouldn’t be noticed.  The other couple, Ken and Alicia, were funny and attractive.  Ken had dark eyes, strong arms, and money.  Alicia had pouty red lips and a stunning smile.  And breasts I envied.  We were quite a party for new acquaintances.  Three hours and five drinks into the evening, Alicia excused herself to visit the ladies’ room.  A few minutes after that, my husband leaned into me and whispered, “You’re going to suck cock tonight, beautiful.”

       “Oh, yes,” I smiled back.  I enjoyed giving my husband head.

       “Not mine.  Ken’s.”

       I blushed and laughed at his joke.

       “I’m not kidding,” he said, looking at me intently.  I was a little drunk, or at least that’s how I explained what happened next to myself.

       “Okay, if that’s what you want,” I whispered meekly back, squeezing his leg.  My husband didn’t say a word, and stood up to leave.

       I now sat alone at the table with Ken, an attractive man but a complete stranger.  I was at a loss as to how to proceed.  I am not a prude; I have enthusiastically performed every sex act my husband has ever desired, and he is demanding.  But I am unfailingly loyal to my husband, and the contradiction between being sexually faithful to him and being obedient to his instructions confused me beyond words.  I looked Ken in the eye and said, “They seem to have found a better offer.”

       Ken smiled and clinked his glass on mine.  “Let’s get to know each other better,” he said.  I slid closer and our legs touched.  We spent the next hour drinking and flirting.  Still, I was unsure how to broach the subject of my husband’s instructions.  After a time, I innocently kissed Ken’s ear and whispered, “I have a surprise for you.”

       We locked eyes, I smiled at him with my brightly lipsticked lips, and slid under the table.  My hands trembled as I unfastened his belt.  I had only ever performed oral sex on four men in my life, and while I passionately love the feel of a man’s sex in my mouth, I was also passionately loyal to my husband.  But loyalty means obedience, so I slid Ken’s trousers down.  Beneath his form-fitting black shorts was the outline of his engorged organ.  I traced the outline with my fingernail before sliding my hands inside the waistband and pulling down the shorts to reveal Ken’s manhood. 

       Ken’s balls were large and his sex radiated heat from the blood that engorged it.  I held it against my cheek for a moment, unsure if I could actually take it in my mouth.  I loved my husband and wanted to be faithful, but also wanted to obey him.  I suppose I am a submissive person, because obedience won out.  I opened my red lips and took the head of Ken’s member in my mouth.  It felt like other men I had taken – wonderful.  Hot.  Throbbing.  Salty.  Intimate.  There is a reason why women love to fellate their men – not just their men, but men.  We feel beautiful when a man desires us enough to hold our face in his hands and place his organ in our lips.

       I now felt Ken’s hands on the back of my head, urging me on.  Even though I could hear the music of the cabaret singer and the clinking of glasses just inches away on the other side of the tablecloth, and even though Ken was a stranger I had just met hours earlier, I was not ashamed.  I was an obedient woman following the instructions of my husband, even if that meant pleasuring a strange man with my mouth in public.  Cupping his balls in my hand, I slowly worked my mouth down his shaft, savoring the musky smell of his groin and the heat of his organ pulsing between my lips.  As I took his full length in my throat, I could sense that he would shortly finish in my mouth.  Moments later, I felt his body stiffen.  Ken held me by my ears to keep my head in place while he drained his semen down my throat.  I submissively swallowed as fast as I could.  Then, before I could emerge from under the table to thank him for allowing me the pleasure of fellating him, he zipped his trousers, pushed the table away, and walked out.  When he pushed the table away, of course, he exposed me to the other patrons, on my knees, my makeup smeared, with a telltale trace of semen on my lips and cheek.  At that moment, Alicia walked by the table.  “Whore,” she muttered, as she left to follow her husband out the door.  That was the first time, but far from the last, I would be called that name. 

II

       I woke up bleary-eyed in my own bed the next morning, naked.  With only a hazy recollection of the previous night’s events, I reached my arm around my husband’s waist and teased his balls lightly with my nails.  I could feel him growing erect.  With a girlish giggle, I slid under the sheets and lightly tongued his sac before taking his head in my mouth.  His rubbery bulb was slick with pre-ejaculate, which I licked hungrily.  I slowly absorbed his full length and bobbed my head slowly the way I knew pleased him.  My husband does not always have tremendous self-control, but this morning he remained hard in my mouth for at least 20 minutes before releasing his juices into my waiting throat.  I submissively received his semen and licked his sex clean before emerging from the sheets to smile at my beloved spouse.  Looking up from my prostrate and vulnerable position, I saw – not my husband.  Ken?  Not Ken either.  A complete stranger.  In my bed, his semen in my stomach.  I gasped in shock.  My husband had instructed me to suck another man, but not this man.  He smiled at me knowingly.  “Thanks for the blowjob, Slut.  I’ll be back next week.  Wait for me on your knees.”

