I was told much later that the lady loves to fuck female asses. The harness she wears has a strap that goes through her crotch, which massages her clit and makes her come. The more she rode my ass and the more she liked it, the more vigorously she went about her business. Hearing her guttural noises made me believe she was coming. For a time, we became like a horse and rider galloping toward a fixed destination. But my own enjoyment seemed to stop once the fuck became brutal. This was far too rigorous and fast for me to take pleasure in the act… at least that’s what I thought.
I realized some minutes later, however, that while my mind denied any satisfaction, my body understood what was happening; it even liked the savagery. After the lady pulled out of my ass, I felt fingers on my pussy, toying with me like they could get me off. I don’t think I resisted their efforts. I was too tired to. But I didn’t pay much attention to them either. Then, suddenly, without warning, I was wracked by spasms and my clit throbbed hard and painfully. A full-fledged come slipped right by my wasted brain, causing my entire body to climax. The moment came and went so fast, I was left dazed and unable to understand what actually happened.
The men holding me were suddenly gone and I collapsed to the carpet, where I lay panting and out of breath. My hands were still grasping my elbows behind my back, and in a few minutes’ time, I could feel a tremendous ache in my shoulders. I sensed bodies above and all around me, but no one paid attention to my misery. I remained there for a while, believing that someone would eventually tell me what to do. But when no one spoke, and with my shoulders screaming with pain, I finally, slowly, cautiously, pulled out of the uncomfortable position, and lay flat on the floor . Still, no one noticed me. Or if they did, they didn’t say anything.
I must have waited nearly twenty minutes before I felt someone prod me with a stick.
“Out of here, slut, you’re done for tonight.”
Out of here, where? I wanted to ask, but I didn’t dare. I quickly rose to my hands and knees and crawled out the door. The woman who’d greeted me on my arrival was waiting there with a collar and leash. As though she’d practiced the move on many sluts before me, she collared my neck with a metal choke chain and led me by the leash down the hall.
“Stay on your hands and knees, and back your way down the stairs,” she said when we came to an open doorway. I looked back seeing the blackness below appear as though it would swallow me whole. Though I had no desire to go into her basement, I wasn’t in any position to argue. Wasted, aching and ready to sleep, I could only hope I’d get a chance to rest and a chance to assess what my kinky sex life had led me to. If this was Preston’s idea of my surrender, I’d have to take another look at my choice.
Chapter Seven
For some hours, I lay in the dark, inside a cage made of wood and metal. There was hardly room for me to move, and no way I could stand. I have no idea how long I stayed there before I was released for other purposes. I suspected that it was morning when the woman came with a plate of food, but I really couldn’t tell.
I relished every bite of bread and cheese she gave me, and ate the apple, core and all. It hardly filled my stomach, but it was welcome relief from the sour ache I’d felt all night.
“Is Preston Lockhart here, perhaps?” I tentatively asked, just as the woman was about to take my plate away.
“I have no idea,” she answered. Obviously, she didn’t care and I decided that it was unwise to question her further. In her eyes, I was reduced to a status somewhere beneath the favorite house pet. A chore for her, one more burden she didn’t ask for.
I spent the next two days at the house being taught a variety of sluttish behaviors, which I suppose Preston wanted me familiar with. I learned to crawl in proper form, squat with some grace—apparently, my wobbly attempt the first night had been noted. I learned to walk with submissive poise and to spread my body wide, making it available for sexual use whether I was on my back, or standing, or on my knees. I was worked for several hours at a stretch, posed, stretched, pinched, clamped, spanked, whipped with floggers and even made to run around a small pen in the yard of house, chased with a buggy whip to correct every flaw in my form. I had no idea what ‘form’ I was supposed to strike. As many times as I adjusted my pace or stride or stance, it was never right, never perfect, never even pleasing to the men who worked me.
Each practice session inside or out was exhausting, and while the men changed places whenever they were tired, I was forced to continue the unrelenting practice until I could hardly move.
