Punishing Pamela

by Reese Gabriel

  Lorenzo eyed the cocked fist with seeming indifference. “Pamela Haley, your teacher, belongs to me,” he told them. “I’m the one who trained her. I own dozens like her. The best sex you could ever imagine. No limits. And you can have your pick of my stable.”

  The boys exchanged a glance.

  “What’s in it for you?” Trevor wanted to know.

  Lorenzo’s lip inclined in a sly smirk. “I’m looking to expand, boys. And you’re just the ones to help me out.” He gave them a generous wink. “Ever thought of becoming pimps, my young friends?”

  Two minutes later, they were in the Mustang, Blake behind the wheel, and Lorenzo in the passenger seat. Trevor was in the back, perched on the edge of the white leather seat, listening intently. The pimp’s idea, devious and illegal as it was, had strong appeal to the boys. Because as rich as they were, the only thing they couldn’t buy enough of was trouble.

  “Eighteen-year-old hotties are a goldmine, veritable cash cows,” Lorenzo explained as they cruised the main street heading out of town. They were going to miss their next class, not to mention their appointment with Erica and Mandy in Miss Haley’s office, but neither one gave a shit right now.

  They were bitches; let them wait.

  “Think about it, gentlemen. Tight, young pussy, upper class, fresh meat, available to a distinguished class of gentlemen at outrageous prices. And you call all the shots. A harem all your own…I bet that’s something your daddies didn’t teach you at the country club.”

  Blake eyed him, just now making the connection. “You’re the pimp the private detective we hired managed to track down, aren’t you? The one who had those old pictures of our bitch teacher.”

  He made a little bow, full of flourish. “The one and only.”

  Trevor scooted forward, enough so that he was practically on the shift column. “Back to the coed prostitution thing. Are you seriously saying we could get Ivy Dell girls to turn tricks?”

  “Yes, but we’re only interested in the ones over eighteen.”

  “There’s no way,” Blake shook his head, laughing. “It’s a sweet idea, but, like, there’s no way they’d let us sell their bodies—not even the sluts.”

  Lorenzo shrugged with calculated indifference, just enough to entice. “I suppose you know them better than me. Although,” he added a moment later, “any female can be trained.”

  “Trained?” echoed both boys in unison, dark lust thick in their voices.

  “Like dogs. Rewards, punishments.” He paused a second before pronouncing the last word. “Beatings.”

  Trevor guffawed, nervously. “That’s crazy.”

  The pimp said nothing.

  “I’ll tell you what, though,” Blake thought aloud. “Last night I made Mandy take it from behind. And after that I left her for Cindy to fuck around with and she never even balked.”

  “Dude!” Trevor slapped his friend on the shoulder. “You gave your girlfriend to the biggest lesbo on campus and you didn’t invite me?”

  “Didn’t even watch it myself, Trev. I had to work on my abs—two thousand crunches in the gym.”

  Trevor laughed. “You missed hot lesbo sex for a workout? What a dumb ass.”

  “What are you talking about?” Blake shot back. “You’ve been hot for Erica’s cooze for months, and you haven’t done shit about it.”

  Lorenzo saw his opening. “I can make her come crawling. What’d you say her name was? Erica?”

  “Yeah.” Trevor was all business now, the boyish antics gone. “Erica Green is her name. Like the color of her eyes. But what exactly are you saying?”

  “I’m saying, my young friend, that with a little effort, the great and splendid Erica Green can be converted into the bitch of your loins—a cringing, humbled little slut, desirous of nothing more than to service yours or any other cock you direct her to with open cunt, mouth and ass.”

  Trevor sat in wide-eyed silence.

  “What about Mandy?” Blake wanted to know. “Could you make her be my slave?”

  Lorenzo’s lips curled, his beady eyes lit with sincerity. “Just like she was born for it, my noble young hero of the gridiron. Just like she was born for it.”

  “Bullshit,” said Trevor, though his expression indicated he wanted to believe it more than anything.

  “One night,” Lorenzo held up a finger. “Give me one night. You two and your girls, and see if I’m bullshitting you.”

