by Pat Powers
“How are you feeling, 401?” Talena asked.
“Bwuh?” MacCammon responded.
Talena smiled. “My readout indicates you had a series of intense orgasms a short while ago, and 627 reported that you seemed out of it, distant. Probably the effect of multiple orgasms on one who hasn't experienced them before. Am I right?”
MacCammon shrugged. She felt tremendously relaxed but not drowsy, and her mind was still feeling shocked by all the pleasure she'd felt. She didn't know what to think about that. And she didn't know what to think about Talena. Talena kept acting as if she cared about MacCammon, then treating her like a slave, a thing to be used. She did not believe Talena cared about her, though it was oh-so-tempting to believe, because that would have been comforting, to think that someone in this place did. So she just shrugged.
Talena stepped forward and took MacCammon's chin in her hand, forcing her to look up at Talena. “Look, I know that being an involuntary slave, you have no reason to be involved here. I understand that. But you do have an interest in your own safety. You aren't allowed to say “No” to anything that might happen to you, but I can say “No” on your behalf, if I think you have been or might be harmed. Now I know you would prefer that you don't do anything here, you are not here by choice. But I can't let you do that. I have to decide, to the best of my ability, whether you are actually hurt or likely to be hurt or just faking. If I make bad decisions in that regard, you could be hurt, so it's VERY much in your interest to help me out here. So I'm going to ask you again. Are you hurt?”
“No, Mistress,” MacCammon dutifully said, hoping that would shut Talena up.
Talena did not let go of MacCammon's chin.
“So what's bothering you?” Talena asked. “Clearly, something is.”
MacCammon sighed inwardly. Talena was relentless, and MacCammon was helpless. She couldn't just clam up, Talena would persist. “A woman just made me have … many orgasms. I am not a lesbian. What the hell has been done to me?”
“Look, I don't think you're a lesbian, but you've got to understand, you're not in prudeland any more, nobody cares,” Talena said. “Being a slave supersedes all that. If you're a lesbian, fine, we don't care, but Masters can still fuck you if they want to. If you're not a lesbian, also fine, we also don't care, and Mistresses can still fuck you if they want to. You are a slave, you may have preferences or a gender orientation, but it doesn't matter. Be what you want to be when you are not being used, but when you are being used, you are what the Masters and Mistresses want you to be. And here is the secret glory of being a slave … it's not your fault or your responsibility, what is done to you. We keep you chained and helpless for a reason. If a Mistress chooses to use you, it means she is a lesbian or a bisexual, but it means nothing about you, because you have no choices. With no power comes no responsibility.”
“Well, it's not just that,” said MacCammon. “These are people who knew me when I was President. People I thought were my friends are seeing me as a slave, and using me as one. Before, what happened to me was terrible … but it didn't involve anyone I knew. Now it does. I thought … I thought … I could keep the things that have happened to me separate from the rest of my life when this ends. But I'm beginning to think that's an impossible dream. I'll never be Eileen MacCammon any more.”
“No, you'll ALWAYS be Eileen MacCammon, but you can't insulate yourself from change, any more than anyone else can,” said Talena “Especially now that you are a slave. Your life as President MacCammon is over, your life as MacCammon the slave has begun, and believe me, you are going to discover some things you will be glad you discovered. Which you would not believe right now. So you will just have to take my word for it. Not that you have a choice.”
“What the hell do YOU know about what it's like to be President of the United States, you stupid slut?” MacCammon cried. “Let me tell you … you have no idea … NO IDEA … what you are talking about!”
“True enough,” Talena said, pressing the button that controlled MacCammon's face, making the homouth take shape on her face. “But I know a LOT about being a slave. And you have NO IDEA about that … but you're beginning to catch on ...”
MacCammon could only stare at Talena as her homouth settled into place on her face.
“You're all right,” Talena said, smiling. “Just learning some hard things is all. You'll get over it.” With those words, she walked back out of the room.
For the rest of the night, MacCammon found herself alternately being fucked by visitors and being harangued by visitors, and sometimes, as in DeFabio's case, both. Some of them actually wanted her to talk to them and speak honestly to them, as if she could afford to speak honestly while chained like an animal. She much preferred it when they simply fucked her and left the homouth in place. It was much less demanding.
There was one visitor who was different than the rest. One of the talk-only people, a younger man. She had completely expected to be fucked. Instead the man put his forefinger in her left ear.
Well, that was foreplay of a different sort.
She felt a coolness in her ear and a tickling, an itching, like something was moving in there. She pulled her ear away from his finger, annoyed. Then the coolness and the itching went away. A moment later a voice spoke in MacCammon's ear.
“President MacCammon, can you hear me?” the voice spoke.
“Yes, Mas … yes,” MacCammon responded.
“Good,” said the voice. “You can speak in just the barest whisper and we will hear you. We are your friends, we wanted you to know that we know where you are. What cell are they keeping you in?”
“401,” replied MacCammon, her heart surging with hope at last. “It's also what they call me.”
“Sloppy,” said the voice. “Well we will stay in touch. Security at Grossinger headquarters is very tough, we can't break you out immediately or we would be doing that now. But we are working on it. Hang in there, Mrs. President.”
