Carnal Captive

by Vonna Harper

  Dreading the punishment she feared was about to come, she studied Reno’s expression but couldn’t tell what he was thinking.

  “I’m tired.” Reno let the chain slide off his finger. “And since you have nothing else to do, slave, you might as well go back to hoisting that little bit of jewelry.” Head cocked, he flicked it. Despite her best effort, she moaned.

  “That’s your punishment. I was going to take off the clamps before you did me.” He stroked his cock. “But you blew it.” He again flicked the chain. “Get to work. Wait. There’s more than one way to make you remember who’s in charge.”

  She knew better than to resist as Reno pulled her arms behind her and secured her wrists. What would have been the use? Neither did she issue a word of complaint when, after pulling his shorts down around his ankles, he ordered her to give him head. She’d just gone to work when Damek stood. What did she care if he took pictures? This wasn’t any worse than other things she’d done or had done to her.

  Instead of recording her movements, however, Damek positioned himself behind her and began flogging her back and buttocks. The blows stung more than hurt. Still, she could barely concentrate on her task. Her vision blurred as she sucked and licked, advanced and retreated. Much as she wished Reno a lifetime of sexual frustration, she wouldn’t be allowed a moment of peace until she’d gotten him off. The clamps would remain wedded to her nipples unless he exploded.

  Yes, she acknowledged, as she worked him faster and faster. If she had half a chance, she’d squeeze on his throat until his eyes bulged out and his tongue turned purple. Then she’d stab him.

  Repeatedly.

  “What’s this?” Damek demanded. “Looks like she’s losing interest in her task.”

  “Yeah,” Reno grunted. “That’s what it feels like to me.”

  “Hold on. I’ll get her started again.”

  The flogger, wielded by a powerful arm, slashed her buttocks. Mewling, she cursed her existence.

  Chapter Twenty

  “Not at all,” the man who called himself Joe Jones told Bay. “Some of our clients are interested in their slaves’ background. Others don’t care. Of course once a female has been in our system for a number of years, what she used to be has become immaterial.”

  “Why is that?” Bay asked. The whiskey he’d been offered was excellent. Too bad he didn’t dare let it relax him too much.

  “Elementary.” Mr. Jones smiled, adding momentary life to his stretched-over-bone features. “In essence her former life ceases to exist because she’s been thoroughly molded into a form useful to her owner. I must say I was surprised when you called yesterday.”

  “I finished my business sooner than I thought I would.” The first time he’d been in this room, he’d shared it with his slave’s trainers while she’d stood in the middle of the room, her pussy impaled by a metal hook. The contrast between this civilized conversation and the earlier one had him a bit on edge.

  “I trust it went well. Business has become incredibly complicated thanks in a large part to all those federal regulations. We’re fortunate here because the government doesn’t know we exist.”

  “No, I don’t imagine they do.”

  “So,” Mr. Jones said, “I’m assuming you’ll have enough free time going forward to become comfortable in your role as master.”

  “Yes, I will.” Truth was he’d been more than satisfied with the terms of the contract he’d just signed with a national fitness franchise. He was no longer a retired professional football player no one cared about, he’d become a legitimate businessman. A man with a future. A success.

  And one with all rights to a piece of submissive female flesh.

  “By the way,” he said, “I appreciate Carnal being able to accommodate my change in plans. The private plane was waiting when I got to the airport. Your pilot isn’t very talkative.”

  Mr. Jones chuckled. “None of our pilots are. Their job is to get the client here. I hope the flight was a restful one.”

  “It was,” he said when the truth was he’d been too keyed up to relax.

  “Good, good. Well, I don’t want to waste your time.” He clapped his hands. “I’m more than happy to share what information we have on her.”

