by Paul Blades
Just like the prior times when the man had left her alone, she felt like he had left behind some evil spell that kept her bound and silenced while he was gone. Even though not physically present, he nonetheless still exercised his absolute, remorseless power over her.
She had tried to get used to the presence of the long, thick, insulting gag in her mouth, but it was an intrusion, an extension of the man’s will, that could not be ignored. She tried to put out of her mind the harsh bindings that left her there on her belly frozen in place. For a brief time last night she had experienced some relative freedom, but now she was back in what had become her natural state, bound into almost total immobility, able only to wriggle her fingers and toes or turn her head from side to side.
She fought hard not to cry. She realized that this would be her permanent future if the man took her to Mexico. He would never let her go and never let her resume the life of an independent human being. She knew that the experience of having her helpless and under his total, strict control was a source of great pleasure to him. Part of her rued the passion which she had let herself experience last night. Was it really better to be this man’s abject prisoner? Mighten there be some saving grace in the other dismal alternatives?
She quickly dispelled that notion. No, remaining the prisoner of the man was the least dreadful of her futures. As much as she felt shamed and degraded by her show of lasciviousness, she knew that it was all done for a greater purpose. She had to make the man desire her above all else or she was doomed.
So she awaited the man’s return resignedly. She resisted the urge to scream and rage against her fate, her miserable bondage, her loss of personhood. She pulled slightly at her bonds, not in any hopes of freeing herself, but more out of habit than anything. Her plight was so unreal, so outrageously bizarre and dreadful that her mind needed the assurance that her bindings were actual and not the product of some torturous, psychotic nightmare. “Be strong, Carly,” she said to herself. “Be strong and survive.”
When the man’s steps stopped outside the door and she heard the click of the lock signaling his immanent entrance, Carly steeled herself for whatever ordeal the man had next planned for her. She pledged herself to an enthused obedience. And not just because she wanted to ingratiate herself more thoroughly to him. His cruel punishments still engendered a rabid fear in her.
Her stomach turned over when he came through the door. She turned her head to look at him. He was carrying the stuff from the car. He looked well fed and satisfied. He placed the bags on the floor and, giving her a mere glance, began to disrobe. Carly prepared herself for another round of his callous use, but she was wrong. He quickly stepped into the bathroom and a few seconds later she heard the sounds of the shower. She knew that it meant that she would have to wait for liberation. It made her anxious. She had to pee and was hungry. She would have to await the man’s pleasure before she could get relief from either.
Jack reveled in the sensations of the shower. The bathroom, like the bedroom, was decorated in the art deco style of the twenties. It was spacious and kept, like the bedroom, very clean. The fittings were of gleaming brass and there were rococo designs on the door lintels. The shower was affixed to a pure white, sparkly clean porcelain tub. The sink and toilet were stark white and shiny too. Jack imagined the series of naked young women over the years who must have tidied and cleaned them, and the bedroom, under Stitch’s meticulous direction. It made sense to have the girls cleaning the place. Otherwise, they would just sit in their cages all day waiting for somebody to come by and use them.
Maybe he would have the girl do some of the cleaning up when he got his place in Mexico. He would make sure that it was done under the strict supervision of a harsh momasita, all beefed up and strong as a bull. And if she made any mistakes or was disobedient in any way, she would whip and abuse her, and when he came home he would punish her too. His cock stirred at the thought of punishing her. She had such sweet flesh and large, doleful eyes. She was made for it.
When he was done with the shower, he shaved. “A face only a mother could love,” he thought as he scraped away the bristly growth. Not his mother though. He wondered idly if she were still alive. She would be in her 60’s. Not many skank addicts made it to their 60’s, although it was possible she had cleaned herself up at some point. He tried to push those thoughts out of his mind. Too many bad memories. He knew that an armchair psychologist would make much of his disdain for his mother and his harshness towards women in general. Maybe there was some truth to that. But if it was, it was deserved.
He had never met a woman who he could trust. The ones that didn’t run from him in fear only stayed because they wanted something. Like the girl. He knew that she wanted to go to Mexico. That was the explanation for her randiness last night. At least that’s what she probably thought. But it was only partly true. He was sure that three or four days ago she would have rebelled against the idea that she should encourage him to use her in any way. Now she was trading sex for perceived safety. Soon she would be trading it for mere approval, the only joy she would ever get. She had started down the road to complete surrender, and once you got started on that, you didn’t stop until you reached the end. She would display herself and crave his attention. She would find joy in serving him, satisfaction in her debasement. He had seen it happen dozens of times.
He rinsed off his face and dried it off. The bathroom was stocked with luxurious, fluffy, white towels. Just like a fancy hotel. The boys here didn’t stint themselves on anything.
He went back into the bedroom. It was time to get the girl all washed up. He knelt near the bed and released her ankles and collar from the chains that affixed her in place. Taking hold of her hair, he guided her gently to her feet and brought her into the bathroom. He sat her on the toilet and let her pee. Then he removed her gag and unfastened her wrists from behind her back and had her step into the tub. He turned on the shower and indicated to her to get to work.