“I will,” said MacCammon, gazing at the man who stood before her, looking serious.
“They undoubtedly have nano security devices there, they may discover this link at any time,” said the voice. “Feel free to tell them anything they want to know. If they find the nanoset, they will assume we know you are being kept there. Don't endure any mistreatment to protect a useless secret. They are unlikely to move you, this is their most secure facility. You are not the first or only person who has spent time there unwillingly.”
“I was told I was the only unwilling slave,” MacCammon said.
“You are the only unwilling slave, the others were merely captives,' said the voice. “Corporate warfare has gotten a little more heated in the last few years, and the line between governments warring and private concerns has become a bit blurred. The consensual slavery operation is not the only high-security operation Grossinger conducts. That's why DeFabio decided to park you at their facility.”
MacCammon remembered the web of private security and logistics firms that had worked hand in glove with her the governments security agencies and armed forces in various international and civil conflicts (the later years of her administration had created a few flash points of civil unrest here and there).
“Yes, I understand,” MacCammon said.
“Do not take any undue risks to escape, we will help you, we want you out of there as fast as we can, and we want you out safe and healthy,” said the voice.
“Hurry, then,” MacCammon said.
“We will do it as fast as humanly possible that's consistent with getting you out successfully,” the voice responded.
“I understand,” MacCammon said. “And I thank you, from the bottom of my heart.”
“It is our pleasure to serve you, Mrs. President,” said the voice. “This nanoset runs on your bioenergy, it can carry only a limited charge, it will go to a charging phase now. We will only use it to communicate as necessary, but of course you can speak with us at any time you do not wear the homouth.”
“Tell my frie
nds I remain strong and am grateful for their concern,” said MacCammon.
Inwardly, MacCammon sighed with relief. This was EXACTLY what she had needed to hear, at EXACTLY the time she had needed to hear it. She might be a helpless slave shackled to what she now knew to be a sex rack, with a homouth on her face and a collar on her neck, but somewhere out there, rescue was at hand.
End of The Homouth Book 2
Scenes From Future Books of The Homouth
“Oh, look the table ornament is crying!” said one of the guests as the tears poured out of MacCammon's eyes. She couldn't help it, the humiliation was so great, all these people who used to know her, seeing her head popping up from the centerpiece of the table with that horrible homouth where her regular mouth should be. Unable to speak, and afraid to, for her trainer had told her not to speak unless spoken to. If ordered to speak, she would try, but all the homouth would produce was the usual wet slucking sounds. She might as well have been ballgagged.
She had cried during her time with the Sisters of Mercy – they had left her no recourse – but that had been pain and fear and a kind of sexual horror at her own arousal in response to what was done to her. But this was different, this was not so much sexual humiliation, though there was plenty of that with her naked and homouthed, but it was more personal humiliation, more social humiliation. All of these people had once flattered her and sought her attention and good will, which she had been happy to be generous with, especially with the right people, and these were DEFINITELY the right people.
At one time she would have been working the crowd at a room like this, moving from person to person, trying to drop the right word, make the right connection, to further her cause. Now she knelt naked, her knees spread wide as s he had been trained to, her hands cuffed behind her back, her head sticking up through the middle of a clear plastic table, her face with its homouth just a setting for the table which had drinks set on it for the guests' refreshment.
Once, she had moved among the trappings of wealth and power, fitting tributes to her wealth and power. Now, she was one of the trappings of wealth and power.
* * *
She knelt before her latest owner. It felt strange to have her homouth removed without food being immediately thrust into it. She moved her jaw experimentally, reacquainting herself with the sensation of having a mouth with teeth in it that were not in use.
“Now, I want you to tell me about yourself,” her new owner said.
“What do you mean, Master?” she asked. Her trainers had taught her well that you called men “Master' unless ordered not to. And she was becoming accustomed to thinking of herself as having an owner. After all, that was what Mr. Revell was, because he'd purchased her, and it had happened to several times now so it didn't seem all that remarkable any more, if she didn't think about things. She avoided thinking about things nowadays.
“Tell me all about yourself … not your life history, that's readily available on the Web," Revell said, staring at her thoughtfully and stroking his chin.. “I'm more interested in you … your hopes, your dreams, your feelings, your interests. That sort of thing.”
“Yes, Master,” she said. She was frightened at this demand for her to talk about herself. Her anonymity had become a kind of armor for her as a slave. “I am glad to be your property, Master,” she said. “You have treated me well.”
Revell casually picked up a plaited five-bladed whip and gave MacCammon a stinging blow across her breasts, making her scream, a much louder scream than she could make when the homouth was in place, and leaving tears streaming down her cheeks. She looked up at him, fearfully.
“No bullshit,” Revell ordered. “Let me explain. I bought you. I own you. You are mine, in a way in which my employees are not. They merely provide services to me. But you, I have bought. And I am a greedy man. I want full value for my dollar. I don't just want your naked body to look at and to use at will. I want your mind, your heart, your soul. I want every bit of you, because you are mine.”