  The slave who’d brought in their drinks a few minutes ago returned. The first time Bay had stared at her. This time, however, he was prepared for the silent and naked creature. Her nose ring reminded him of how his aunt and uncle’s neighbors had controlled the bulls at their cattle ranch. No way did he want something like that disfiguring his slave. In addition, her nipple rings were as large as what hung from her nose and pulled her breasts down. Another decorated her labia. Her only clothing, if it could be called that, consisted of a corset that started under her breasts and ended above her pussy. If it was as tight as it appeared, he felt sorry for her.

  After dropping to her knees, she placed the folder she’d brought in on the coffee table.

  “Leave,” Mr. Smith barked. “But stay nearby in case I have more use of you.”

  “Yes Master.”

  Watching her scramble to her feet, he wondered what, if anything, she was thinking. Several thin pale slashes marred the backs of her thighs. During his playing years, he’d constantly sported bruises and abrasions, but he’d always given as good as he got. Had she been beaten so many times she no longer questioned her master’s right to treat her that way? Would his slave get to that place?

  “This is where she was living.” His host handed him an eight by ten photograph of a small, well-built house with a porch. The shot had been taken from a distance and showed part of an extensive white wooden fence. Several horses grazed not far from the house.

  “Interesting,” he said. “Are—were the horses hers?”

  “No. They belong to the property owners.” Mr. Jones handed him another picture. In this one, the little house was to the left while a much larger home dominated the area to the right. “She lived in a guest house. The fencing encloses some five acres.”

  Having spent most of his life in one city or another, he could barely wrap his mind around owning that much land. Tempted as he was to ask what the property owners did for a living, he knew Mr. Jones wouldn’t tell him. Hell, he didn’t even know which state his slave came from.

  “She lives—lived there alone?”

  “Of course. We don’t go after females with family, close friendship, or male ties. Loners fit our requirements. When they disappear, no one sounds the alarm.”

  Surely someone had reported her disappearance. But that too was something he knew better than to question.

  He turned his attention back to the place his slave had called home. The house appeared to be around a thousand square feet in size although the wrap-around porch made it difficult to be sure. A comfortable chair on the porch with a nearby table faced downhill. He easily pictured her sitting outside at the end of the day watching the horses while sipping on a glass of wine. Maybe she stayed out there until the sun set, thinking her thoughts and making plans for the next day.

  Plans that no longer existed.

  “As you can tell,” Mr. Jones said, “the property owners left much of the natural vegetation in place. The photographs don’t show it, but there’s a seasonal creek. I don’t know if the owners thought the fence would keep wildlife out, but the Carnal employee who took the shots reported seeing several doe and fawns on the property.”

  Which meant his slave had watched the deer. Enjoyed their presence.

  “The place is in the country,” Mr. Jones said unnecessarily. “I’m assuming the owners rely on a well. I’ve never had one but wouldn’t want to be worrying it might go dry.”

  He didn’t give a damn about wells. “What about inside her place? Did your employee get in it?”

  “Of course. We learn absolutely everything possible about the subject before taking it.”

  She wasn’t a car, she was a human being.

  At least she’d been before she’d become his.
>
  Unnerved by the unwanted thought, he accepted the next three photographs. One showed a neat, cozy living room decorated mostly in greens and browns. The kitchen was spotless, making him wonder what kind of cook she was—had been. She slept in a single bed.

  “That’s it?” he asked, forcing his attention off the bed with its brown and cream spread.

  “No. There’s one more room. Normally we don’t pass on information about the slaves’ prior lives, but she was self-employed and worked out of the house. That worked to our advantage because there wasn’t an employer checking into her whereabouts.”

  Bay didn’t understand the spark that went through him as his host extended another photograph toward him. Whoever had taken it had used a wide-angle lens. There were large windows on two sides. A desk held a computer and elaborate looking printer. She’d placed an easel near one window. A canvas was propped on it, but he couldn’t tell what, if anything, had been painted. A nearby table was littered with brushes, paint tubes, thinner, and pallet knives. More canvas was stretched over frames were stacked under the table.

