She Called Him Sir

by JJ Argus

  My wrists were lifted above my head, joined together now, and then I groaned as the pull of the chain raised them higher, raised me onto the balls of my feet as their hands fell away, then to my toes, and then – off them.

  They turned the lights down and left me, and I could hear the harsh metal crack of bolts driven home in the doors. I groaned weakly, waking from the shock of that orgasm to find myself, quite literally, hanging by my wrists, suspended with my toes just above the floor. My wrists throbbed and ached dully, and my arms began to follow suit as I looked down the length of my body.

  For I could feel, between my legs, something there, holding the mouth of my sex open, pressing against the inside of my thighs, and against my buttocks. It was not the wooden posts which could rise and lower from the floor, for they had been pushed down into it. I was hanging freely. But, I suppose before he had lifted me off the sawhorse, Sir had pushed a thick dildo into my pussy, thicker than his cock, thicker even than the wooden cock which had been impaling me earlier.

  It was long, as well, for I felt it deep inside me, against my cervix. Its twin was clearly, I could feel, shoved into my backside, the base protruding perhaps an inch or so, jammed between my buttocks as I hung there swaying slightly with the force of my ragged breaths.

  My breasts were pulled taut against my chest, the nipples freed of the clips, throbbing hotly and very, very erect. My clit ached, down between my legs, but it too was free, and also swollen. I drew my head back against my arms, gasping weakly, then forcing it through to stare up at my bound wrists. I pushed it through again, looking down the length of my body to where my toes stretched as if trying to reach the floor.

  My arms ached, and I was low on energy. I groaned and let my head fall back against my arms, wondering how long I would be left like this. But I wasn't afraid or nervous. My mind was still filled with the echo of that incredible orgasm, and my body was still throbbing hotly.

  My back didn't hurt, nor did my breasts. Or at least, not so I could notice amid the other sensations. My chest was flushed, though, and there were darker marks on my breasts from where fingers had dug in deep, and even faint lines from where the flog had struck me. I stared at them, stared around the room, and felt a sense of wonderment, of amazement. Things like this didn't happen to people like me!

  My feet twitched a little. The ankle restraints were tight around them and locked together so that I couldn't open my legs, even should I wish to do so. It was one more feeling of restraint, of helplessness, as I hung there in mid-air, gulping in breaths and trying to regain some sense of equilibrium. I was not a sex slave, after all, even if the game was deliciously wicked. I was a... well, I was a waitress, really. Though now I was a sort of personal assistant – with benefits.

  An employee with benefits? Was that what you called a girl you hired who let you fuck her? I really didn't know. I wasn't really sure what I was, or, any longer, who I was.

  It didn't bother me that Jeremy had taken part in that wild little sex session with Sir. In fact, I was somewhat relieved by it. It put him into the role of participant instead of mere observer, and for some reason I found that less embarrassing. And the impersonal nature of the sex with Sir, and the fact I was far from home and anyone I knew, made Jeremy's addition fairly easy to accept. Besides, what was better than being dominated sexually by a handsome, powerfully built man than being dominated sexually by two handsome, powerfully built men?

  There was a bizarre sense of freedom in my helplessness. You might find that odd, but it existed. It freed me of the guilt I should have felt, of the shame at being a whore, or at least, of acting the whore. I was in a role which allowed, in fact, which demanded such sexual behavior. That was the role Sir required of me, and the role, one I never would have considered before, thrilled some deep, dark, lustful part of me.

  I was not Riley, the waitress, who had to act and dress in a certain way to maintain respect. I was Fire, the sex slave, who had a rather different set of expectations on her. And I was finding an incredible sense of thrilling sexual satisfaction in living up to those expectations.

  Hanging by my wrists naked in an underground dungeon!? I don't know. I just kept mentally shaking my head in disbelief even as I stared around me in helpless delight. My arms and wrists were really starting to ache, and I was not really getting back a lot of energy. I found, for some reason, that hanging was not a relaxing experience either mentally or physically. It was, in fact, rather draining, and the longer I hung there, the tireder I got.