  “Tomorrow’s Friday,” Blake decided impulsively. “Why not then? That gives you one day to talk Erica into going, Trev. I can have Mandy’s ass there in a heartbeat. Which leaves you,” he said to the pimp. “You got one day to set it all up.”

  “Piece of cake.”

  “Better be,” Blake warned, “or we go back to plan A—us beating the shit out of you and leaving your worthless ass for dead.”

  “Boys,” he leaned back, hands behind his head. “When I get done with your girls, you’ll be kissing my ass, not kicking it. And six months from now, when you’re both bona fide pimps with your own stable of little, obedient bitches, you’ll be ready to put me up for sainthood.”

  “I still say he’s full of shit,” Trevor grumbled.

  Blake grinned in the rear view. “You’re scared of Erica, aren’t you? You don’t think you could make her obey you.”

  “Fuck you,” Trevor snarled. “I can handle that bitch any day of the week. All I’m saying is, what proof have we got this guy isn’t just a nut case?”

  “That’s true,” reasoned Blake, who hated having to use his mind this much in one day. “We don’t have proof.”

  Lorenzo pulled a trio of cigars from his shirt pocket and passed them around. “What would you boys say to a little demonstration, tonight? Call it a free sample—check out my wares; if you like what you see, we do business, if not, hell, I’ll kick my own ass and call it a day.”

  Trevor and Blake took the thick brown Cubanos off the man’s hands.

  “What do you say, boys?” he flipped open a garish silver lighter. “Up for a little road trip?”

  Blake gave Trevor a significant glare, followed by a high five.

  “Road trip,” they both piped up in unison.

  Lorenzo puts his hands behind his head as Blake pressed the accelerator to the red. “We’re gonna get along famously,” he puffed. “Mark my words.”

  ***

  Pamela wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or terrified to get the message. Lorenzo had no plans for her till ten. At that time, she was to be ready, wearing something sexy at the door, a model piece of ass, compliant, obedient and dripping wet between her legs.

  “Don’t fuck this up, Honey Snatch,” the electronic voice on her answering machine rasped. “This guy’s a big customer of mine…you don’t bend over backwards for him and you’re going to be one sorry little girl, comprende?”

  Ten o’clock was a long time away, she reasoned, peeling off the mockery of an outfit to bare her tingling pink flesh. More than enough time to run away from home, take a good long nap or…go out with Tom Rains again. She dreaded seeing him, precisely because she knew how kind he was going to be, how much he was going to assure her that it was all his fault, that he never meant to take her like that, like an animal on her desk, his dick pumping her at full speed, just the way he wanted to, without regard for her feelings.

  How would she ever explain that this is what she’d come of age with, what a part of her still wanted in fact; to be had, to be put onto the end of a man’s dick like a play toy? How could she tell him where she’d been in her life and how hard she’d worked to escape, and how, even all these years later, she wasn’t fully free? Clearly she was still a captive to that past, or else the Dreaded Foursome would never have taken away her will so easily. Nor would Lorenzo have reclaimed her without a fight.

  If only she had worked harder these past seven years to find a good man. A man like Nick had been. Or like Tom Rains was now. If she’d had a real relationship in her life—a man who valued her and treas
ured her as an equal—she could have stood up for herself, had some support when the time came to resist her natural inclination to submit as she was doing now.

  The sad truth was, most good, deferential men left her cold. She didn’t want to be in charge, she didn’t want to ease their consciences, to be their mothers and counselors and best friends. She wanted to be a woman, in the hands of a strong, uncompromising male. A man who wouldn’t take no for an answer, who wouldn’t necessarily listen to all her whining and complaining. A man who would take her over his lap if she needed it and—at least on occasion—tell her what to do in no uncertain terms.

  Such men were to be found, but only in the dangerous corners, the subterranean bars and biker hangouts, or maybe at ship’s piers or army barracks—all places a literature student didn’t and shouldn’t frequent. And so, she kept to her illusions, her story characters, dreaming of swashbuckling pirates all the while pretending she was satisfied with the pale dream of equality, of a fifty-fifty relationship.

