“But I’ve gotten off track, haven’t I, my repressed little darling? We were talking about your lesson for tonight, how you want to show your debauched desires to our esteemed guests and prove the existence of the slut heart that beats inside stuck-up nice middle-class girls like you.”
It is always the same. It is lies and performance, a mask of exaggerated disdain for the benefit of the audience, but he sees inside her head and dredges up her darkest shame and desires, proving her to share the desires she considers contemptuous and base in others. He makes her acknowledge what she’s been taught she should not yearn for. He scorns her for her needs; every man here is riveted by the forbidden lust that rages through Lydia’s body and mind. Images flash through her head and she lets out a moan and pushes her pelvis back toward her Master, unconsciously offering herself to him.
“What is this?”
She doesn’t answer. She can’t, she’s not allowed, but she wouldn’t anyway. She knows what happens when the Master starts asking her questions.
“Are you trying to control what happens to you?” He says it quietly, but there is a resonance in his voice that she knows will carry to even the men seated up the back of the room.
“I think Lydia, our little slut, is trying to tempt me. I think she wants to control what happens to her. And I do not think that is appropriate.”
There is murmuring from the men in the crowd.
“I don’t think girls who think they can be tied up with their pussies showing in public and not have to give up control to the men who know better than they should be allowed to get away with such cheek. What do you think, gentlemen?”
More murmurs of assent, stronger now, in the tones of men trying desperately to keep their arousal to themselves.
“Very well then.”
Lydia hears him walk away, off the stage, and the heavy footfalls of his return. He comes to stand beside her, but for several moments he says or does nothing, and she wonders what is to come.
A sudden harsh swishing sound cuts the air, and the biting sting of a riding crop burns across her ass. She gasps in shock and pain, and her stomach clenches involuntarily. The sharp pain always comes as a shock at first, even when she is ready for it and doubly so when she is not. It takes her body some time to adjust before she begins to enjoy it. But tonight the Master is not interested in giving her time, quickly bringing down the crop again, an inch from where he landed it the first time. Lydia cries out in pain, and tears sting her eyes. The crop bites into her flesh again, and her cry turns into a low moan. The Master pauses, and strokes her sore, tender flesh, whispering softly so that only she can hear. She relaxes against his touch, knowing that it is only a matter of time before he hits her with the crop again. Sure enough, he moves his hand away, and she breathes in, waiting for the inevitable pain.
Her body is ready this time, and the sting carries with it a faint echo of pleasure. The Master rubs her ass again, the warmth of his hand mingling with her heat, and she relaxes and begins to breathe normally. He knows how to play her; he continues alternating lashes of the crop with gentle strokes of his hand. She begins to relish the hiss of the crop as it cuts the air, and her body begins to reinterpret the pain of contact as pleasure. Soon she feels the heat of her ass move lower down to her cunt, as she and the Master both knew she would.
He puts his fingers against her vulva and rubs it gently in a circular motion. She can feel his fingers savouring her wetness. He pulls his hand away and takes a step back.
“The slut must sate herself,” he informs the room in general.
He steps forward into her view but does not face her. He crouches at her side, not looking at or speaking to her, and unties the cord that binds her left arm. He then straightens, turns and walks back down off the stage without acknowledging her. She feels a momentary flash of disappointment at his lack of attention, but arousal takes its place as she hungrily places her freed left hand between her legs and begins to stroke herself. She rubs her clit with two fingers, giving herself over to sensation.
