by Pat Powers
"You still haven't told me how she come to be at Pete and Gladys' place," said Mark.
"She says her friends was transporting her to a new safe place 'cause they were afraid her enemies had a bead on her," said Fred, "and her enemies tried to grab her on the way. There was a big fight and she snuck off into some woods so she wouldn't get caught. She didn't know where she was, but she finally found her way to Pete and Gladys' place."
MacCammon remembered the explosions, the gunfire, the zapping sound the neural scramblers made, the screaming, running through the woods in the dark, terrified that she might catch a bullet and die with the homouth frozen on her face forever.
Mark gazed down thoughtfully at MacCammon. "So why you givin' her to me?" he asked.
"Because she's too much responsibility," said Fred. "I just don't have enough hate in my heart to do all the things to her that need doin' to even things up between her and everybody she done wrong to."
"Hell, you think I'm all that hateful?" Mark asked.
"No, I don't," said Fred. "But I know you like to make a buck. You can put her to work for you and you don't have to pay her a fucking cent. Everything a customer pays to use her goes straight to you, and she can be used just about any way anyone sane would want to use her."
"I do like to make a buck, but I like to keep it after I make it," said Mark. "And from what you're telling me, she's hot as hell. It might be all right with the law, but I know damn well that as soon as word gets out that I got Eileen MacCammon in my place, the same folks that tried to waylay her will be bustin' up my place, if her own folks don't beat 'em to it."
"Sure would, if they knew you had MacCammon in your place," said Fred. "But about the only way to know that is to see her face, which they wouldn't if she was naked and wearing a half hood like some of the gals at your place wear. 'Bout the only part of her body she was ever willing to show in public was her face."
"Damn," Mark said admiringly. "They wouldn't, would they? You really give this some thought, haven't ya?"
"Sure did," said Fred. "I sat down at my favorite chair and watched some ball while sippin' some brew, with her tied up and my dick jammed in her homouth the whole time, and thought it out." (MacCammon remembered. She'd never had a cock in her face for so long. Hours, it seemed. Worst of all, she'd liked every minute of it.) "See, even if things do get a little hot for ya, you can always ship her off to one of your buddies in the biz. She could spend the rest of her sentence wearing a hood and fuckin' anyone that wants her, any way they want to fuck her. And I don't have to do anything at all but set it up. Sweet, eh?"
"Sweet," agreed Mark. "All right, I'll take her. Whaddya want for her?"
"Oh, I was thinking maybe five bucks in cash, just so I could say someday that I sold the President o f the United States for five bucks," said Fred. "I was hoping you could also let me take it out in trade for a couple months," said Fred.
"Hell, you could take it out in trade for a year," Mark said. He was not being all that generous. Fred was not a regular, nor likely to b ecome one.
"Fine, whatever works for you," said Fred.
Mark reached into his back pocket and pulled a five dollar bill out.
"Here ya go," said Mark. "Take your truck around back, I'll haul her up. And thanks. I dunno how this is gonna come out, but it sure is gonna be fun."
"It's a business doing pleasure with you," said Fred, unmindful of the fact that Mark had heard this a thousand times before.
MacCammon's body shuddered with sobs beneath the blanket as the truck rolled around to the back of the building. She had just been sold like a prize hog. For five dollars. It wasn't the worst thing that had happened to her since her trial, but it was a new kind of badness, this feeling of being a piece of meat to be bought and sold. And for just five dollars. Jesus God, what had she done to deserve this?
Oh, yeah. That.
"Regardless of what you might think, no one has ever worked here involuntarily until you came along," said Mark. He was sitting at his desk, the door to his office locked. MacCammon, still hogtied but with the blanket removed, lay on her side atop Mark's hastily-cleared desktop, facing Mark. "We're a holdover from the old days when every town of any size had a bordello We've been in continuous operation for well over a century. Most of our girls are from other small towns. They work here for money, just like folks work anywhere else for money.
"Most of the gals who work here full time are comfortable with working here, and being known to work here," said Mark to the woman who lay naked and bound before him. The former President of the United States.
