“Your father doesn’t like me.”
“Nonsense. He’s just guarded. He doesn’t want Darlene hurt.”
Three weeks later, I got a call from Jon.
“I think you better come over here.”
“Why? What’s wrong?” I thought something had happened to Drake.
“You’re a whore, that’s why. Get your ass over here.”
My hands were shaking as I steered the car towards Plainview. When I got to the house I rang the bell. Jon opened the door. He was wearing a bathrobe.
“Follow me.” He led me down into a basement. He then took a key from a small box on a tool table. He opened another door and flicked on the lights. There was a bed and array of dildos and vibrators sitting on a bookcase, a free standing wardrobe with costumes, and hanging from the ceiling were numerous ropes, chains and belts.
There was a mirror above the bed. I could see that the blood had drained from my face.
“I don’t understand.”
“Oh, you don’t? I figured you as trash when I first met you. Take off your clothes and shut up. Here,” he handed me a tight, orange latex prison uniform with ‘Inmate 000’ stamped on it. “Put this on. I did a little checking on you. Big juvie record and a few other crimes a few years back. I smelled the filth of jail on you.”
I stood holding the costume.
“Put the fucking thing on.”
I started crying, but I took off my clothes and pulled the prison uniform on.
“Lay down on the bed.”
He took a large, brown belt off a rack. Jon then lashed me with it. I screamed and hollered and he hit me more and more. He whacked my buttocks and the back of my thighs.
“This is your punishment for being a criminal. This is your punishment for being trash,” Jon yelled.
Jon stopped hitting me. “Do you want more?”
I was sobbing.
“Do you want more?”
My throat felt constricted.
“Do you want more?”
“Yes,” I screeched.
He raised the belt and hit me twenty more times.
“You like it don’t you. This confirms you're worthless. Get up.”
I sat on the edge of the bed. He walked to the bookcase and retrieved a large black dildo.
“Open up,” he said. He put the dildo in my mouth. “Get it wet. Real wet. It’s going in your ass.” I choked, but he only laughed. “Get on your hands and knees. I want your ass in the air.”
I obeyed. I thought he would ram it in, but instead he eased it in, an inch at a time. I could hear him breathing heavily. I knew he was excited.
“Did any of the guards at the jail rape you? Did they want you to suck their cock for drugs?”
“Yes.”
“Tell me.”
“One of the guards wanted me to blow him. I wanted some marijuana. So he told me to suck his cock and he would get me a joint.”
“Was it a big cock?”
The dildo was deep inside my ass. “Yes, he had a big cock.”
Jon started panting. “Fuck, that’s hot.” He moved the dildo in and out. “I used to arrest hookers and promise to release them if they licked my balls. You want to lick my balls, trash?”
“Yes.”
He pulled the dildo out. “Get over here.” I got up and stood before him. “Get on your knees.” He lifted his hard cock to expose his full balls. “Lick them like the dog you are.” His balls were cleanly shaven. I licked hungrily. I was a dog. Not a delicate kitty lapping at a delicacy. I was a dog attacking meat. This is what I am, I thought. A dog. Drake is kind and sweet, but I never had an orgasm with him. He was too gentle. Too considerate. I needed something harder. Something awful and delicious at the same time.
Jon was moaning and I felt power spreading through me. I was being degraded and it caused pleasurable heat to course through me.
“You like that?” I asked.
“Oh, I like it very much. Take off your uniform. Let me see your breasts.”
I complied. Jon smacked my breasts and bit my nipples. I yelped and moaned.
“Such a bad girl. Fuck, you’re hot. Your breasts are huge. Naughty puppies. I want them bruised. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
“Yes, oh yes.”
Jon pushed me on the bed, squeezed my breasts together and then slid his cock between them. He thrusted a few times and then came over my chest and chin.
I dressed and didn’t look at Jon. I went to the door to leave.
“Here,” he said. He put money into my hand. “It’s two thousand dollars. Leave my son and granddaughter alone. You’re good enough to beat, but you’re not good enough for my son. Leave Hicksville. Don’t come back here. Get on with your life.”