She strokes harder and faster, growling in the back of her throat as her orgasm approaches. The audience is silent, awaiting her climax, feeling the sexual electricity that filters through the room and crackles off the surfaces. Their collective gaze is riveted to the source of this energy; the woman who kneels, bound by leather ropes to the raised platform in the middle of the room, and sweats from the hot stage lights and her own palpable desire. Lydia feels their desire, their arousal at both the situation and the close proximity of so many other people, almost as strongly as she feels the sensations caused by her fingers working on her clitoris. She rocks back onto her hand again, offering her backside to the audience, and slips a finger into her cunt. Then two. She takes the pressure off her clitoris for a moment, knowing that if she delays her own orgasm, she increases the sexual tension in the room as well as her own eventual climax. Her thoughts fly to her Master as she finger-fucks herself, and she wonders what he makes of her display. Is he watching her, his gaze on her glistening pink cunt, watching the fingers thrust into it and come out a little more slippery each time? Does he have his hand on his cock as he takes it all in? What does he have planned for her after this?
She removes her fingers and goes back to stroking her clit, bucking again at the sensations. She will let herself come this time. She will come hard and noisily, and her sexual release will fill the whole room and everyone will be able to see what a little whore she is. The thought of all her men sitting there, thinking about what a slut she is and maybe with their hands on their cocks because of it, sends her over the edge. She comes to orgasm with a howl, rubbing her clit furiously and rearing back against her hand. She continues to rub even after she is sensitive, lost in a post-orgasmic daze and no longer aware anymore of the crowd and their various stages of arousal. Nor does she notice her Master is at her side until he has roughly grabbed her hand and bound it again with the leather.
She realises what is happening and lowers her head submissively. Although still recovering from her exhibitionistic orgasm, she focuses her senses on trying to locate where he is now that he has moved back behind her, and tries to guess what his next action will be. She does not have to wonder long before she feels the sting of a slap on her right buttock, and gasps aloud, out of shock more than pain, although she can still feel the trail of the crop across her flesh. Before she has time to recover her composure, a second slap lands with a sting upon her left buttock. There is murmuring rising from the crowd; they are excited by the Master’s actions, and by her response. She arches her back and leans in towards the direction his hands are coming from, and is rewarded for her impudence by several more slaps, coming in quick succession across her ass. Her gaps come steadily, and morph quickly into moans. Then without warning he stops. She pauses, dazed, and whimpers for more, beyond capability of speech. She wants desperately to turn her head to see what is happening, but knows she must not. There will be a punishment if she does so, and far from being a continuation of what she has experienced so far, she fears it will rather be the cessation of the Master’s touch, the premature ending of the show. The pause, however, is temporary, and she guesses it is for show. His hands come at her from her side, striking her in such a way as to slap both ass cheeks. She pushes back against his hand once more and is rewarded with several more slaps. She feels her responses grow more theatrical, mindful even in her aroused state of the audience. She wants them to want her, although they will never touch her in the way the Master is doing now. That’s part of the point, she thinks, and makes a show of trying to squirm away from his punishing hands. Lydia, for all she has become, remains a terrible actress: there is far less show than genuine desire in her responses.
The Master stops, and as the pause lengthens, Lydia despondently comes to realise that he has decreed that part of the show to be over. She holds her breath and waits for him to begin the next stage.
She feels him kneel down behind her, and leans back to offer him her ass. He resp
onds by spreading her cheeks, and keeping them apart with one hand, he rubs lubricant on her asshole. The lube is cold and unexpected, and she jerks away involuntarily. He pulls her back towards him and she feels him place the head of his cock against the tight ring of muscle, and braces herself for the pleasurable pain that she knows will come with his thrusts. Her ass is still relatively virginal, and any penetration comes with a heady mix of searing pain and intense pleasure. She does not know if the pleasure stems from the pain itself or the taboo of anal sex, and she doesn’t care.