"For the last few decades, things have gone so bad economically around here that we had a lot of local women wanting to work in this place," said Mark. "Well, maybe not so much wanting to work here, as forced by economic circumstances to work here. We had nothing to do with those circumstances, Mrs. President, that was mostly your administration's doing. Automation's a bitch, and I dunno who gets the supplies when the supply-side economics your people favor are in effect, but it sure isn't anyone who lives around here.
"Anyway, you can't really let anyone local work in your place, because sure as shit she's going to wind up having her father, her brother or even her sister as a customer," said Mark. "Can't have that -- bad for business. Nobody wants to be fucking their own family members AND paying for it. We got a lotta gals freelancing from nearby towns on Fridays and Saturdays to keep food on the table, and they was worried about their reputations. Even if they weren't gonna meet up with their father or brother, they might meet up with a neighbor or a former co-worker, and word do get around in these small towns. So we let a lot of them work while wearing these half hood thingies, you know, like Catwoman wears on TV. Just shows their eyes and lips and chin and nothing else, so no one knew who they were. It was real common at one time, hell, on Fridays and Saturdays half the women in here were wearing them."
MacCammon stared blankly at Mark. He had gone to a lot of trouble to tell her he was going to be putting a hood on her. Somehow, she expected there was more to it than that.
Mark got up from behind the desk. He walked around behind MacCammon and behind working on the ropes securing her wrists to her ankles.
"I have to confess, I have a personal reason for buying you from Fred," said Mark as he worked. "Y'know, your net never caught me or any of my employees, even though I guess we're about as immoral as anyone else you did net. I thought it was pretty funny, all those farmboys getting hauled off to the pokey for watching videos of the things my gals did seven nights a week live and in person. I guess we're just a little more used to flying under the radar than porn people. We always kept our paper trails concealed."
MacCammon made a splorting grunt of pain as her legs were suddenly released from the bent-over position caused by the hogtie she had been in for the last couple of hours.
"Been tied up for a while, I guess," said Mark. "Take it easy moving your legs, then, or they'll cramp up. I'll set you up so you can stretch your legs out more."
MacCammon was wincing with pain as she slowly stretched her cramped legs, but she also had a pretty good idea what was coming next.
"Although your decency laws never nailed me or mine, I did have a run in with your IRS people during your administration," said Mark. "They audited the living heck out of me, every year you were in office. They never put me in jail or anything, but I wrote them a lot of fat checks for taxes I probably didn't owe, but didn't want to raise my profile by fighting them too hard.
"For an administration that advertised itself as being against taxes, you sure worked me over, Mrs. President," said Mark as he slid MacCammon's body around so that she lay on her stomach on his desk with her legs dangling off it. Mark knelt down and wrapped loops of rope around her ankles, tying them to the legs of the desk, but not the front legs, the back legs, so that her legs were stretched wide apart. Obscenely wide apart.
"You may be wondering, what does it feel like to be a businessman audited by an IRS agen
t who doesn't have the normal recourses that other businessmen have?" said Mark as he ran a rope over the back of MacCammon's neck and then under her arms, tying it off to the handle of his center desk drawer, so that her body could not slide off the desk. With her arms still tied behind her back, she was completely helpless, with her butt dangling wide open off the edge of the desk. "OK, you probably have never wondered about any such thing in your life. But I'm gonna show you what it's like."
Mark took off his clothes and stood behind MacCammon. She felt his fingers fondling her buttocks, then feeling her breast and pussy. She moaned into the desk at the surge of sexual feelings that created. Her breasts were now so blatantly, obscenely huge that they were two
pillows that propped her torso up and made resting her head on the desk a painful stretching motion for her neck. Plus the swollen disks of her nipples sent raw floods of arousal and pain through her as Mark's ministrations sent her body rocking back and forth.
Mark began rubbing his dick in the general area of MacCammon's crotch. She was so horny that she could feel her inner thighs being dampened by the puddles of love goo that leaked from her, just as the desk blotter beneath her head was soaking up a widening pool of the goo that leaked relentlessly from her homouth.