       I stared blankly as the man stood up, sperm dripping from the organ that had just been in my mouth, and slipped on his trousers without any underwear.  He walked out of the room, and I heard the front door slam behind him.  Then silence.  Where was my husband?  I lay naked and alone in my room trying to understand what had happened and trembling at the thought of my husband finding out.  In the past 12 hours, I had performed oral sex on two complete strangers.  I had done it willingly and had even enjoyed it.  The taste of two men’s fluid was on my tongue.  Did that make me a whore?  What other word was there for a woman who would do such a thing?

III

       It is no exaggeration to say that, as I lay naked on my bed, my life flashed before my eyes.  My whole life, I had been a good girl.  My parents had raised me to be modest and respectful, and I remained very close to them.  My husband and I had a wide circle of friends.  We were popular in the neighborhood.  Now I was on the verge of throwing all this away because of a silly dare my husband had made last night in a bar.  I decided that’s all it was, really – a dare.  I was not a whore who pleasured strange men under the table in bars; I was an adventurous wife who could be playful when her husband demanded it.  I decided to get up, shower, and put the craziness behind me.  I needed to get dressed in any event, because the husband of a friend of mine had promised to come over this morning to drop off a package that had been misdelivered.

       I was nude as I walked to the bathroom and paused in front of the mirror before stepping into the shower.  Yes, my makeup was a disaster, but given where my mouth had been last night, that was no surprise.  Yes, my hair was mussed.  But there was no denying my husband was a lucky man.  I cupped my breasts in my hands as my husband liked to do; they were firm but heavy, with prominent brown areolas and nipples that could be an inch long when aroused.  My sex was neatly trimmed, with just a small trim mound of hair – not enough to conceal my nether lips.  My rear – well, as I’ve already said, men like my rear.  Pleased with myself and no longer concerned about the weird events of last night (because that’s all they were), I stepped into the shower and washed myself thoroughly.  I stood naked before the mirror to air dry as I brushed my teeth thoroughly to rid myself of the taste of sex that lingered in my mouth.  Then I walked to my dressing room to get dressed quickly, in time for my friend’s husband’s arrival in 15 minutes.

       I turned on the light in my dressing room and froze in shock.  Then trembled in fear.  The extensive wardrobe that had hung in my closet only the night before was gone.  Entirely.  Where more than 30 dresses and pantsuits had hung 24 hours earlier, there now hung only five items.  Three were t-shirts several sizes too small for me.  The front of one read “WHORE.”  A second said “Slut” on the font.  The third  said “Suck on this.”  Given how small these shirts were and how large my breasts are, there would be no mistaking the meaning of that one.  On a fourth hanger hung a beautiful black lace negligee that tied at the neck to leave the breasts exposed.  Hanger number five bore a skirt so small that it would be impossible to sit down without exposing myself.

       Short of breath and with only seven minutes before my friend’s husband was supposed to arrive, I flung open my top drawer so at least I could pull on some panties before Dan arrived.  In retrospect, I don’t why I thought my panties would have been left there when my dresses and suits had disappeared.  Where previously I had a drawer overflowing with underwear, there now were four items: a tiny sheer black lace thong, a tiny red thong, a white panty that looked virginal until I saw an open slit where the crotch should be, and a black latex contraption that covered the sex but left the rear completely exposed.  Now in a panic, I flung open a second drawer.  Makeup.  At least that had been left to me.  Drawer three, which previously held scarves and the like, was a complete shock: Where my most conservative accessories had been now stood (and I do mean stood) a collection of absolutely obscene sex toys.  Even in my current degraded state, I blush at the memory of how I felt when I first saw them.  Standing up in the deep drawer was a ten-inch soft latex version of a male member (in case you can’t tell, one way I try to preserve my humanity is not to use the vulgar terms for the devices and acts to which I have been subjected).  Next to it was a pair of small clamps connected by a long silvery chain, apparently intended to be affixed to the nipples.  Four leather cuffs were in the back of the drawer, each affixed with clasps.  Finally, a device that looked like a thong in that it had a string that ran up the rear and a place for two legs to be inserted.  In front where the crotch would be was a plastic butterfly-shaped device, with a short but thick protrusion obviously intended to be inserted into the female sex.  Finally, there was a velvet mask or blindfold.  These were all the possessions I found in my dressing room.  I panicked as I realized that a male friend would be here in less than five minutes and I appeared to have a choice between greeting him naked or greeting him “dressed” in garb that would instantly identify me as a whore, or worse.  My heart raced as a I turned around and around my closet looking for some alternative.  My breasts heaved up and down as my breath came in short gasps.  The room began to spin.

       Just then the phone rang.  It was my husband.

       “Oh, darling,” I said, “Thank God it’s you.  Something’s happened.  When you were  out last night, someone robbed us, and my clothes are all gone.  I don’t know what to do because Dan is supposed to be here in a minute and I –“

       “Slut, calm down.”  My husband had never called me that.  “No one robbed us, and all your clothes are not gone.  They’re in your closet.”

       “No, they’re not, ____” I cried, using his name.  “You haven’t seen it.  Everything’s gone!”  I was sobbing now, tears running down my freshly made-up cheeks.