After nearly every session, I tried to pose one simple question about Preston’s whereabouts—speaking submissively but earnestly as I was returned to my cell. If I managed to get my question out, the men who trained me all acted as if they didn’t know who Preston Lockhart was. I doubted that was possible, but there was no way to extract information from these callous men.
I was never fucked for real. There were plenty of fake pricks driving into my pussy and ass; sometimes both holes were filled at once and worked hard and fast until I screamed. But I never had a real cock in my cunt; that seemed saved for someone special—for Preston I hoped. I rather liked that idea, once it became clear that the men were avoiding my body with their erections. I saw them fuck several other women—and envied those women the sexual pleasure. But it was Preston I wanted, not the nameless clones who tortured me, who left me tired, and after two days, hardly able to feel anything sexual at all.
Later on Saturday night—I’m just guessing the time of day, since it had been some time since I’d seen daylight—I unexpectedly revolted. Almost without warning, a wave of angry feelings came over me and I exploded my pent-up rage and fear, feeling justly pissed that I’d been held this way. Pissed that Preston hadn’t shown his face, I rebelled.
I came to my feet after a succession of rods and canes and whips were laid on my ass. I’d been tied over a spanking rail, had been screaming for them to stop, and finally when the ropes were loosened, I bolted to my feet and turned to the two men. One was Ryder; he’d been abusing me all weekend, reveling in his attitude of superiority. I loathed him. At that moment, I loathed any man I saw, and most especially Preston Lockhart, who was still not present.
“Get me my clothes and get me out of here!” I stared Mr. Pretty-boy down and growled my orders.
“What was that?” he asked, mocking me still.
“I’m not playing your game anymore, and you can tell Preston to go to hell.”
He answered first with amusement, then his face turned solemnly grim. “You think this is a game?” He reached out and pulled me into him, pinching my nipple and drawing me forward.
I tried to jerk away, but from behind me, the second man had my hair in his hand.
“You’ve been misinformed if you think you have the right to leave of your free will. You’re property. A slut. A slave. A cunt, a pussy, a rectum, a mouth, an ass and thighs, a pair of breasts. That’s it. That’s all you are in this house, all you are to anyone who comes to play here. You’re a toy. Your job’s to entertain. You have a problem with that, too bad.” His lip curled into a snicker. The fingers that had been clamped to my nipple went for my pussy. “You know, I honestly can’t understand why you’re having such a problem with this.” His thumb grazed my clit repeatedly, while another finger found my “G” spot inside my vagina. “You’re drenched, slut.” He rubbed me a little harder, and my entire body twitched, threatening to explode. I couldn’t stand firm; I was too weak. The man behind me began to massage my sore ass, reminding me that the flesh was warm, and the sensation was biting and orgasmic. Ryder rubbed more vigorously and promptly had me at the precipice of coming. Knowing I was about to explode, he abruptly withdrew his hand. “See what I mean?” his voice was thick with sarcasm. “Just a cunt and pair of breasts and a tight round ass.”
The two men pushed me to the ground, although they hardly had to lay a hand on me. My body wilted on its own.
“You have any objection to your treatment or your
status, you bring it up with Preston, whoever the hell he is. We’re just here to get our jollies.”
Nudged by their Italian leather shoes, I crawled back to the basement cage that had been my solitary home and my place of rest since I was put there Thursday night.
I imagined it was Sunday morning when I was returned to the living room, where my weekend began. The drapes were open wide, a bright sun steaming through the windows.
I was naked still, entering a room where everyone else wore clothes. I shouldn’t have expected anything different. But after three days of torture and abuse, I was numb and passive. Any rebellion in me had died. I’m not sure it was Ryder’s demonstration that convinced me. I hate to think that. But it was obvious to me that my body loved what my mind still questioned and my fears tried to hate.