  “She’s an artist,” he said.

  “Was.”

  “Was she good?”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  Yes, it did.

  Perhaps Mr. Jones had read his mind because the older man frowned and shook his head. “I strongly suggest you focus on your slave’s future. Her past has no relevance. With your purchase, you’ve set in motion the potential for pleasure unlike any you’ve ever experienced. Most men are hardwired for dominance. That’s what made you successful on the football field, right? Your refusal to let anyone get the best of you.”

  “I’d forfeit a paycheck if I did.”

  “It wasn’t just about money. You liked being in charge.”

  Football was more complicated than that, but he wasn’t in the mood to spell out the details.

  Mr. Jones glanced at his watch. “Your slave and her handlers will be here in a few minutes. There are just a few more points I want to cover. Number one, client satisfaction is essential. Any time her behavior needs correcting, let us know. If you grow bored with her, which happens, we’ll be happy to broker a sale.”

  “For a price.”

  “Of course.” If Mr. Jones took offense, he gave no indication. “After all, you can hardly put up an ad that says used sex slave for sale. You haven’t asked, but I want to assure you that law enforcement isn’t looking for her. As I said, her being self-employed simplified things.”

  “Did it?”

  “Yes.” Mr. Jones leaned forward again as if eager to share information. “We cleared her place of all personal items and made it look as if she’d unexpectedly packed up and taken off. She failed to deliver some consignment artwork. Of course that person was upset. When he got in touch with her landlord and learned she’d left owing rent, everyone chalked her lack of responsibility up to artistic temperament. Her final posting on her Facebook page said she was heading for the Rockies looking for inspiration.”

  Bay guessed Mr. Jones wasn’t telling him the whole story about what Carnal Incorporated had done to cover their tracks. It was better if he didn’t know.

  “I take it her paintings were included in what you took. I want them.”

  “Of course. You’re entitled to everything, even her panties.”

  Panties. He was trying to wrap his mind around that when the door to his left opened and Damek and Reno walked in. Both men carried clipboards. His slave trailed behind them on her hands and knees. She was naked of course—except for the bands around her wrists, ankles, and neck. Unlike the last time he’d seen her when she’d been so dirty it had been off-putting, her dark hair gleamed and lamplight glinted off her flesh.

  No one spoke as Damek and Reno sat down and she positioned herself inches from his legs. She slowly lowered her forehead to the floor, revealing her back and fading whip marks.

  “Forgive me if we repeat ourselves,” Mr. Jones said, “but we’d rather do that than leave out details. Taking a lump of clay and transforming it into something productive is a complex operation. We take great pride in putting out quality products. I wasn’t involved in the day-to-day training so will leave the details to those who were. Damek, why don’t you begin.”

  The trainer glanced at his clipboard. “The subject came to us with no preconceived notions of what was expected of her. She was indeed a lump of clay. For the most part, we’re satisfied with what she’s become. I doubt if she’ll ever fully overcome her disinclination to perform oral sex, but she has learned to internalize her objections.”

  As Damek continued, Bay split his attention between the trainer and his naked property. If he didn’t know what Damek was talking about, he’d surmise the man was describing a horse he wanted to sell. Despite her loathing of oral sex, Damek believed her technique was satisfactory. Through the use of larger and larger ass plugs, her rear hole had been stretched to accommodate a determined man.

  “If given a choice, which she wasn’t,” Damek said, “I’m certain she’d prefer vaginal sex, but she knows to immediately present herself for ass fucking. Let me demonstrate.”

  Rising, Damek walked behind the slave. “Present,” he ordered.

  Head still down and hair shielding her features, she reached behind her and spread her ass cheeks, widening her stance as she did.

  “Join me, please,” Damek said.

  Bay did. Looking down at the gaping hole, he felt disconnected from what was happening. He’d dated two women who were into anal sex, at least that’s what they’d told him. One had talked him through the process, assuring him all the while that he wasn’t hurting her and that she’d given herself an enema in preparation for the evening’s adventure.