  I heard the distant thump of bolts with a sense of relief, then the closer sound of the nearer door being opened. I raised my head and, panting, stared as Sir entered and strolled across to me. He was still wearing leather pants and vest. I wondered if he'd gone upstairs, and scandalized the maids or something.

  “How is my sex slave doing?” he asked.

  “N-Not your sex slave,” I gasped stubbornly.

  He chuckled throatily, walked up close, and gripped my hair, jerking my head back. Even hanging, he was slightly taller than I, and as he tilted my head back his lips crushed mine, our tongues moving tentatively, then lustfully together as his moist lips moved against my own. I moaned as his hand cupped my breast and rolled and stroked the aching nipple.

  He released my hair and pulled back a step, then took something from his belt and showed it to me briefly. I had no idea what it was then, but now know it as a pinwheel. A pinwheel is exactly what it sounds like. It's a small wheel of pins, about as wide around as a dime, attached to a slim handle.

  He moved slowly around me, and I felt his lips on my shoulder, then the pinwheel pressed against the back of my neck. I felt the sharpness of the little pins, then gasped as it 'rolled' slowly down my spine. My back arched instinctively, and my body jerked, my legs pulling against the ankle restraints as the pinwheel rolled down my spine all the way to my tailbone.

  “Tell me you're my sex slave,” he said in a low voice.

  I didn't, as I twisted and gasped at the sensation of the pinwheel sliding over my hip, then along the inside of my thigh. My legs jerked and he chuckled again, moving away.

  He returned with two short chains, and squatted before me. He unhooked my ankle restraints from each other, then spread my legs apart and chained them that way. He ran the pinwheel along my foot, then up along the underside, over the heel and along the instep.

  I squealed, my foot jerking violently against the chain.

  “Admit you're my sex slave, or I shall torture you mercilessly,” he said.

  The pinwheel slid up along the top of my foot, then up my ankle. The sensation was indescribable. A continuous trail of sharp little pricks sliding up my calf, then up behind my knee, circling my leg, sliding up the inside of my thigh, and then, gently running along my taut, swollen outer labia as it clung to the dildo. The pinwheel circled the base of the dildo, making me gasp and twist and writhe and moan in complaint.

  Then it ran along my clit, back and forth, making me cry out, before sliding up my belly and across my breast.

  “Say it, slave girl,” he taunted.

  I didn't, and the pinwheel moved back and forth over the center of my breasts, across my nipples, making me twist and writhe and moan.

  Another small device appeared in his hand. This, too, had a short, slim handle. And at the end, were feathers. He stroked them delicately across my clit, back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, then let the pinwheel slide across after it.

  He ran the pinwheel up along my ribs, up into my armpits, then along the backs of my hands before trailing it down my spine once more. The feathers teased and tickled, while the pinwheel stung, and he seemed to have infinite patience as I writhed and twisted and moaned under his 'torture'.

  He rubbed the feathers back and forth across my clit, to the point my hips were grinding helplessly against it as my body sought a greater pressure against my swollen clit Then the pinwheel rolled back and forth across my clit and I cried out, twisting and writhing as the sensa
tions assaulted me.

  He pressed the palm of his hand against the base of the dildo as he rolled the pinwheel around and around my labia, pressing up against the dildo in short, light little thrusts that made the nose jam against the back wall of my sex. More sensations poured into my overheated body.

  I was sweating now, from the heat and exertion, gasping, gulping in air as he tormented me. But my pussy throbbed hungrily, and I shuddered, my head rolling from side to side as his fingers stroked across my clit.

  “Nasty little girl,” he purred. “Nasty little sex slave.”

  I felt my head yanked back by the hair, and the pinwheel rolled along the side of my throat, followed by his lips and his tongue.

  “Say it, sex slave,” he whispered, his breath against my ear. “Say you want my cock.”

  “I-I want your cock!” I moaned.

  “Say you're my sex slave.”

  I moaned weakly, then writhed as the pinwheel rolled across my clit.

  “I'm your sex slave!” I gasped in a choked voice.

  “Again.”

