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| Pamela | Back to k | Back to main page | ||
Collected by Djian
updated jan 5 - 2009
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| Pamela | Back to k | Back to main page | ||
Collected by Djian
updated jan 5 - 2009
The following story is posted for the entertainment of adults. If you are
below the age of eighteen or are otherwise forbidden to read electronic
erotic fiction in your locality, please delete this message now. The story
codes in the subject line are intended to inform readers of possible areas
that some might find distasteful, but neither the poster nor the author
make any guarantee. You should be aware that the story might raise other
matters that you find distasteful. You read at your own risk.
Pamela
By pamela7@juno.com
(s/m, rape, torture, etc)
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Note: Part One of this story contains a scene (in the restaurant) that
appeared with only slight differences in a previous work of mine, "The
Sibling Bond." "The Weekend" was originally written as a personal
story for a particular person, and not meant to be made public. Since
then it has become part of a larger tale, and I have been encouraged
to show it to the world. To avoid having to do a lot of laborious
rewriting, I have kept the scene in, hoping that a bit of
self-plagiarism can be forgiven.
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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 that 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."