       “Slut,” he said again, “everything is not gone.  Everything a whore needs is in your dressing room.  I know exactly what happened.  Last night you went out bare-assed in public.  You sucked the cock of a complete stranger, swallowed his cum, and licked your lips in front of a crowded bar.  Then you came home and slept naked next to different man – another stranger – and you sucked him off too.  And smiled at him afterward.  You’re a whore, and apparently a good one.”

       “But _______,” I pleaded, using his name again.

       “You’re not going to use my name again, Slut.  Any woman who behaves the way you do needs a master, not a husband, so from now on you’ll call me either Master or Sir.  Do you understand?”

       “Yes, sir,” I whispered obediently.  “But Master, Dan will be here any minute.  What shall I do?  He can’t see me like this.”

       “In fact, he can see you.  Right now.  Turn around.”

       I froze again.  I slowly turned around and saw that there, in my window, was our friend Dan.  Staring straight at my nude body, obviously appreciating the full breasts he had previously seen only under clothing, and drinking in the view of my exposed sex.  This man and his wife played tennis with us.  We co-chaired a community fundraiser last year.  I instinctively moved my hands in a vain effort at modesty, trying to cover my chest and pubic area.  He smiled through the window and shook his head, then motioned to me to open the door.  Defeated, I dropped my hands to my side and strode across the hall to open the side door.

       “Dan, --” I stammered, completely flummoxed to be standing next to my friend’s husband in an obscene state of undress.

       “Elizabeth, I’m only going to say this once because I care for you.  Your life is going to change now.  In some ways it will be for the better; you’ll see.  The things you’ve stressed about won’t bother you anymore.  No more social climbing or trying to fit in.  All you have to do from now on is obey.  Just obey.  Men will love you, and most women you’ll encounter from now on will do their best to ignore you.  Your one function will be to obey.”  With that, Dan – husband of my friend, golf partner of my husband, regular down at the club – took a step toward me and reached out his hand to cup my left breast.  He lightly pinched the nipple between his thumb and forefinger, watching it grow erect.  “You see?” he  said.  “Just obey.”

       Leaving me standing there naked and speechless, Dan walked down the hallway to my kitchen as if he owned the place and picked up the phone.  I could hear him talking in a normal tone of voice, with no effort at secrecy or concealment.

       “Yes, I’m here.  You were right.  She opened the door completely nude.  Yes, in the full light of day.  Any neighbor could have seen her.  I agree – total whore.  All right, we’ll be with you shortly.”  I heard him set the receiver down and return to the dressing room where I stood nailed to the same spot.

       “All right,” said Dan.  ‘Let’s get you ready.”  He reached into my drawers and first took out the clamps.  He affixed one clamp to each of my nipples, leaving the slender chain hanging between my breasts.  It was surprisingly heavy.  He then took the butterfly device out of the drawer and knelt down in front of me, with his face at roughly the same level as my sex.  “Slut, spread your legs wider,” he ordered.

       “Dan, I don’t know how it came to this, but if Lisa” – that was Dan’s wife, my friend – “is home, I’d like to talk to her.”  He stood up and slapped me hard across the face. 

       “Slut, don’t ever use my name again, and forget you ever knew Lisa.  I tried to be kind and explain things to you, but let me be clear: You are a whore now, our community property.  You are not to use your voice unless spoken to.  Your body belongs to us now.  You have no name now.  You exist for only one purpose.  Don’t make me punish you further.”

       I stood silently before him, tears welling up in my eyes.  He got back on his knees and returned to work inserting the butterfly device into my womanhood.  I was ashamed and crying.  In some ways, sucking and licking the manhood of a complete stranger felt less degrading than standing naked and exposed before a man I knew well.  Nonetheless, I obediently relaxed  my muscles to allow him to insert the device between my lips.  Then he stood up.

       “Follow me to the car, Slut,” he said.

       “Sir, what shall I put on?”

       Smack.  He slapped my naked rear and looked into my eyes, hard.  “This is the last time I’ll explain it to you.  You don’t speak unless spoken to.  You are wearing all you need to be wearing.  Now march out to the driveway and get in the car.”

       I started to sob, but I knew it was futile to argue.  I was going to walk out my front door naked, my breasts clamped and chained for all to see, unsure where I was going.  The only thing that gave me comfort was the knowledge that I was following my husband’s – no, my Master’s – will.  Clinging to that thought, I took a deep breath, turned the doorknob, and walked naked into the noonday sun toward Dan’s car.

IV

       The ride away from the home I had shared with my husband (now Master) seemed like a ride into an entirely new life – a life that, I could already tell, would not involve dinner parties, charity events, or the symphony.  I sat in the passenger seat not two feet away from my friend’s husband Dan.  The last time I had seen him he and his wife Lisa were with us at the opera, all of us dressed in eveningwear.  Now I wore nothing but nipple clamps and a sort of g-string or thong with a butterfly device where the crotch should be.  When I sat down in the car, Dan had instructed me to spread my legs.  Other than that, we rode in silence.