He plunges into her and she screams as he embeds his cock in her with an air of propriety, his left hand wrapped around her thigh so she can’t try to struggle away from him. He pauses for a moment for her to take in the sensation of his cock in her ass, stretching her out, then withdraws almost all the way, leaving only the head of his cock inside her. She relaxes for a moment – too soon, as he thrusts back into her again with the familiar sensation of pain and profound pleasure. She begins to wail, a steady keening rhythm, an ode to the pleasure of pain and the pain of pleasure, in sync with his thrusts as they become more measured, and gradually the tone of her shrieks alters from the low pitch of pain to the high pitch of pleasure. She gasps in between squeals and rocks back against him, relishing the new sensation of pain this brings with it, a deeper sensation that is not as sharp as the pain of the initial penetration. He takes this as his cue to bring a new element to their fucking, and as he thrusts into her, brings his palm down flat on her arse in a hard slap which echoes through the room and through her tender flesh. She manages to gasp out a guttural request for more. Each slap sends a jolt straight to her clit, the sensation of her stimulation mingling with the harsh sting of his spanking and the ache from his cock up her ass, so that she doesn’t know where pleasure leaves off and pain starts. He begins to spank her in time with his thrusts, and she writhes below him, not knowing whether to beg him to stop or insist that he never does.
“You love this, don’t you, you little slut?” he enquires in a voice loud enough for their captivated audience to hear.
“Yes” she murmurs softly.
“Louder. I want our guests to hear. I want you to tell the whole world what a slut you are.”
“Yes,” she moans, her voice husky and raw. “Yes, I am a slut, and I love this. I don’t want it to stop.”
He spanks her harder for her confession and she squeals again, her cheeks stinging profusely. She rocks back into him, and can feel the telltale throbbing that means his orgasm is building. He repositions his left hand so that he still controls her movements with it, but is able to stroke her clitoris with his fingers. She rubs herself against his hand frantically, then lets out a deep growl and comes again. The contractions ripple through her ass and set off his orgasm. He comes deep inside her with a grunt, and she feels his cock throb as it releases the hot streams of semen into her. She lets out a final moan and collapses under him, and his cock slides out of her well-lubricated and very well-fucked ass; her bonds, which had been stretched taut throughout their sex, loosen now as their prisoner sprawls on the floor, offering no resistance.
She lies and pants, satisfied and looking up at him now as she is allowed to do once their act is over. He relaxes into a crouch to stroke her hair and looks back at her appraisingly, proud of what she has achieved tonight.
Behind them, the audience bursts into a raucous round of applause.
The Travellers
Amanda Earl
Carleton folded his white Oxford shirt into the brown leather carry on bag, smoothed down his suit and left the apartment.
Michael spread Philadelphia cream cheese on Ritz crackers. It had to be Philadelphia. It had to be Ritz.
Richard called a taxi.
Marthe lay naked and star-shaped, her arms and legs chained to the bedposts. She lifted her head. It was 6:15 p.m. Carleton would soon arrive.
Carleton Caruthers, age 46, plain brown hair, average height, found his seat on the Dash 8 plane. There was no one seated beside him, but if there had been, his neighbor would have described him as nondescript. His fellow passengers barely gave him a glance. He cracked his knuckles and waited for the plane to take off. Making a quick call, he verified that all was ready.
“She’s in position? Good. And you have the crackers. I expect Richard to be waiting at the gate. He’s on his way? Good. Please check on Marthe; make sure she isn’t feeling any tingling in her fingers or toes. You remember the last time. Yes, you can put the bit gag in her mouth in about half an hour, undo her restraints and have her do some stretching for ten minutes minutes, then bind her once more. And have my cane resting at the foot of the bed, won’t you, boy?”
He flagged down the flight attendant as she went by.
“Blanket, please,” he said and watched her quickly move her eyes away from the obvious bulge in his pants.
“Yes, sir,” she said as she reached up to the overhead compartment above him.
He admired her breasts straining against the blouse of the airline uniform. The buttons were, of course, done up all the way to the top. Tendrils of hair escaped from her chignon. He imagined she was quite a strumpet behind closed doors. He noted dark circles beneath smoky grey eyes as she gave him the blanket, pausing and looking down once more at his erection, but not looking away quickly this time. He did nothing to hide it. In another circumstance, he would have discovered the reasons for her troubled sleep and released all that internal turmoil on a hotel bed near the airport, with an improvised flogger and a towel in her mouth, to muffle her screams of ecstasy.