  Going out with Tom tonight was foolhardy and she knew it. She was risking her job and if either he or Lorenzo were to discover each other’s existence—never mind what might happen if Erica and the others got involved—Pamela was liable to end up jobless, homeless and maybe even imprisoned.

  But that was her nature, wasn’t it? Not knowing how to say no to any man. Other than Nick, that is. So here she was, getting ready to dine with Tom at eight, praying she’d make it home by ten to turn her first trick for Lorenzo inaugurating their renewed relationship as pimp and whore, master and slave.

  Pamela changed clothes five times for her dinner date. It was difficult to find just the right ensemble. She slithered in and out of tight jeans, a trio of skirts and even the slinky bride’s maid’s dress she’d worn for the wedding of her old college room mate Rebecca last year. The slinky pink number brought back memories, forcing her to stop and pleasure herself as she re-envisioned Becky’s cousin Collin, a swarthy cocky nineteen-year-old with the body of an Adonis who’d cornered her at the reception, eventually nailing her in the coat room.

  It had started on the dance floor, with the young man coming at her with relentless charm, not to mention a pair of wickedly roving hands. He made Pamela weak all over and when he put his hands on her ass during a slow dance and whispered in her ear what he wanted to do to her, the newly graduated teacher found herself melting like butter.

  “Come on,” he tugged at her hand as the band shifted to a noisy polka. Her heart thumping like a little rabbit, she scampered after him, her high heels clicking on the parquet floor.

  “Take off your panties,” he told her, locking the coatroom door behind them and shedding his jacket and shirt.

  Pamela’s eyes never left his rapidly appearing torso as she slipped down the silky little covering.

  He came to her bare-chested, clasping her against him, molding her breasts to his gorgeous pecs. She was light as a feather as he lifted her onto one of the tables, having scattered the piled hangers to the far corners of the room.

  “You’re going to come for me,” he told her matter-of-factly as she raised her hips, helping him to bunch the sleek dress up to her waist.

  “Yes,” she whispered, mesmerized by his powerful words, his unbelievable confidence.

  The touch of his finger made her moan on contact.

  “Omi…god,” she sank her teeth into his shoulder as he manipulated her clitoris, relentlessly working her to the breaking point.

  “Now,” he’d commanded her, and she’d obeyed, collapsing against him, shivering with come.

  “Good girl,” he stroked her cheek. His condescending manner—coming from one younger than herself was an aphrodisiac in itself. Not that she needed it. Collin pierced her slick canal in one easy thrust. Pamela wrapped her legs around his buttocks immediately, locking her feet, which were still shod in the glossy red heels.

  “Fuck me,” she begged, dragging the words out into extra syllables.

  The young man flashed her that cocky smile that took her straight to heaven. His thrusts were long, deep and punishing. He had to put his hand over her mouth to stifle the screams. She climaxed again, not once, but three more times, the third coinciding with his hot, copious explosion into her totally surrendered vagina.

  “Call me?” she watched him dress, too weak to move from the table.

  He touched her chin, drawing him in for one final kiss. Pamela was moaning all over again by the time he released her.

  “Sorry, babe,” he crooned at the door by way of goodbye. “But I don’t think so.”

  Pamela got herself good and drunk and told herself she didn’t care, not even later, when she saw him repeat the routine with a buxom brunette. She too had stars in her eyes as he dragged her past on his way back to the infamous coatroom.

  That was the last tryst she’d enjoyed with a man, until yesterday. In one day, she’d made love more times—or rather been fucked more times—than she had in the last four years together.

  Pamela eventually settled on a casual denim skirt and a loose fitting tank top. These were roomy enough, she reasoned to disguise her lack of bra and panties.

  No doubt, Erica would ask her tomorrow if she’d been obedient to the teen’s various commands. Technically, she only had to keep her sexual parts uncovered during school, but since she’d made herself come in violation of another one of the rules, she was hoping to garner a little extra credit by absolutely adhering to the no underwear policy. Pamela did not want them angry with her, especially Erica, with those eyes of hers and that mysterious power she had to make the teacher feel cheap and whorish.