        We had driven perhaps five miles when the butterfly device began to vibrate between my legs – hard.  I gasped audibly.  “Your master is trying to get your attention,” said Dan.  “That device is activated by remote control.  It’s one way of demonstrating our control over you in your most intimate places.”

       While I heard Dan speak these words, I was unable to focus on them.  The insistent buzzing inside my sex overwhelmed my attention.  My breath came in increasingly more rapid pants as the remote-controlled butterfly vibrated against my clitoris.  After a few minutes, I could feel my body approaching orgasm, and I felt ashamed at my wanton arousal in the presence of my friend.  But before I could climax, the vibration abruptly stopped.  I sat with my legs splayed lewdly, dripping  juices on the car seat, disappointed.  “That was also your master trying to get your attention,” Dan said drily.

       By now, we had left the suburbs where I lived and had entered a hip neighborhood in the city, an area that a few years earlier had been something of a slum but which had gentrified significantly when the sports arena had been built nearby.  The neighborhood consisted mostly of large 19th century brownstones – the kind of houses robber barons lived in once upon a time – that had fallen into disrepair and were now in the process of restoration by the yuppie couples and urban pioneers who had recently moved into the area.  As I gradually regained my senses from my masturbatory high (is it masturbation if your Master stimulates you by remote control?), I realized that there were pedestrians on the street – I saw several young couples walking together, some headed to dinner at the restaurants in the neighborhood, a few hand in hand.  They could easily see me in my nakedness if they so much as glanced in the car.  I blushed all over at the thought.

       Dan pulled the car over a few blocks later on Congress Street, in the middle of the block.  “You’re expected at 1620 Congress.  Just press the intercom button and the gate will open for you.”  I looked around, saw that no one was walking on the block just then, and opened the door to step out of the car.

       “Slut, your pussy juices have dripped on my seat.  You’ll need to clean them off with your tongue,” Dan said, remarkably politely given the nature of the order.  Almost as degrading as the order itself was the language he used; as I’ve said, I am a very conservative person by nature, however strange that may sound coming from a woman who has sex in public with strangers.  But the order itself was plenty humiliating in itself.  Still, I obediently moved to comply.  On exiting the passenger door, I knelt down on the sidewalk and carefully licked every inch of the car seat on which I had just been sitting.  In doing so, I was on display for any passerby to see; my rear was completely exposed since I was wearing only the butterfly thong, and my breasts swayed beneath me as I lapped up my juices, the silvery chain scraping the ground.

       When I finished my task, Dan said goodbye in the most normal, everyday voice you can imagine, and I shut the car door behind me.  Still no one on the block, I observed.  I looked for the house with 1620 in front of it.  That’s when I realized: this was the 1400 block.  Dan had dropped me, naked, two blocks away from my destination.  Again my breath came in short gasps as I panicked at the thought of wandering nude through an upscale city neighborhood.  My only thought was to run for it, since the street was clear at least at that moment.  Barefoot, I started off at a spring down the street.  The chain between my breasts swung with each stride, pulling my nipples in a way that was both painful and arousing.  As I approached the corner, my butterfly started vibrating again, much harder than last time.  I fell to the ground, prey to its powerful buzzing.  I lay on the sidewalk of a public street, first panicked that I would be seen, but then unable to resist the insistent stimulation of my sex.  I opened my legs and closed my eyes as the butterfly induced my natural lubrication and progressed toward orgasm.  Still the butterfly vibrated, and as my nipples grew erect with arousal I gripped my breasts and massaged them lewdly.  That was it – I could no longer control myself, and I cried out as my orgasm came in waves.  For what seemed like five minutes I writhed naked on the street lost in my own sensuality until at last my Master deactivated the remote control and the vibrating stopped.  Only then did I open my eyes and see that a small crowd had gathered around me – young couples mostly, a couple of stray businessmen in suits, a homeless man who had come from the park across the street.  In front of this crowd of strangers I had sexually climaxed in broad daylight, naked for all to see. 

       I closed my widespread legs, managed to get to my feet, and ran as fast I could the additional block to the address Dan had given me.  I must have looked ridiculous, a 32-year-old woman running naked, breasts bobbing, rear exposed, sexual juices dripping down her leg.  But I quickly arrived at the appointed address.  Instinctively, I felt more nervous pressing the intercom button at the brownstone mansion than I had pleasuring myself on the sidewalk moments before.  But I had been given clear instructions by my Master (or at least by Dan, who I assumed to be acting with the authority of my Master), so I steeled myself for what was to come and rang the bell.