In whispered tones, she told him to fasten his seatbelt and shortly afterward the plane took off. Carleton removed the fat file in his bag and read for the entire journey. This was the dossier of his slaves’ activities for the past two weeks, since the last time he’d visited. Yes, they’d obeyed the no sex for forty-eight hours before his arrival rule. Yes, they’d gone to the gym regularly, except Richard. Richard would have to be punished.
He glanced at the photos of the naked Marthe, her long black ponytail coiled above her head. Richard and Michael were flogging her regularly as he had ordered. Another photo showed bruises and red marks on her posterior. There was a note saying that she was no longer accepting nipple clamps. Something would have to be done about that. He thought of the ten wooden clothes pegs in his bag and imagined commanding Richard to place five on each breast, so that the nipples stood out for him, waiting to be flogged.
His cock was as hard as rock now. He breathed in sharply, enjoying the sensation of his cockhead poking through the tight white cotton of his briefs. If that stewardess were free and they were alone, he’d have her kneeling by now, taking the whole of it in her mouth, her hands bound together with a seatbelt.
The plane started its descent. He counted slowly, willing his erection to soften, and of course, it did. The stewardess came by to make sure seats were in an upright position and the table trays were closed. Her nostrils flared a bit as she looked down at him and then she patted him on the shoulder as women always did when they wanted what he, the small, nondescript man unnoticed except by fellow journeyers, could provide. Yes, she was his for the taking, she was a traveller like the others, someone who needed to pass from the numb ordinary world into the realm of sensation, but he’d have to pass for now. Perhaps she’d be on duty on his return flight.
He thought of Marthe, waiting patiently in her bonds. Richard at the gate, Michael with his plate. Three travelers and he, their guide. Once again he would make them soar and sore. He laughed at the thought as he walked off the plane and into the gate.
The tall blond stood at the very front of the line to the gate, near the security checkpoint. It wouldn’t do to keep Carleton waiting and he knew it. The limousine driver had been told to keep the engine running and the car warm. Richard waited to perform the ritual he knew Carleton would demand, even in public. He was nervous as he always was when he had to provide a demonstration of his servitude out in the open. H
is hands shook as he took a deep breath. He straightened his shoulders, which were hunched, as was his habit. He knew Carleton wouldn’t like the fact that he wasn’t going to the gym. He just wasn’t as disciplined as the others. He knew he’d be punished. His cock stirred in his underwear-free slacks and he willed it down. Carleton would not want to be greeted with an erection that he, himself, hadn’t directly had a hand in.
He watched Carleton stride down the hallway and took another deep breath to steady his heartbeat. In a few minutes, he’d have to do it. He looked around. No one was looking. It was time. He moved to one knee, hoping others would think he was just tying his shoe. He paused, taking a deep breath, his head down. The title floor of the airport was hard on his hands as he spread his fingers wide.
Carleton’s brown loafers and neat cuffs swayed into view. He felt a hand on his head and then the command, “Rise.” He steadied himself and stood.
“At least you have that down, boy,” Carleton said, as he tossed his bag to Richard. “I think you know there will be punishment tonight.”
“Yes, sir,” Richard said, his legs trembling as he escorted Carleton to the waiting limousine. He knew what was coming, but he wasn’t so sure he could handle it. Carleton would not be lenient. His cock head pulsed at the thought.
In the limo, Carleton picked up the telephone and spoke with Michael while Richard took his position on the floor of the car, kneeling in front of Carleton. As Carleton spoke to Michael, he pulled down his zipper, took his cock out and pulled Richard’s head onto it. This was routine, nothing more, nothing less. A slave’s mouth should never be empty; a master’s cock should never be without a home when a slave was around.
“Yes, Michael, insert the butt plug into your ass now. That’s right, the five-incher, the metal one. Make sure you put it in right up to the flange. I want that ass open and ready to take my cock. How is Marthe? Good. I want you lying beside her with your butt in the air when I get there, understood?”
The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 6 Page 14