  Pamela had never known a woman do that to her before her and she hoped it was not going to be a trend; a sign she was slipping not only back into past routines, but into even worse, more servile behavior.

  Walking to the bathroom, she could see now that her cunt was going to be a problem. It was moistening with every movement, with every thought. Back when she had been Lorenzo’s slave slut, juicing was an almost constant reality. Nothing had shamed her more than the way her body would so helplessly respond to the touches, the pinches, even the beatings administered by the men. If ever anything proved that some women were born to be slaves, it was the conduct of Honey Snatch.

  Pamela had despised that name, from the first moment it had fallen off of Lorenzo’s lips. She was chained at the time, her arms overhead, naked on tiptoes in one of the glass viewing booths at his infamous Dragon’s Lair as it was called. The whip was flaying at her skin, kissing, caressing, teasing and claiming her like a lover. It was only her second night and she was still a virgin.

  “Pity you can’t smell that, gentlemen,” he’d inhaled deeply, addressing the invisible group of men seated on the other side of the two-way mirror. “I’ll be taking sealed bids on it all night…virgin, unpierced honey snatch, pure silk to the touch…in fact, that’s what we’ll call her…Honey Snatch.”

  Lorenzo worked her clit like the sadistic expert he was, matching the flicks of his finger to the rhythm of the whip being wielded by his assistant. Thus was she taught the difference between a female prisoner and a female slave. The prisoner may cry out, object to her mistreatment, but the slave must learn to beg for abuse, to surrender her very sexuality for the amusement of her masters. Hanging in her bonds, the juices running down her quivering legs, the lash firing her nerves again and again even as Lorenzo’s manipulations continued to plunder her soul, she thought of the men who were bidding, and how much they would pay her new master to be her first. The first to fuck and take and tame her, but hardly the last. How ironic—that this should mean everything to these men, and nothing at all to her. For young Pamela it would be the beginning of an endless hell— a hell spiked cruelly with shades of paradise.

  The doorbell ringing broke Pamela’s reverie. She had to pull herself back to the present. The feel of the whip and the chains had been so real. She had to feel her wrists to convince herself she was not still bearing the shackles. A
nother touch to her throat confirmed the lack of the leather collar, the one she’d been given to mark her as property. The one that Lorenzo could at any time choose to put back on her.

  “I’m sorry,” Pamela blurted, answering the door out of breath. “I shouldn’t have kept you waiting.”

  Tom Rains beheld the flustered girl. “I only rang once. Look at you; you’re sweating like a race horse.”

  “I—I know,” she stammered, pulling the door closed behind her, a repeat of her performance at the beginning of their last date. “Can we go—please—but somewhere more quiet this time, where we can really talk? I have a lot to tell you, Tom. More than you can possibly imagine.”

  Her heart was in her throat, waiting for his response. Would he reject her already, just from the look on her face, not to mention this renewed round of strange behavior.

  “We’ll go anywhere you want,” he reached out at last, his fingers brushing the matted hair back from her eyes.

  She nearly dissolved on the spot. My god, she thought, I am not going to make it through this night.

  Chapter Four

  Lorenzo told them to park the car behind the club, in the special lot. “The owner is a buddy of mine,” the pimp explained, climbing out of the pristine Mustang. “You guys are gonna get the VIP treatment, trust me.”

  Blake pulled the keys from the ignition, pocketing the platinum key ring in his khakis. He’d been having regrets about their little road trip ever since they’d exited into the bad section of town, and now looking around this burnt out neighborhood with its dilapidated warehouses, he was pretty sure they were going to die before they ever made it home. “We can get that just fine on our own, dude,” he covered his fear with bravado. “Don’t we, Trev? Maybe we ought to waste this guy after all.”

  “Yeah,” Trevor replied, his voice cracking just a little bit. “You gotta do a whole more than show us some skank ghetto strippers, old timer.”

  “Fuck,” Blake muttered, reluctant to surrender his vehicle. “You sure my shit is safe here?”