V

       I stood at the gate to the brownstone for perhaps 60 seconds, but is might as well have been an eternity.  I was not just naked, but still flushed and dripping from the climax I had experienced minutes earlier.  At least three couples walked past me while I waited for an answer.  I could feel their stares, and when one couple passed me I could hear the man whisper something to his female companion that made her giggle.  But eventually I heard to lock buzz open, and I pushed the gate open and walked up the stairs to the front door, a heavy, oaken affair with antique wrought-iron strips across the front.  Next to the front door was a discreet brass plaque that read “OBD Publications.”  The door was opened by a man wearing jeans, a flak jacket, and sunglasses on his head.  He had an expensive-looking camera hanging from a strap around his neck.  “So you’re the one.  All right, come this way.”  The man seemed completely uninterested in me, which was a relief in a way.  I had just been the main attraction out on the street, and if I could have even a few minutes of being ignored, that was likely to be the closest thing to privacy I was likely to experience that day.  I followed the man down a hall that had a series of locked doors, each of which he opened and then carefully locked behind us as we passed through.  We eventually came to the rear of the house, where there was an elevator.  The man with the camera said nothing as he pressed the “up” button.  When the elevator arrived, he politely allowed me to step in first, as though I was a lady deserving of such chivalrous treatment.  As the doors closed, he pressed  a button labeled “PH,” which would take us  to the top floor of  the beautiful old mansion.

       The elevator doors slid open, revealing what was obviously a high end photography studio complete with staged lighting, various sets, and other equipment.  Several men were milling about; I assumed they were technicians or photographers or some such thing.  Near the elevator was a oversized foam-board poster of a magazine cover; apparently this was where the pictures for the magazine were taken.  The magazine banner read “Obediance,” and then in smaller italicized text beneath, “Members Only.”  The enlarged cover featured a truly lewd photo of a nude woman on her knees, hands bound behind her back, with her mouth pressed to the groin of a naked man shown from the waist down.  The woman’s mouth was obscenely distended to accommodate what was obviously an unusually large penis, the outline of which could be seen pressing against the inside of the woman’s cheek.

       “Wait here,” the man with the camera instructed me, leaving me standing in the middle of the room naked except for my breast chains and my butterfly thong.  He disappeared through a door on the left side of the studio.  I must have stood there alone for 15 minutes.  The thought entered my mind to find a place to sit down, or perhaps to seek my escape, but I remembered the instructions Dan had conveyed from my Master: “Just obey.”  So I did as instructed and waited.  As I surveyed the studio, my gaze returned to the poster.  In my degradation, I found myself aroused by the photo and particularly aroused by the beauty of the blonde woman in the picture.  As I studied the magazine poster, my eyes widened at the familiarity of the woman.  Could this be Lisa, Dan’s wife, my tennis partner and fellow community booster?  The woman who had two children who went to the neighborhood school?  It was hard to tell because the woman’s features were so distorted by her grotesque sexual pose.  And yet as I scrutinized the photo, I concluded that it could only be her.  Her blonde hair was pulled back away from her face the way Lisa usually wore it.  She also wore distinctive diamond earrings that I had seen Lisa wear once at a club dinner.  Was it possible that Lisa, like me, was a wanton slut?

       Eventually the photographer emerged with a woman – a woman? I thought – and they strode purposefully toward me.  The woman was younger than me, blonder, more beautiful, I thought.  She was dressed in riding clothes: leggings, knee-high leather boots, form-fitting blouse, blonde hair in a stylish ponytail.  “Hello there, beautiful,” said the woman.  “I understand you’re here for your photos.  Don’t be nervous.  Our job is to make you as attractive as possible, and I see we have some good material to work with.”  She reached out and weighed my right breast in her hand.  “We’ll need a few touch ups, of course, and then we’ll be ready to go.  Come with me.”

       I followed her through the side door, vaguely conscious of how ridiculous I must look, an older woman following her naked into a theater-style dressing room and obeying every command in silence, without question.  On one side of the room was a counter with sinks, makeup kits, blow dryers, and the like; on the other side was a row of costumes, shoes, and other paraphernalia.  I won’t waste time describing the excruciatingly long photo shoot since, chained here in this basement, I don’t know how long I’ll be able to write before someone returns to use me.  Suffice to say that more than 400 photos were taken, and when they were finished I was allowed to watch as the woman (I heard her referred to as the art director) and the photographer reviewed the finished product.  Photos had been taken of me in every pose the pornographic mind can imagine.  I was photographed alone; I was photographed blindfolded with an unknown man’s member in my mouth; I was photographed chained to a wall, beaten and crying.  The attractive art director smiled at me and said “Good stuff, beautiful.  That will give us plenty to work with.  Now come with me.  Your master has asked that we give you accommodations for the night.”  She knew I have a Master?  I thought.  Who else knows?

       “Thank you,” I said in a small voice.  The woman handed me a white robe to cover my nakedness as we walked back toward the elevator.  It felt hypocritical to wear a virginal white robe, to indulge a modesty that only 48 hours earlier was a fundamental part of my personality but which had been squelched by less than two days of utter sexual abandon.  Nonetheless, I gratefully accepted the robe and slid it on.  It felt luxurious against my skin, which had been so abused over the past few hours.  We exited the elevator on the second floor, where I found a hallway with three doors on either side, each with a room number, not unlike an elegant boutique hotel.  The art director inserted a key in one of the locks and opened the door for me.  I walked inside and found a luxuriously appointed room with a four-poster bed and other fine furnishings.  “Get some rest, beautiful,” said my escort, shutting the door behind her.  She hadn’t given me a key, or, for that matter, any clothes other than the robe.  When I heard  the key turn in the lock, I realized that she had locked me in and that I was more or less a prisoner in this fancy room.