I grabbed the money. A lump formed in my throat and I couldn’t speak. I found my way out of the house and noticed the pink bike on the lawn.
“Bye, Drake and Darlene,” I mumbled.
With the money, I moved to Queens and got a job as a stripper at Silver Snatch. Every stripper there had a theme. DeeDee posed as a little girl and brought out giant suckers on the stage to lick while she swished in her white stockings and pigtails. My theme was vampiric. I called myself Vanessa Vampire. I dyed my hair black, wore blood red lipstick and dark latex. I wasn’t popular. My biggest draw, as the owner told me, was my “big floppy tits”. He scoffed at my routines and outfits.
One night, I was dancing to electronic pop and noticed that none of the men in the audience were watching me. Men not paying attention meant no tips. I got frustrated and stomped off to the dressing room. I took a pair of scissors from my dresser table. I then went back on stage and cut myself. Not deep, but blood bubbled up. The music had died. I looked up and noticed I was finally being watched. I licked the blood and then wiped my arm across my breasts. I flung the scissors and jumped onto the stripper pole. The music started again and I finished my routine. A strange thing happened when I cut myself. I felt sexy. Cutting myself released the frustration and the blood made me conscious of my body. My routine was no longer mechanical. It had become sensual. I got a smattering of claps and a grandpa type gentleman in a golf shirt stuck a twenty dollar bill in my G-string. That was my first tip in two weeks.
“That was twisted and sexy baby,” he said as he winked at me.
As I was cleaning the blood from my body in the dressing room, Trent Raider walked in. I didn’t know who he was, but his suit was flawless and he was handsome. He had a stern look on his face. I could tell right away, you couldn’t mess with him. He was confident, not arrogant. There was strength in his body, but his mind was the real muscle. I just knew that.
“Interesting routine.”
“That’s the first time I did it.”
“Did you like it?”
“Very much.”
“Have you ever worked in a dungeon?”
“I’m not even sure what that is.”
“It’s a playroom for dominant men and women. I think you would be a good fit for one in Manhattan. It’s called The Darkest Pit. You would make a good sub. You’re rough, though. I could groom you. I could turn you into a powerful woman who submits.”
“Would I be yours?”
“You would be a slave to any man who pays. Don’t worry. All the men are vetted. You have no idea how powerful the men are that go to the Darkest Pit.”
“A slave. That’s new to me.”
Trent raised his perfectly plucked eyebrow. “I doubt that.” He came towards me and grabbed my vagina with his right hand. I could smell a light musky cologne on him. I found the firm set of his mouth alluring. “You like that don’t you? You’re a true submissive. You’re a whore and you know it. But you haven’t accepted it yet. You’re confused. There is so much frustration inside you.”
My eyes were watering from the pressure of his hand.
“I want to be a slave.”
He smiled and kissed my forehead. “I know you do.”
The Darkest Pit was in mid-Manhattan. I met with a
tall, red haired woman named Sinister Light. She was beautifully dressed in black stockings and a skirt. Around her waist was a slate colored corset that cinched her waist. She surveyed me and then sent me off to several stylists with her recommendations.
“Come back tomorrow at noon after you’ve had your makeover.”
The next day I walked into the The Darkest Pit with hair that had been expertly highlighted, lightened and curled. My eyes were kohl lined and highlighted with gold dust eyeshadow. I was wearing a tight red dress, a garter belt and a demi bra that pushed my breasts upwards.
“Ravishing.” Sinister Light looked delighted. I had never felt beautiful until that moment.
I spent the next two weeks being schooled. Various women, both submissive and dominant, sat with me for hours talking about BDSM, switching, topping, whips, canes, pain and so many other things that I had never heard or read about. At the end of the two weeks, I met with an aging, lovely looking woman, named Grace, who was dressed in a light blue suit. She told me she was a therapist. I had to be cleared by her to work at The Darkest Pit. I found this strange. I was nervous meeting with her. I had talked to social workers and psychologists in the past, usually in jail or for probation.