MacCammon stared at Revell, bewildered. This was the sort of thing a man in love might say to his lover. This was not master/slave talk as she had experienced it, or understood it.
“What I want from you as my slave is honesty,” Revell said, looking down at her with those piercing blue eyes of his. “I will not be offended if you tell me that you hate being my slave … unless you love being my slave. I will not be offended if you say that you think I am a monster … unless you actually think I am a decent man. Do you understand? I want to know who I have purchased. I want honesty from you, more than anything. Now you may be wondering how I can tell if you are telling the truth. Well it's kind of easy, actually. Crawl up into my lap, facing me,” he ordered.
“Yes, Master,” MacCammon said, climbing into his lap carefully, her legs straddling his.
“Come in close, as if you are riding my cock cowgirl style,” he ordered, and she obediently got right up against him, feeling her vagina growing warm and woozy at being this close to a man.
Revell smiled at her then took her hands in his and placed them behind her back, leaving her leaning against him as he linked her wrist manacles together. Then he shoved her away from him a little bit, and encircled her throat with one powerful, well-manicured hand. Next he slid a finger up her vagina with the other hand, looking into her eyes with something like amusement as she startled at his sudden probing.
“Feeling a little vulnerable, mine?” Revell asked.
“Yes, Master,” she said, frightened, very conscious of the hand around her neck It had not tightened on her neck, but it could, so easily. And the finger in her heat left her feeling vulnerable as well. Her experiences as a slave had taught her that her if he wanted to, her Master could and would tighten his hand around her neck and choke her, and that her various bodily orifices could be penetrated at will by her Master. The hand on her neck and the finger in her vagina were powerful reminders of that, setting all her senses to “wary” and setting her sex on "ready," making her focus on Revell with all her mnd.
“Good,” said Revell. “You ARE vulnerable, you have NO option to dissemble. You are a former politician, I am sure that lying, dissembling, bullshit responses come as first nature to you. But you are a slave now, lies are not permitted to you if it is my will, and it IS my will. Now I will ask you a question that might be a little easier for you. How did you feel when you were taken and the homouth put on you?”
“Terrified, Master,” she responded. “I knew there were people in the world who hated me and did not understand what I was trying to accomplish, but I had NO IDEA of the depth of their hatred. I thought I would be imprisoned, maybe beaten, and I was terrified of that. But when I saw that homouth on my face, I knew … I knew … that they could not just HURT me, but CHANGE me … against my will! That terrrfied me ...”
MacCammon recounted all the terrible things that had happened to her then, just let the words and her feelings flow. It felt so good to let all the feelings that had been bottled up inside her since her capture flow. True, she had been among friends after her release by the fiends that put the homouth on her, but she had had to carefully censor her feelings and the way she'd expressed them to her friends – there was so much they would not understand, or approve of. She did not know if Revell would understand or approve of her feelings, but she could not stop the rush of words. She knew at some level that she was being manipulated, that the things she was using might be used by her owner to control her or hurt her psychologically as well as physically, but she could not stop.
It was such a relief to finally be able to speak the absolute truth. She told Revell not only of the horror and fear she had felt, but also the secret pleasure she had felt, of how the pleasure was at times exactly in synch with the horror and fear, a wild jumble of emotions that had overwhelmed her.
She spoke of the way the Sisters of Mercy had hurt her and at the same time brought pleasure to her, making her cum at their will, making her scream in pain or in pleasure,
sometimes both at the same time.
She was still pouring out her heart about the mistreatment she suffered at the hands of the Sisters of Mercy and their allies when Revell said, “Hush, mine, that will be enough for today. I want to hear your every thought and feeling about all that you have experienced, but we have plenty of time for that and I have others things to do. I am very pleased, I am sure you spoke the truth just now, but frankly, it has been frustrating to have you in my power like this and not use you, so ...”
With these words he slid MacCammon off his lap so that she was kneeling before him. He picked up his remote and clicked it and she felt her mouth returning to its familiar homouth configuration, the teeth covered with flesh, the mouth slit going from horizontal to vertical and the soft, inner labia pressing their way out from between her outer lips, soft, obscene, unmistakable proof of what her mouth had become.
“Now serve me with your lips, mine,”
he said, unbuckling and unzipping his pants, and pulling her head to his crotch by the hair.
MacCammon lowered her head and allowed Revell's half-turgid cock to work its way into her homouth, as she had been trained to, and served him with the same diligence she had served all who had used her, her nanoset-enhanced passions setting her aflame as she did so.
Afterward, when he put her in her cage and locked her in, she found herself unable to sleep, despite the relative luxuriousness of the cage. She tossed and turned on her mattress, her mind filled with strange emotions, disturbing emotions. She knew she was being manipulated, she KNEW it, she had manipulated people often enough in her political career. But she also KNEW that she was, for all practical purposes, Revell's slave. As a prior owner had said, the laws that were ironclad rules that destroyed the lives and families of the poor and the middle class, were mere whispers of suggestions for the wealthy. Revell could do anything he wanted to with her, could have anything he wanted from her by simply taking it.