       I don’t believe I had ever felt so alone.  I sat on the bed in my robe, hugging my arms to my chest, rocking back and forth, and keening softly.  Why had my husband – that is, my Master – chosen this for me?  Where had I failed as a wife?  How could he want to share me in this way?  I pondered questions like these for more than an hour, when I heard an envelope being slipped under my door.  I leaped from the bed and picked it up.  The envelope was of the most expensive paper and bore a single word carefully engraved in script with a fountain pen: “Whore.”  Locked in a room naked except for my robe, having spent the afternoon posing for hard-core pornographic pictures, I knew that I was the intended recipient.  I opened the letter.

Dear Elizabeth [my heart leaped at the use of my name] ~

When I ordered you to suck Ken’s cock last night at the cabaret, I had no idea what you were really capable of.  I had thought you might simply be a submissive wife succumbing to her husband’s whim.  But now that you have sucked the cocks of two strangers, and displayed yourself nude to our friend, and walked naked down Congress Street with your tits in chains before orgasming on the sidewalk in front of a crowd, and played the amateur porn star this afternoon, I realize you truly are a whore, not a wife at all.  I want you to grow in your role as a whore because that’s obviously who you really are.

Because I love you, I want to warn you what is in store for you in the coming days and weeks – and months and years.  You will be debased and degraded beyond your imagination – I apologize in advance for this.  Men you don’t know and men you do know will cum in your mouth.  You will be made to fuck strangers three at a time.  Your ass will be penetrated mercilessly.  You will doubtless be chained and whipped.  But these are merely physical torments.  Your real challenge lies elsewhere.

In time, you will lose the most basic vestiges of your humanity.  The first thing to go will be your modesty.  You will dress as a whore if you are allowed to dress at all, which will be only rarely; you will soon find it completely natural to parade your naked body in public, in front of strangers, in the most inappropriate places imaginable.  Next will be your name; I have addressed this letter to you by name because it is in all likelihood the last time anyone will use it, and in time you will forget it yourself.  People will rarely address you directly, and when they refer to you in conversations with others they will use a variety of degrading but, you will come to agree, more accurate terms: Whore, Slut, Cunt, Slave, and a few others.  Later, you will lose even more fundamental aspects of your identity, such as your sexual orientation.  That will be for your masters to choose on any given day, and – I am sorry, my darling – you must prepare yourself to eat pussy as readily as you are already prepared to suck cock.  Finally, you will lose your voice, which will be of no further use to you except to scream or cry out when you are being fucked or beaten.  You will find that, more often than not, you will have a man’s cock or a gag in your mouth.

I apologize in advance that the cock in your mouth will frequently not be mine.  But sometimes they will be friends of mine or even friends of yours, so you can take some  solace in that.  And I will on occasion be with you.  Your mouth, your breasts, your rear, your sex are very special to me.  I will enjoy using them sometimes, and I will enjoy seeing other men use them at other times.  Rest assured that, while you will now submit to men through pure obedience rather than love, I love you and you are doing my will.

Love,

Your Master

VI

       I awoke the next morning to the sun streaming through the windows of my cloistered room.  The sun warmed my naked skin, and for a moment I forgot about the events of the previous  two days.  I stretched luxuriously on the bed and rose to get up when I realized my left hand was cuffed to the bedstead.  Someone must have entered my room while I was sleeping.  I scolded myself for being the eternal optimist – at every juncture since that moment under the table with Ken, I had tried to laugh off my condition and tell myself it was a temporary game.  Now I realized I had given up all privacy and, indeed, all control over my body.  I struggled for a moment against my handcuff, but in vain.  Again, my breath came in short gasps as I quietly sobbed.  Looking back, the scene was ridiculous: a common whore, nude, cuffed to her bed awaiting her next assault, crying as though she were surprised.

       With that thought in my mind, I heard a key in the lock.  Using my right hand, I tried to pull the covers over myself.  That drew a contemptuous laugh from the man who now stood in my doorway.  I peered up at him from my lowly position.  God, he’s attractive, I thought, almost in spite of myself.  The man was younger than me, perhaps 26.  He was tall, and wore a leather jacket and leather riding boots – but no pants at all.  I was attracted to his face, but I couldn’t take my eyes off his exposed sex, which was at least six inches long in its flaccid state.  I knew it wouldn’t stay flaccid long.