“Don’t be nervous,” she said. “Just be honest.”
I told her everything including my drunken and abusive father and my incident with Jon. Grace’s face was neutral and made no comments. She was quiet for some time.
“Let me ask you, when you are submissive what comes to mind?”
I thought for a moment. “Peace.”
I didn’t hear anything for three days. I lay around my apartment, watched TV and tried not to stare at my cell phone every twenty seconds.
On the morning of the fourth day, Trent called me.
“Be at The Darkest Pit at 8:00 PM tonight. Wear red.”
The Darkest Pit, despite it’s off putting name, is an elegant and exquisitely decorated place. It is filled with ornate furniture, golden mirrors, maroon plush chairs and couches, a long bar with mahogany wood and overly polite staff. There is a long hallway with multiple rooms and behind each door is a play room in various themes. The rooms are all sound-proofed and the carpet in the hall is so plush that you can’t hear your footsteps. I have never been in the play rooms. My training took place in small offices on the other side of the Pit and at the long bar. I occasionally got glimpses of clients. All men looking dapper and sporting Rolexes. If I read the newspapers or gossip columns, I might have recognized some of the men, but I was blissfully unaware of current events and I liked that the Pit encouraged anonymity from both parties.
Sister Light escorted me to a play room when I arrived. I walked in and saw Trent sitting on a leather chair in the corner. The play room had a little cell replete with bars, a metal desk with a light hanging above it, a metal chair, a bucket, cattle prods hanging on the walls, and a small box with with wires.
“Take off your clothes. Take everything off and sit in the chair at the desk.”
I complied. Stripping had made me immune to nudity. I stood in the cool room and faced Trent. I then took a seat on the metal chair, which felt very cold on my skin. Trent took handcuffs out of his pants and hooked my wrist to the desk.
“What’s your name?”
“Vanessa Vampire.”
“That’s not your name. Tell me your name. Tell me your real name.”
I hesitated. I liked being unknown. Trent paced around the table.
“Carice. Carice Monroe.”
“Good. Tell me about your father.”
My reaction was reflexive. “No.”
Trent grabbed the box with wires. He attached wires to my breasts and my vagina.
“Tell me about your father.”
I remained stubborn. “No.”
Trent pressed a red button and I felt electricity zip through my body. My clit felt hot, almost burning. The sensations were painful, but pleasant.
“That was a low voltage. I will go higher. You won’t like it. No one will hear your screams. You are chained to the desk. You are mine. My prisoner. I will torture you without restraint. Now, tell me about your Father.”
“He was a drunk.”
“Did he touch you?”
“He beat me.”
“Did he touch you sexually?”
I had a sudden urge to run, hide and cry. I shook my head. Trent adjusted a knob and pressed the red button. More electricity shot through me and I cried out. It hurt. My clit felt raw and my nipples were throbbing.
“I’m going to ask you again. Did your Father touch you sexually?”
“Yes.” My voice was very low.
“What did he do to you, Carice?”
I was getting angry. “He fucked me, alright?”
“Don’t talk to me like that, Carice. You need to understand your place in this room. You are nothing and I am everything.”
Trent removed one of the cattle prods from the wall. He turned it on and it sizzled. He poked my leg with it. I felt a sharp zap. I yanked on the handcuffs. I felt panicked. The past two weeks my mentors, the other women, talked a lot about trust.
“Your Master will care for you, if you trust them,” they said. They all said it. It was a mantra at the Pit.
“What did your Father do to you?” Trent was standing over me. His voice sounded concerned. I nudged my head towards him. I wanted to touch him. I wanted comfort. He yanked my head back by my hair and spit in my face. “What did he do?”
“He came in my room one night. He was drunk. He climbed on top of me. He kept saying I was bad. That I was teasing him. He said he wanted my cunt. He used that word. Cunt. He took my virginity that night. I felt so awful. I wanted to die. When my Dad left my room I swallowed aspirin. But I didn’t die. I just got sick.”