He left the shower curtain open so he could watch her. He sat on the toilet with the lid down. His smokes were in his pants pocket and he lit one. It was relaxing and enjoyable to watch the girl touch herself all over, giving him sideways, unhappy glances all the while. She did turn to him, without instruction, while she washed her breasts, covering them with soap and then caressing and massaging them much, much more than necessary while she rinsed them off. When she did her pussy, she turned her back to him, bent over and spread her legs. He watched appreciatively while she stroked her mound with her graceful fingers. She put two fingers on her love button and gave it more than a few gentle rubs before she straightened up to do her hair.
It was just what he had been talking about. She knew that seeing her touch herself pleased him, knew that arousing him would garner her his attentions. She couldn’t stop herself. It was becoming ingrained, like from the first moments they were together when he sat her down in a chair and made her spread her legs and push out her breasts. All she had belonged to him. Nothing belonged to her. The concept of privacy had fled her mind. She was permanently and irrevocably his.
He ordered her to finish up. When she stepped from the tub onto the thick, soft bathmat, he used a fresh towel to dry her off. He scruffed her short, orange red hair until it was almost dried and then brushed it straight. He hadn’t decided whether to keep her as a redhead or to let her blond hair grow back in. There was something appealing about how she looked when she was blond, but making her hair red had been an indicia of his ownership of her and demarked the creature she was now from the one she had been. He didn’t need to decide that now, though.
He took hold of her dried hair in the back of her head and guided her back into the bedroom. He made her lie down on the bed, on her back, and connected her hands to the headboard, pulling the chain tight so that they would stay over her head and out of his way. He took a pillow and shoved it under her hips, raising them and told her to spread her legs and raise her knees. Her pretty little coosh was displayed nicely. He
patted it affectionately and then grabbed her love lips between his thumb and forefinger and gave them a little squeeze. Not enough to hurt her, but just enough to establish his proprietorship. She looked at him dolefully, her lips pressed tightly together and her chest rising and falling.
Jack went into the bathroom and came back with a shaving mug he had found there and a shaving brush. He had rinsed the mug with hot water and he used the brush to establish a thick lather. He covered her mons with it. He had also brought out the razor he had used on his face, a double bladed safety razor with sharp, new blades.
He sat on the bed between the girl’s legs and used it to scrape away her three days’ growth, cleaning the razor on a towel whenever it became thick with shaving cream. He pushed her mons this way and that to get all the little bristles hiding in the crevices on the sides, scraped up to the insides of her thighs and all over her lower belly. He made sure that the whole area from her belly button to her thighs was as soft and smooth as a baby’s face. When he was done, he saw that her pussy was glistening. The activity had been pervaded with lust driving sensations for both of them. He couldn’t resist placing his thumb over her hard, little bump and rubbing it until he sensed her body shift into sensuous mode and heard her release an irrepressible sigh.
He did her legs and under her arms too, making her smooth and soft all over. She kept her eyes on him the whole time, watching him warily. She was now hairless except for the mop on her head. Someday, he decided, he would do that too and make her go around bald for a while. He would wait until some moment when he felt she was in need of some deeper humiliation to remind her of her status.
He brought everything back into the bathroom and returned with a small hand cream dispenser. He pressed some out on his hand and rubbed it into everywhere he had shaved. When he did her pussy, the girl closed her eyes and bit her lip.
Finally, he was done. The intimate contact with her flesh had raised his lusts. His cock was jutting out in display mode. He wanted to fuck her, but not yet. He lay down next to her, leaving her hips raised in the air by several inches. He pressed his body up close to hers and leaned over her, kissing and caressing her heavy, pure white breasts. Her nipples stiffened obediently and, in a short while, she issued a moan.
Carly let the man’s mouth and tongue ease her into a state of bliss. There was no longer any sense in resisting him. She no longer wanted to. Her surrender was complete. She had cast her lot with him and the bodily joy he brought her was her only compensation.
Earlier, in the shower, while he sat and smoked and watched her, she had felt compelled to caress herself in front of him. She wasn’t sure why, but there it was. Part of it, she knew, was the fact that her ability to feel and touch her own body had been so limited in the last few days that the urge to take advantage of her brief respite from confinement was irresistible. And, she knew instinctively that to do so in his presence out of his view, hiding it, touching herself surreptitiously for her pleasure and satisfaction alone, would merit fierce punishment.
But it was more than that. It just somehow felt right, part of the natural order of things. These parts of her body that brought her pleasure seemed to belong more to him now than to her. And the thought that what she did would bring his eyes to where her fingers touched, would fixate him, draw him in, deepen his desire for her, gave her a peculiar, incongruous, ironic, shameful pleasure. Somehow, his fixation on her body, its orifices, its erogenous zones, its softness, curvature, resilience, femaleness, had sparked in her a dark, salacious need.
As his desire for her grew stronger, so did her compulsion to receive his attentions, as if the two forces were acting as an accelerant for each other, like two massive storms feeding on each other’s energy. And the fact that this symbiosis could result only in, finally, a cataclysmic orgy of destruction, did not, could not, deter her determination to feed it. The more he shamed her, the more callous his use of her, the more helpless she was to resist him, the deeper and darker her need to be shamed, humiliated, used seemed to grow.