       Smiling but without saying a word, the man took two steps into the room and stood directly over me.  He didn’t need to give me an order; I knew my role already.  I sat up on my bed, my naked breasts exposed to his view, and took his member in my free right hand.  He took my head in his hands and guided my lips toward his sex, which rapidly filled with blood.  As I’ve said, I love the feeling of a man’s sex in my mouth.  This particular man’s organ was remarkable.  The head was huge and dark purple, engorged with blood.  The veins on his shaft stood out in prominent relief against the skin, throbbing visibly.  Looking back, I think of this as the first moment of my real descent from normal woman to whoredom: I was completely overcome with desire for this man’s sex, with no regard to my husband or my social status or even my rank degradation.  I didn’t look up at the man’s face, attractive though it was, because my only thought was for his manhood.  I wrapped my hand around the thick base of his member, not noticing the irony of my diamond engagement ring pressed into a strange man’s dark pubic hair.  I ran my tongue around the head of his massive organ before opening my lips in an exaggerated “O” to take it into my mouth.  Once I did that, I ceased for just a moment to be a human being at all; I was nothing more than an animal, overcome with lust, gobbling hungrily the sex that had been presented to me.  I could faintly hear the man (I say “man” even though he was obviously years younger than me) laughing at my sluttish enthusiasm, but I didn’t care.  Whether it was his pheromones, or the physical beauty of his erect member, or the combined effect of two days of utter sexual libertinism, all I could think about was milking the sperm out of his sex with my mouth.  I wanted nothing more than to taste this stranger and feel his throbbing member in my mouth.

       I was therefore surprised and disappointed when he abruptly eased his hips away from my face, obviously easing me.  I leaned forward trying to reclaim my prize, but he held me at arm’s length with his hand to my forehead, denying me what I wanted.  But by that point, I was so aroused that I couldn’t stop my sexual crescendo with or without his organ between my lips.  My left hand moved to caress my nipples which, already erect, sent an electric charge through my body which made me shudder.  I kicked off the covers and spread my legs, moving my right hand to my own sex and spreading my labia to reveal my engorged clitoris for this stranger.  I was totally exposed: my legs spread wide to reveal my glistening sex, my impending orgasm rippling across my taut belly, my tremulous breasts rising and falling with my rapid breaths, while my aroused nipples stood erect beneath my caresses.  He stood before me, stroking his member inches from my face in a smooth rhythm while I unabashedly masturbated myself to orgasm.  We came within moments of each other.  Sweet-salty sticky sperm erupted from his enormous organ in ribbons, landing (despite my best efforts to catch it in my open mouth) on my face, neck, and breasts.  The smell of his fluid only drove me wilder.  He chuckled after he finished, presumably amused at the sight of a woman in wild, animalistic rapture covered in hot, sticky semen.  I barely noticed as he walked out the door, locking it behind him, because I was still in the late stages of rapture.  I fell back on the bed, my hands moved over my body while I scissored my legs in a last effort to achieve one more orgasm, rubbing his precious fluid into the skin of my breasts and belly, luxuriating in my pure animal sexuality.  Then I collapsed back on the bed and fell back to sleep.

VII

       Click.  Again I heard a key in the lock and squinted against the afternoon sun in the window to see a female figure in the doorway.  It was the art director from my photo shoot.  “Hello,” she said cheerfully, “all rested up and ready to go?”  Then she got a good look at me.  I was a sight: breasts and torso encrusted with an unknown man’s semen residue, feminine juices leaking out of my still-aroused sex, hair wildly askew, lipstick smeared from my wild adventure in oral sex.  “Oh my God.”  She smiled fake-coyly, putting her hands to her lips in faux surprise.  “I guess you’ll need a shower.  Can’t take you home like this.”  My instinctive modesty and embarrassment was offset, just a little, by the mention of home. 

       “Can I really go home?” I asked meekly.  I smelled like sperm and looked like the Whore of Babylon, but still my first thought was for my husband.  (He may require me to call him Master, but to me, at least at that time, he was still my husband.)

       “Come on,” she replied, offering me her hand.  She unlocked my left handcuff, helped me off the bed, and walked me down the hall, naked, toward the bathroom.  I stepped inside of what looked to all appearances like a spa at a high-end resort – not exactly the kind of place whores and sex slaves would frequent.  The limestone floor, marble countertops, and silk bathrobes looked more like I had come to Elizabeth Arden than to the offices of a porn magazine.  The only giveaway was the collection of frame art posters on the walls – posters of old magazine covers.  As far as I could tell, Obediance was some kind of kinky men’s magazine, although the subtitle “Members Only” had me puzzled.  The posters seemed to go back a couple of decades, based on the hair styles (both on the models’ heads and on their nether regions – I assumed that the fuller bushes dated to the 1970s and 1980s, while the more groomed pubic areas were more recent).  Like the poster I had seen in the photography studio, these posters all featured nude submissive women in various poses – some engaged in sex acts with one or more men, some in bondage restraints, some in other positions.

       I stepped into the shower eager to cleanse my body and, frankly, my mind.  I drifted into an early-evening reverie as I lathered my naked body with body wash.  My mind skipped from memory to memory, thinking about my first girlish sexual experiments with my high school boyfriend, to my sorority days in college (funny to think how wild I thought I was then, before I learned what wild really meant), to my wedding day.  My wedding day – I looked down to my left hand to admire my engagement ring, my most physical connection to my Master/husband.  It was gone.  I gasped and turned off the water, stepping out of the shower naked and dripping.  It was then I noticed the small emerald ring on the second toe of my right foot.  My grandmother had always told me that toe rings and other body jewelry were signs of bad character, something that sluts wore but not good girls.  Wedding rings were what good girls wore, she instructed me when I was young.  Yet now I had the toe ring and had apparently lost the engagement and wedding rings.