  Thanks to that indoctrination, he’d believed he knew what to do when he hooked up with her friend later. Other than grunting like a stuck pig, the second woman hadn’t given any indication how she felt about the act. He’d boasted to his teammates but hadn’t gone looking for any more rear door action.

  Determined to make tonight real, he swept his hand over her crack. She didn’t move.

  “Let us know if you desire more response.” Damek said. “Some masters want their slaves to participate in the acts. Others just require a handy hole. There’s a lot to be said about sticking it to someone who doesn’t want to be stuck.”

  “She’ll respond,” Reno said, drawing Bay’s attention to him. “To both pain and pleasure. Right now she’s zoning.”

  Hadn’t that happened earlier? “Is she?”

  “It’s her protective mechanism.” Damek again glanced at his clipboard. “Once we determined what she was doing, we concentrated on making her stay in the moment via constant discomfort. Remarkable progress has been made. However, we have to admit that more work needs to be done before she’ll become a true participant in whatever sex acts you choose.”

  “Participant?”

  Damek gave him a sideways look. “It’s up to you, of course. Let me add that slaves who are given the opportunity to climax are more docile and eager to please than those who are denied what might be the only job perk.”

  Was he supposed to laugh? It didn’t matter because he’d found nothing funny in the comment.

  “What about commands? As I understand, she was taught to respond to several.” Like a dog.

  “We’ll give you the complete list,” Reno said. “Not all are verbal.”

  Because her face was so close to the floor, Bay figured she couldn’t see Reno position himself by her side. However, she’d undoubtedly learned to key into everything her handlers did. Soon her awareness would transfer to him.

  “This is a basic example of a non-verbal command.” Grabbing a fistful of her hair, he jerked, then released it.

  She immediately straightened and placed her arms behind her, grabbing her elbows as she did. Several small bruises ringed her nipples.

  “Verbal and non-verbal commands are equally effective,” Damek said. “Aren’t they, sl
ave?”

  Looking at the far wall, she nodded.

  Muttering, Damek hooked a finger through her collar and pulled until she had no choice but to stare at the ceiling. “What happens if you don’t obey?”

  “I’m punished, Master.”

  “Has there ever been a time when you weren’t punished?”

  “No, Master.”

  Concerned because she sounded as if she was strangling, Bay grabbed Damek’s wrist. “That’s enough.”

  Damek let go of the collar, but the slave remained in position until Reno drew her head forward via a hair-jerk.

  “A warning,” Damek said. “Don’t ever show weakness or compassion. Believe me, the sluts take advantage of it.”

  “He’s right,” Reno added. “Life is basic for them. They eat, sleep, have sex, are punished. Sometimes they’re passed around or put on display. Anything they can do to lessen or end the monotony, they will.”

  “Monotony?” Bay walked around so he could look into her eyes. She didn’t acknowledge his stare.

  “Sameness. In time slaves learn to bury their self-will,” Damek said. “It’s about survival. Please a master and there’ll be less pain. Eventually the lesson becomes so ingrained they forget they had opinions, desires, dreams. That hasn’t yet happened with this one.”

  Where was the woman she’d once been?

  “Look,” Reno said, “my partner fancies himself a psychologist. The female psyche fascinates him which might be why it also frustrates him. You can read his observations in the file we’ll be sending along with her.”

  Catching a hint of irritation in Reno’s voice, Bay studied both men in turn. “What else do I need to know today? I might not get to reading right away.”

  Mr. Jones chuckled. “New masters never do. What about it, gentlemen? Any cautions?”

  Cautions? As in needing to warn him that she might overpower him? Not in this lifetime.

  “There is one thing I’m going to mention.” When Reno didn’t immediately continue, Bay gave him his full attention.

  “I think I know what it is,” Bay said. “You want reassurance that I know my strength. Believe me, I do.”