And just as his presence, his attention, drove her desires, his absence or inattention brought her only despair and unhappiness. Not just at what he had done to her, how he kept her, wrapped up and bound like some property temporarily put aside, but at how right and deserving that humiliation, shame and unhappiness seemed.
It was like a cavity deep in her soul that wracked her body with pain, but pain so delicious and intense that it served to foster an unfathomable craving for it. Something had happened to her mind. She knew it. She knew it was wrong. But her life now vibrated with an intensity so overwhelming that she could not bring herself to rue the change. The cocoon of security and happiness and self sufficiency in which she now realized she had been enwrapped before this ordeal had begun had been exploded and had produced not a butterfly, but a fiercely burning ball of fire.
So as his lips subsumed her teats, his hot, heavy hand wandered her body, she felt her need begin to grow. She closed her eyes and let the sensations fill her with pleasure. His hand stroked her inner thighs, lightly, deftly, delicately, as if her body were a fragile construct that too much pressure might collapse. It was tantalizing and lust inspiring. As was the thought of her powerlessness to resist him. Her thighs were fixed open like the pinned back wings of a butterfly in someone’s collection. Her hands were stretched out tautly above her. She was utterly powerless to resist his ministrations.
The hand came back up, drifted over her mons, ceasing only to draw a thick finger between her already distended, blood filled labia and flick lightly across her tender pleasure bud. It stroked her belly up to her breasts, then seizing the one not being suckled luxuriously, took hold of it, squeezing it, caressing it, massaging it. She issued a long, impassioned sigh. Her hips squirmed as the ache of desire in her loins grew exquisite. His hand rose further, turned her cheek towards his face. His head rose from her breast and the next thing she knew, he tongue had forced entry between her lips.
A wave of passion swept through her. She kissed the man back madly. His hand floated down her torso once again, stopping to caress each of her breasts, to stroke her belly, and then took hold of her puss, squeezing her labial lips together forcefully, harder and harder until she moaned from the pain.
Satisfied with her response, while his hot tongue slipped and slid and probed and turned over hers, sending her exhilarating messages of pleasure, the hand began a passion inducing dance on her mons. It stroked it. Its fingers delved inside it. It caressed her clit, thrust itself in and out of her crevasse. It squeezed the lips again until she squealed and then slipped over her taut, distended thighs, stroking and caressing them only to return to her steaming fulcrum to drive her lusts ever and ever higher.
She squirmed and moaned. Her body shuddered. Her mind spun in a dizzying vortex. The hand knew its business well. Her hands, writhing and twisting in their bonds were useless. He was driving her into a frenzy of lust, forcing her to teeter on the edge of a raging completion. If only she could use her hands. But what if she could? Would she try and drive away the tormenting fingers, or press them more firmly into her sex to force the issue?
Either one would serve to relieve her of the virtually agonizing want that permeated her mind, if only for a few seconds. But she knew deep down that even if her hands were free, she would do no such thing. To disobey the man, to impinge on his privileges, to challenge his ownership of her flesh was beyond her capabilities. Not only because of her rabid fear of the harsh consequences that would result, but more so that she knew that she had no right to. She was his to enjoy, no matter what form that enjoyment took, no matter how excruciating the pain or pleasure she suffered, no matter how deeply her vulnerability to his designs shamed her.
Jack broke their kiss. His cock was a steely, rigid pole and his balls were tight and aching. He would fuck her, but not yet. The thoughts he had had while downstairs in the kitchen, the vision of the girl succumbing to the black haired girl’s ministrations while he watched, h
ad sparked his need to see her face while she came. She was primed now, ready to explode. When he abandoned her lips, the girl’s mouth remained open, parted into a limp ‘O’. Her face was soft and flaccid as if she no longer had the strength to pose it. Her eyelids, loosely closed, were fluttering. Her nostrils were dilated. Her cheeks were reddened, her eyebrows bent into a worried looking frown. She had wholly abandoned herself to her passions. There was nothing in reserve, nothing hidden away. He burned the image into his mind.
His two longest fingers were rubbing her clit, moving in little circles, pressing down on it. Then he plunged them deep inside her, thrusting them in and out in a rapid piston motion. Then he brought them back up again, this time flitting them over the hypersensitive appendage again and again and again until she arched her back and groaned. She was so close to the top that it would take but little more to send her into a delirious explosion. This time, he didn’t stop. He flicked the little bud back and forth rapido. Her knees spread ever wider. Her chest was rising and falling in a desperate effort to catch her breath. Her eyelids opened and her eyeballs rolled back into her head. Her face contorted into a simulacrum of agony.
And then she came. She shouted her pleasure into the room. “Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhh! Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhh! Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!” she called out. Her body jerked and shuddered. Her hips ground against his hand. He thrust his fingers deep into her cavern while continuing to worry her pleasure nubbin with his thumb. “Oh, god! Oh! Oh! Oh!” she called out. “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” she yelled. “Ohhhhhhhhhhh! Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhh! Ohhhhhhhhhhh!” She went on and on and on, as if he had launched her into cataclysmic eruption that would not end until all of her flesh was consumed.