She felt Mark's cock becoming harder and harder against her body, and knew that at any moment it would slide deep inside her pussy, and she was ready for it, very ready for it.
But then she felt his cock probing, not her pussy, but her anus. He pushed and shoved his cock vigorously into her ass, with a series of short, hard thrusts that made her whole body clench at the pain it brought to her ass.
"Hurts, doesn't it?" said Mark. "Because the thing about the IRS audit experience is: total helplessness, as you're experiencing now, a vigorous reaming, and no lubricant."
MacCammon couldn't BELIEVE how painfully large Mark's cock felt at it rammed its way, millimeter by grinding millimeter, up her helpless butt. She had been taken anally many times while a captive of the fiends who had given her the homouth, and on two occasions since when it had turned out to be what needed to happen so she could get rid of the homouth, but it had never been anywhere close to being as painful as this.
(MacCammon was unaware that her captors had used plenty of lubricant on her, as had been the men hired to "take care" of her when her homouth appeared and she needed it removed.)
Once he was all the way in, he pulled back almost all the way out, also quite slowly, so that MacCammon would feel every inch of it going out. But with the head of his cock still buried inside her, he rammed his cock right back in with all his strength, causing MacCammon to sluck loudly through her homouth, so loudly that a huge gob of love juice splorted out on the desk.
Mark then proceeded to ream the hell out of MacCammon's ass while she twisted helplessly in her bonds. She twisted her hips back and forth desperately while her hands clenched and clutched in their bonds, but her agonized writhing only turned Mark on more, and what had started out as a grudge fuck turned into an enthusiastic reaming. Mark was not in any way concerned about MacCammon's pleasure, comfort or safety, which increased his pleasure simply because his pleasure was all he had to think about.
Even the most ignorant woman with the lowest self-esteem who had ever worked at Mark's establishment was due some consideration from him, if only because she had legal rights. MacCammon undoubtedly was very well educated and had strong self-esteem, but she simply had no rights. She literally could not complain about anything he did.
This must be what a paying customer feels like before he learns the rules. At least, to judge from the behavior of quite a few of them.
The thing that really alarmed MacCammon was that she WAS feeling pleasure -- somehow, his probing was causing a warm, glowing sensation to spread in her pussy. Every time he banged his cock all the way home it set off sparks inside her. (He was in fact nailing her G-spot with every thrust, but MacCammon wasn't on speaking terms with her G-spot and if pressed would have said it didn't even exist.) With her jumped up libido, that was all it took -- her writhing, at first the product of very real pain, gradually transformed into the product of very real pain AND very real ecstasy.
When Mark finally came -- he was in no hurry, where was the slut beneath him going? No fucking where! -- MacCammon had already had several orgasms.
"Well, how'd ya like being audited?" Mark said. "Well, I guess ya did -- ya come all over my desk here. Wal, it takes all kinds. And don't you worry -- I'll let you lick every bit of it up."
By "let you" Mark meant "make you" and strangely enough, MacCammon understood that.
* * *
Later that evening, MacCammon began making money for Mark. He slid a leather half hood over MacCammon's head and buckled it in place. It covered her entire head from her nose up, though there were holes just larger than her eyes so she could see. But there were also flaps dangling from the side of the hole which were clearly designed to make it easy to ensure that she couldn't see. She was worried about the hood because it had straps running over it, as well as a couple of short chains with padded alligator clips that dangled over her shoulders like long earrings.
Next, Mark shackled her ankles together with a short chain – “a hobble” he called it -- and escorted MacCammon down the stairs and a couple of hallways to a curtained room that had a strange sculpture on a stand in one corner and a chain hanging in front of the curtains near the front of the window. The chain ran through a pulley mounted in the ceiling and hooked to a hydraulic crank in another corner.