  “I'm your sex slave!” I moaned as his thumb stroked against my clit.

  “Again.”

  He bent to lick, to suck, to chew on my nipple, as the pinwheel slid down beneath my pussy, rolling across that tiny bit of flesh between my pussy and ass. He sucked hard on my nipple, chewing lightly on the surrounding flesh.

  “I'm your sex slave!” I gasped.

  “Sir,” he said, pinching my nipple.

  “I'm your sex slave, sir!” I moaned.

  The pinwheel slid across my nipples and I gasped and trembled.

  “And will you obey your master's commands?”

  “Yes, sir!” I cried weakly.

  He paused, and I felt him grip my hair, jerking my head up a bit.

  “Instantly?”

  “Yes, sir!” I gasped.

  “Shall we see? Shall we put it to the test?”

  It was a rhetorical question.

  Chapter Nine

  He eased me down to the floor, and a wave of physical relief swept over me as the unrelenting pressure against my wrists and shoulders finally eased. I felt, in fact, like dropping to my knees, so that when he ordered me to, well, obedience was quite simple. The stone was hard against my knees, but it was soooo good to be able to bend my knees, and my arms, and to ease the stiffness in my back, that I groaned in pleasure.

  “Sit on your heels, slave girl,” he said.

  I sank back, and he slid his foot between my thighs, nudging them apart.

  He left me, walking over to the chest of drawers, and returned with – a collar.

  There was no pretense in it. It was a thick black leather collar with a heavy ring in front and a smaller one in back. He fastened it around my throat, and a sharp wave of heat passed over me as I saw the leash dangling from his other hand.

  “On all fours.”

  I fell forward onto my hands and knees, still breathing heavily, and felt the chain snap to the back of the collar, then he started towards the corner, tugging on the leash.

  “Crawl, slave girl.”

  I... crawled. I crawled unevenly, gasping, my knees sore against the stone, and then gasped as he snapped something stinging across my bottom.

  “Keep that bottom up, slave girl, and those legs apart.”

  I felt another sense of relief when we reached the carpet. It was thick and soft, and there was something under it to make it even softer. I let out a breath of relief, then gasped as he snapped the thing across my bottom again. I turned my head around and saw him holding a short switch of some sort. It was thin, and flexible, and black, like a crop, and I belatedly realized that was what it was, a light one.

  He tugged up on the leash and I gurgled as the collar pulled me up and back so he could sit me on my heels again.

  “Knees well apart,” he ordered, slapping the tip of the crop lightly against my inner thighs until he was satisfied.

  He moved behind me and traced the crop along my spine.

  “Back straight, shoulders back, chest out, hands on outer thighs.”

  He walked around in front of me and sat down and I trembled a bit, feeling the dark thrill of what we were doing, and the deep throb of my pussy around the big dildo up inside me.

  He had the leash in one hand, the crop in the other.

  “On all fours again,” he said.

  I fell forward onto hands and knees.

  “Now crawl to me.”

  Blushing, I obeyed.

  “Crawl away.”

  I turned and crawled away, then I crawled slowly back and forth in front of him as he watched me, feeling a whirling mix of emotions. He got up and the crop slid between my legs, then, angled up, slid across my clit in a way which made me cry out in pleasure, and roll my hips up sharply.

  “Nasty little sex slave,” he taunted.

  The crop slid across my buttocks, then along my spine.

  “Drop your chest to the floor but keep your bottom raised high.”

  I obeyed, crushing my breasts beneath me against the soft rug, flushed with heat as he inspected me, staring at the thick rug, feeling its softness against my chin.

  “Draw your knees forward a bit.”

  I couldn't see what he meant, but struggled to pull my knees forward along the rug while keeping my bottom high, feeling the strain in my back and thighs.

  “That's it. Now apart more.”

  He tapped the crop against my buttocks and I obeyed, prostrating myself, obscenely displaying myself to him as my heart thumped and my pulse raced and my pussy thrummed with hunger and need.