“Good girl. Very good.” Trent stroked my hair. “Did you get pleasure from your Father?”
“No!”
“Don’t yell, Carice.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“Then why are you here? It’s not unusual for a victim to feel pleasure from the abuse. This is well known by therapists. The guilt over feeling the pleasure can destroy some people. It’s difficult to deal with. It’s difficult to understand that pain can bring pleasure. Our culture disputes that proposition. And yet, here we are. Did you get pleasure from your Father?”
I thought hard. I reached back into the past that I was running from. “Yes.”
“Good Carice. That’s why you are here, with me, in this room. You need to confront all your desires and fears. Be honest. Trust that I will not destroy your mind, even though it may feel like I am destroying your body.”
Trent unhooked the hand cuffs.
“I have to pee,” I said.
“There’s a bucket over there.” Trent’s voice suddenly sounded kind.
“Joking?”
“Not at all.”
I walked over and straddled my legs over the bucket. I spent thirty seconds trying to pee. Trent was watching me. He was waiting. I felt so exposed. Eventually, the urine began to trickle out and the bucket began filling with my urine.
“In the cell, Carice.”
I entered the small cell, which was actually a large cage. A Great Dane could fit into it. Trent pushed me in and then locked the door.
“I’ll be back,” he said.
Trent was gone for a long time. Eventually, I curled up and went to sleep.
“Time to play, Carice.” He banged on the cell. My body jumped. It took several moments to realize where I was. Trent opened the cell and dragged me out. “Performance time.”
Sinister Light was in the room, holding a robe. She draped it over me and then guided me out of the play room, down the hall and into another play room. There were four men sitting in maroon leather chairs, drinking and smoking cigars. There was a raised platform in front of the chairs. The men were chatting with each other and paid no attention to me. Trent push
ed me forward.
“Gentlemen, I present my newest slave. She’s here for your pleasure.” Trent took the robe from my body. “Here’s the rules Carice. No eye contact, no saying ‘no’ and no crying. Understood?”
I nodded my head.
“Get on all fours on the platform.”
I did as told. The men kept talking and I saw Trent sit in one of the empty chairs and sip a drink. I waited for some time. My knees were starting to hurt. I released the tension in my neck and let my head hang low. My long hair dangled down and touched the platform. The men were talking about a court case. They were talking about bribing a judge. Eventually one of the men got up and stood before me. I could only see his leather tassel loafers.
“Have you fucked this one, Trent?”
“No. Haven’t had the pleasure yet,” said Trent.
“I think I’m going to make her lick my shoes. Slave, lick my shoes.” The man laughed. Then his voice grew serious. “I mean it, lick my shoes.” He put his foot on the edge of the platform. I leaned over and stuck my tongue out. I touched his shoe gingerly with my tongue. The man laughed again. “You’re licking Italian leather. These shoes cost two thousand dollars. Lick them like their special.” I swallowed and then started lapping with my whole tongue, not just the tip. The man laughed again. “That’s awesome. I love it when a woman licks my shoes. Gets me harder than a fucking metal rod.” The man took his shoe away and then propped up his other foot. I started licking again. “I’m bored. You’re a boring, groveling idiot. Is she a fighter, Trent?”
“Oh, yes. She’s tough and rough. I’m working on smoothing her edges. Did you know she has a criminal record? She’s one of those confused girls who was abused by Daddy. I think I made a breakthrough tonight, though. She’s coming to terms with her depravity.”
“A criminal, huh? Well, idiot slave you’re in a room full of lawyers. We can crush you legally.” The man laughed again. “Maybe we can plant some evidence on her. Get her jammed up in the court system. She could sit her ass in prison. Jail is for babies. Prison is for the idiot cunts.”
I started crying. I didn’t want to, but the man made me scared.
“I think she’s crying Marcus.” One of the other men spoke.
“I told you no crying, Carice.” Trent did not sound happy.
Slaves of the Billionaire Page 3