"I'd rather make a fast nickel than a slow dollar any day, honey," Mark said as he secured MacCammon to the sculpture that would be her work station for the night. It consisted of a high-density plastic armature whose bondage usefulness was revealed by the straps and clips that hung from it.
Close up, it looked vaguely fiendish, and it worried MacCammon. It had a large, flat base, with a foot-thick round trunk of high-density plastic set in its center, spreading out to support a circle at the top about 1 1/2 times as wide as MacCammon was. The bottom of the circle was wide and thickly padded, the top narrowed to the same thickness as the base. Sprouting from the top was a strange, y-shaped structure that consisted of tapered arms that arched gracefully over, ahead of and behind the central post, capped by a short centerpiece with what looked like a suitcase handle atop it.
Directly beneath the arm that formed the base of the "Y" atop the structure was a T-shaped support, rising from a circular stem to become a flat, padded surface about half a meter above the base. Two short chains with padded alligator clips were secured to its base.
A short chain dangled from the "base" of the Y atop the circle, and leather cuffs dangled from the other two ends.
Mark had left her arms tied behind her back just as Jeff had tied them. Now he forced MacCammon to kneel on the base, then shoved her unceremoniously through the ring until her head extended beyond the T-support in front of it. MacCammon found she was able to rest her sternum and shoulders comfortably on the T-support, and the padded ring supported her hips very nicely.
Mark pressed a hidden contact and the ring decreased in size, fitting snugly around her hips and lower back. Then he took the cuffs dangling from the back ends of the "Y" and buckled them around MacCammon's ankles. Mark made some adjustments to several levers at the top of the Y armature. That's when MacCammon discovered that the arms of the Y were adjustable -- they could swing out independently on their central axis, and they could be lengthened or shortened. What Mark chose to do with them was to lengthen them until MacCammon's legs were well extended, though not quite fully extended.
Next, he wrapped a leather strap around her upper thighs. Those alligator clips on chains dangled from the straps, feeling slightly cold against her thighs. Mark took the chains and carefully clipped them to her outer labia. It hurt a little but not much. (After the Sisters of Mercy, MacCammon had a new standard for "hurt.") Then he pulled the arms of the Y apart until MacCammon's legs were sp
read wide, some would say obscenely wide. MacCammon would certainly have said so, if she'd been able to see how they were spread, and if she'd been able to say anything with the homouth in place.
As the arms of the Y spread apart, the clips attached to her labia were pulled apart, and slowly pulled MacCammon's pussy open until it was revealed as a wide, deep, gleaming pink hole.
MacCammon couldn't see how wide apart her labia were pulled, but she felt how they were spread, and that was enough. She could imagine the obscene depths of her pussy gleaming between the split globes formed by her butt.
Once her legs were spread into as much of a split as her body would permit -- she was not a cheerleader, well, not any more, she had been one in high school -- Mark moved to the front of the Y and connected the chain dangling from the Y base and attached to a ring set in the top of her hood. MacCammon knew she had been right to worry about those hood chains. Mark carefully pulled up on the chain and MacCammon found her head pulled upright, almost at right angles to her torso. Now she understood the reason for the straps running down under her chin and throat -- they supported the weight of her head, and the chin strap kept too much of the weight off her throat.
It was not a comfortable position, but the way the straps kept the weight of her head off her neck helped a lot. Next, Mark attached the two chains at the base of the T-support that held up her chest to her nipples, after rubbing her nipples a bit to get them to the right size. Once in place, the chains pulled her nipples down and apart, emphasizing the bulbous fleshiness of her breasts as they dangled on either side of the T-support.
Finally, Mark took the clips that dangled from her half hood and attached each one to the side of her homouth's "lips." MacCammon instantly knew what was coming and closed her eyes in dismay. They would leave her nothing, no shred of pride, dignity or self-respect. She was right. Mark slowly and carefully pulled the chain backward on each side, forcing her homouth lips open to reveal the pink, gleaming things that now constituted her "mouth." Once her homouth was stretched wide open, he secured the chain in place -- she couldn't see or feel how, and she was left with her homouth helplessly stretched open to all..