I was collared, leashed and crawling, taken to the center of the room and left to wait. Sitting up, I rested my ass on my legs behind me and held my thighs open wide, while my hands were clasped to opposite elbows behind me as they had so often been since Thursday night. Several men around me spoke quietly, while they drank fresh orange juice and champagne. The smell of breakfast—eggs and bacon and coffee—filled the room, wafting in from the door beyond where the cook was fixing the morning meal. I waited, my stomach growling. I don’t remember when I’d been last been offered food, but it seemed like a century ago. Around me, the men were discussing whatever men discuss at such a gathering. It might have been sports, stocks, sailing—maybe how to whip a woman without bruising. I wasn’t listening; I wasn’t even trying to listen. I was swimming in my senses—my ears heard sounds, my nose drew in the fragrant smells of food, and my skin felt ruffled by the drafts air tickling me lightly. I felt with all my senses, but my rational mind was in a daze, and there wasn’t a thought in my brain.
There were several men to my right and three men standing to my left. Others were sitting in chairs and I couldn’t see their faces. When the three to my left turned my way, they noted my presence as if they hadn’t been aware of me before. The whole aura in the room suddenly changed, and I shivered inexplicably. Expecting to be toyed with again, my body reacted with a jarring spasm in my groin. Then the three men shifted their stance, moving aside enough to show me that my master, Preston Lockhart, was sitting in an easy chair, casually sipping coffee. My heart instantly responded with excitement, while my sex moistened warmly. Seeing me stare at him, he put his cup down.
“Skye.” The voice was the same cold ruthless one that thrummed my clit before. It seemed especially cold now and parental. He pulled from the chair and strolled toward me, looking down critically. “What’s this I hear about your wanting to leave?” He grabbed for the chain around my neck and jerked up tight, lifting me from the position, high on my knees. I nearly choked. He pulled me to him, so that my nakedness touched the smooth fabric of his pants, close enough that I could feel his legs underneath. And at head height, the heat of his crotch poured out on me. He tugged the chain with one hand, with the other grasped my chin and forced it up. “You want to leave?”
“No, sir,” I said without thinking, because that’s what I figured he wanted to hear.
“But that’s what you told my friends. Can you explain that?”
“They caned me hard.”
“And that’s a problem for you?”
“It was then,” I admitted.
“And why was that?”
I could feel my body tremble, with something angry churning in my gut.
“I wanted you, and you weren’t here,” I suddenly snapped. “I expected you and you left me to these wolves.”
He slapped my face. Stunned me. The sting radiated outward from where his palm struck flat against my cheek. He jerked the chain again, pulling me tighter, higher toward him.
“You owe these men an apology for being so rude.”
My gut wrenched at the thought.
“I can’t!” My voice, wracked with emotion, broke.
“Gentlemen,” he addressed the room of waiting men. “It would seem the slut needs a lesson in humility.” I flinched scared as a frightened rabbit. “Bring me some spice oil.”
A green glass bottle and stopper appeared in seconds, just as Preston yanked me to a large leather hassock and threw me over the thick cushion. He tied my hands to the far legs, raised my ass high with several pillows under my groin, and then tied my legs and feet as far apart as my body would stretch. Standing behind me, he sat in a chair and worked my asshole, roughly thrusting his fingers inside. When he seemed to have it loosened to his satisfaction, I felt the oil pouring inside, warm and greasy. It took just a few moments before I realized what ‘spice oil’ implied. The substance melted into my flesh, into the porous tissue inside and the tender surfaces surrounding my anus. A fire ignited within and without, turning what was just warm to blazing hot in seconds.
Then from somewhere behind me, I heard the snap of latex gloves, and felt my master’s hand driving deep into my rectum, spreading the spice oil far inside. He fucked me with his hand until I thought I would incinerate.
As hastily as he’d conducted the dreadful scene, he ended his part in it. Ripping the gloves from his hands, he handed them to one of the men. Then he leaned down so I could hear him—just a private moment, with his hand firmly on my neck holding me fast, “Get used to it, Skye. You’re not your own woman anymore. You’re mine, and you perform for me.”
Letting go of my neck, he stood up straight and backed away.