       Without bothering to dry myself, I ran dripping into the hall.  “I lost my engagement ring,” I cried to the art director.  (To this day, I don’t know her name.)

       “No, you didn’t lose it,” she said calmly.  “Whores are not married, so last night while you were sleeping your rings were removed and replaced with that toe ring.  Isn’t it beautiful?”

       “But my husband will be angry when he sees me without my engagement ring!”  I said breathlessly.

       “If you’re referring to your master, I very much doubt he will be angry.  Quite the contrary.  No man would want a common slut like you to be wearing his engagement ring.  Just look at you: you’re standing in a hallway naked, your pussy exposed, water dripping from your breasts.  You had to shower just to get a strange man’s sperm off of your body.  Believe me, an engagement ring would be highly inappropriate for someone like you.”

       Someone like you.  The phrase utterly defeated me.  I looked at my companion meekly, seeking help and guidance without saying the words.

       “Listen,” she said.  “Let’s get you dried off and headed home.  I know this is a lot to process.  The best advice I have is to obey.  Just obey.”  I looked at her searchingly – these were the very same words my neighbor Dan had spoken to me.  But this was a woman, and she looked at me without unkindness.  I nodded my head slowly, and she led me back into the spa-like bathroom where she dried me off, selected a short silk robe and a pair of sandals for me, and led me down the hallway to the elevator. 

       I was driven home in a black sedan that apparently belonged to the magazine.  I sat in the backseat clad in nothing but the silk robe and sandals.  The robe was enough to cover my private parts, but only just; my breasts strained the material in front so that my nipples were visible to anyone who cared to look closely, and the robe itself was just long enough to cover my rear, but not an inch more.  The seats of the sedan had pockets in them that normally would have contained copies of the New York Times or Fortune, but here unsurprisingly the pockets had recent copies of Obediance.  I pulled out the most recent issue.  On the cover was a woman with luxurious chestnut hair.  She was standing with her legs spread; behind her, a man’s hands were gripping her hips while his extraordinarily long sex penetrated her rear passage.  (Although I don’t like the word, I looked at that picture and thought, “That’s what the word ‘cock’ is for.”)  Her eyes were closed, she had a faint smile on her lips, and her hands gripped her breasts in apparent pleasure.

       I opened the magazine.  It seemed the entire issue was devoted to the woman on the cover.  Perhaps 20 pages of photos detailed her in every sex act imaginable – performing oral sex on another woman, fellating a line of a dozen men, and receiving anal sex while in bondage, among others.  These photos were fairly shocking to a modest person like me, but then I got to the “article” that followed the photos.  Written in the most graphic possible language, the article described how the woman – Cassandra – had been a businesswoman at a firm in town I had heard of.  How she had been identified by the editors as a prospect for the magazine and had, through a series of small steps, become the wanton whore now pictured in this issue.  Sounds familiar, I thought to myself.  Then I got to the truly shocking part.  No point paraphrasing; here’s what it said: “Cassandra lives at 1732 East Elm Street.  Her former husband is out of the country through the end of this year.  Her body is available to Obediance members Monday through Saturday from 7 am until midnight.  Your Obediance card will unlock Cassandra’s door.  All of her parts are available for use; her specialty is anal penetration, but she will enthusiastically comply with any demand.  Out of respect for other members, please clean her off after using her body.”

       And then, at the end, this: “Next month’s feature: Elizabeth, a common street whore with a heart of gold.  And a body with no limits.”

       Just as I read those words, the car came to a stop.  I recognized my neighborhood, but we had pulled up around the corner from my house.  I looked out the window and saw that we had pulled into the driveway of Dan and Lisa’s house.  “This isn’t my house,” I said to the driver, to whom I had previously not so much as said hello to.

       “Yes, it is,” he replied, as he stepped out of the car to open my door.

       “No, it’s not,” I insisted.  “My house is around the corner.”

       “I know the house you mean,” the driver said.  “Come with me, and I think you’ll see that it’s not your house.”  Wearing nothing but my silk robe and sandals, I followed the driver as we walked the block and a half to the house where I lived with my husband.  There was the house.  There was my Master/husband’s car in the driveway.  And there, clearly visible through the living room window, was my friend Lisa.  Totally nude, breasts exposed for all to see, ball gag in her mouth, looking straight at me.  Wearing the earrings I had seen on the Obediance cover back at the magazine’s studio.  Her facial expression didn’t change when she saw me.  Just then I saw a hand reach around from behind her back to caress her right breast, and that’s when I realized that my Master had his sex inside Lisa.  He was fucking her – no other word for it – in plain view, for all the neighborhood to see.  I watched for just a moment, feeling the jealousy well up inside me at the sight of my so-called “friend” fucking my husband practically in public.  Lisa closed her eyes in obvious ecstasy at what my husband was doing to her with his hands and sex.  That’s when I realized that this really wasn’t my house anymore.  I turned obediently to the driver, who led me back down the street to Dan’s house, my new house, where I would start my new life.  Whatever that meant.