  The crop slid over my skin, over my pussy, my clit, making it buzz and throb. It tapped the base of the dildo protruding from my sex – barely protruding now, as it appeared to have sunk somewhat deeper into my belly.

  “Now roll over onto your back,” he said.

  He stepped back as I obeyed, chest heaving as I stared up at him.

  He sat back down.

  “Raise your legs straight into the air.

  He was facing my feet. I drew my knees up, then raised my legs.

  “Straight. And keep them together.”

  I raised my feet high, trying to keep them as straight as possible until they were pretty much pointed straight up.

  “Now open them – slowly,” he ordered.

  I let my ankles come apart, let my legs slowly fall open, flushing as he watched, feeling that swirling emotional storm within me: embarrassment, excitement, indignation, anxiety, heat, lust, anticipation. The wider my legs spread the more … I don't know, slutty, wicked nasty I felt. But without guilt, really, so that it just aroused me further.

  He was playing with his Barbie doll, I thought, posing her in interesting ways.

  The tendons in my thighs ached as I stretched them as wide as I could, and held them there as he looked at me.

  “All right. Now turn around, and on your belly.”

  Again, I obeyed, my breasts pillowing out beneath me against the soft material. My face was a foot or so from his feet.

  “Come closer,” he said.

  I wriggled forward on the rug, then closer still, until my face was almost touching his booted feet. He extended a foot.

  “Show how obedient you are, slave girl. Show your master how much you adore him,” he said.

  I didn't know what he meant, and confusion swirled within me. He nudged my lips with his foot, and I was still confused.

  “Kiss it,” he growled.

  Kiss his boot? Kiss his foot!? I rebelled indignantly for a moment, but then that heat billowed up around me. Why not? It's not like the shiny leather was dirty. And the thought suddenly became so hot that I leaned in and kissed his boot, and then, unbidden, my tongue flicked out, and I licked up and down along it. For some reason the wickedness of that, the degrading nature of it sent a wild flare of heat through my groin, and I licked longer, thrusting my tongue out, playing the slave girl as my pussy squeezed down hard on the dildo.


  “What do you think, Jeremy? Is my little slave girl learning the position?”

  I jerked my head up, startled, and then embarrassed as I realized Jeremy had come in while I was focused on licking at his boot.

  “Indeed, sir. Many positions,” Jeremy said quietly.

  The sudden embarrassment faded into a liquid heat as Sir handed Jeremy the leash. Jeremy tugged and I rose to all fours, then followed him to the side. He led me, leashed, walking back and forth in front of where Sir sat. He tugged tightly on the leash once, when I lagged behind.

  “Keep to heel, girl,” he ordered.

  Another stifling flare of heat swallowed my indignation as I crawled up faster to stay at his heel. I crawled back and forth several times on the ten foot rug as Sir watched us, my breasts swaying beneath me, my pussy sucking and squeezing down on the dildo, my embarrassment only serving to send a raging wall of dark, kinky excitement through my mind.

  “Face to the floor, bottom up,” Sir called.

  I obeyed, pressing my swollen breasts to the floor, bottom high, knees wide and forward, lewdly displaying myself, demeaning myself, degrading myself in a way which made me literally tremble with lust and excitement.

  I repositioned myself on my back, legs spread, then on my knees, but straight, hands behind my head, back arched, as the two men regarded me with unabashed lust and admiration. I bathed in that heat, and reflected it back at them.

  Back on all fours, Jeremy walked me again, slapping lightly on my bottom whenever I didn't keep it positioned correctly. Then, apparently satisfied, he walked me back to where Sir was sitting, legs apart.

  “Up, girl,” he said.

  I crawled up, between Sir's legs, and he combed his fingers through my hair, then guided me down against his groin, rubbing my face lightly against his leather covered crotch.

  “Unzip me. Take it out, and begin,” he said.

  I opened his leather trousers, took his semi-hard cock out, and began to lick and suck as Jeremy stood over me, holding my leash. I licked up and down its length, sucked on his balls, and then massaged them within my mouth as my hands stroked and caressed his cock. Then I reversed myself, using my hands to massage his balls as I took his cock deep into my throat.