“Use her, gentlemen, as hard and as long as you like,” I heard him say. I’d witnessed the scene from the corner of my opened eye. Once he gave the instructions, I watched Preston leave the room and me to the groping hands and fleshy cocks of these strangers.
I gather some men liked my fiery portal, as they fucked me with naked cocks. Others preferred to wear condoms to protect their precious skin from the spices in my rectum. It didn’t matter to me how they screwed me from behind, each one just spread more hell, taking me to the limit of my endurance. Though I wasn’t counting, I don’t believe I missed a prick that morning, except for Preston’s—which was notably absent.
After using my ass, they let me go, untied my weary limbs, shoved me to the door. Someone said, “Exit out the door you came.” I was too numb to walk, so I crawled from the room. I suppose they wouldn’t have let me walk upright, but I’ll never know that. I also wasn’t sure what they were ordering me to do, but the answer was soon clear. The unnamed woman of Thursday evening was there to take me to the servant’s door down the corridor. My clothes were there hanging on the hook where I left them. “Could I use the bathroom before I leave?” I asked.
“Through there,” she pointed to a washroom behind me. The hot sensation in my ass had subsided, leaving a warm glowing feeling in my behind. But I was a sticky mess, and it took some time to clean away the traces of cum and spice oil. My anus had been stretched so wide that I wondered if it would ever return to normal. In fact, it seemed that my entire behind was one wide gaping hole, a territory just explored, which would remain forever prominently available for cock to screw. I stared in the mirror at my tired face, feeling curious about the woman I saw there. I saw peace in her expression, none of the emptiness I would have expected, just peace and contentment, satiation and satisfaction. Did I really feel that way? Was everything they said about me true? The slut, the cunt, the ass, the breasts, the body? Was this the real me? I wasn’t equipped to answer the question. I’d wait until later to confirm the answer, but I guessed that by that time, I had all the confirmation I needed.
My body stunk with three days perspiration reeking from my pores. Sour sex juice clung to my skin. I tied my greasy hair in a ponytail to get it out of my way. I needed a bath—no amount of washing at the sink could wipe the stains away. I needed a hot shower and a soak in the tub.
I exited the washroom and dressed quickly, while the old battle-axe watched me critically. Then I left the house, hurriedly making my way to my car. I drove toward home on th
e open road, feeling dizzy, shaken, scared still, and exposed.
Chapter Eight
The hours between 42 North St. and Monday in the office went by in a daze. I don’t think I ever woke to reality as I took my long hot shower and washed my hair. I flashed back frequently to the scenes in the house, especially the last with Preston. I tried to remember his every word, understand my faults and his attitude, and then recapture the embarrassing body rush that made that exchange so weirdly sexual. My humiliation taunted me, as repulsive as it was. It tapped a need in me I would have never known was there without it having been so clearly pointed out. I remembered Ryder’s cruel words, and Preston’s, and thrived on them both. Hate had turned to love, had turned to obsession—a mania I couldn’t chase from my mind.
I finally drank a glass of wine to calm my thoughts, so I could rest. I drifted into my dreams about eight o’clock and didn’t resurface until six-thirty the next morning.
Then, the instant I came to, reality reared its snide face, reminding me that it was Monday, my weekend was over and I would return to my master’s domain in little over an hour.
***
The first few hours of Monday morning went by as normal—normal except for the fact that any second I expected Preston to summon me. I shouldn’t have been surprised when he ignored me. He’d certainly done so in the past, for days. But now, more than ever, I needed some cue from him about where our relationship would go. I needed his reassurance, his guidance. I didn’t know how to think without him directing my thoughts.
At three, after seven torturous, wasted hours, I walked through the main office trying to get noticed—and I was.
“Skye, a few minutes, please.” Preston came out of nowhere and disappeared down the hall before I could respond to his request. I followed him and stood at the doorway, while he sat in his chair. “Your behavior at the house was regrettable, but fortunately, you finally seemed to redeem yourself.”
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