Miss America - a BDSM Vampire Tale

by Chrissie Bentley

  She crouched slowly, her fingers between her thighs, spreading her pussy lips wide. I watched as she started to masturbate herself with one hand; then, as she replaced her fingers with a vibrator. She did not enter herself, merely played the humming toy around her lips, letting it dip occasionally to brush against my mouth. It felt like an electric toothbrush.

  Suddenly she spoke, as though she’d just noticed me for the first time. “I told my Masters about you,” she chirped happily. “They said I should show you what I like doing. They were amazed when I told them that you didn’t know how to… you know.”

  Amazed at your stupidity, I thought – a little cruelly, I reprimanded myself later. She couldn’t help the way she’d been trained to think; the way she automatically took every sentence so uncomplicatedly literally. Besides, maybe she was right. Maybe I didn’t know how to do things the way that she did, although I think my time here had certainly given me a crash course in some of them.

  I was getting hot – figuratively and literally. Latex is extraordinarily comfortable, even if you’re wearing it as an enforced second skin. But you sweat… boy, do you sweat. And, as other bodily fluids come to the surface, you’re no longer concerned about

  suffocating. Being boiled in a cocktail of your own juices seems far more likely. But I couldn’t help myself - the sight of what Penny was doing to herself was sending heartbeat-shaped tremors through my abdomen; by the time she leaned herself forward, her bare nipples teasing the flesh of my stomach, while she wiped her tongue against my shrink-wrapped twat, I was soaking wet.

  Now I cursed the tightly-sealed world in which I was encased, that prevented penetration, that held me from moving, from tasting. Even my clitoris, normally so ready to spring to attention, was constricted beneath the folds of flesh that surmounted it, then vacuum-packed for minimal jostling. Penny’s, on the other hand, was bobbing against the mound of my mouth, her lips sucking at the breathing tube, as she began to ride my face towards her climax – the first of four that she enjoyed as I lay wrapped in rubber. And, all the while, she kept up a constant stream of chatter.

  “I’ve never done it with a plastic bag,” she giggled. And, “did you know you taste like a balloon down there?” And, over and over, as she writhed, squealed and laughed, she impressed upon me just how ‘funny’ I was, how unlike the other girls she’d met here… I thought of Chloe when she said that; did she know Chloe? But of course I couldn’t ask her. I could only lay there, unmoving, unblinking, as responsive as if in the grave, while a girl of nineteen going on forty-seven brought herself off on my face.

  She was finished at last; clambered off me, then bent and kissed my lips. “Somebody else wants a go. Isn’t this fun?” She sounded like she was surrendering some new toy to another kid.

  The “somebody else” had a whip. Three times it swooped down to sting my breasts, three times my silent scream almost choked me with its intensity. With unerring accuracy, the lash licked at my nipples, then moved on, to my abdomen, my legs and once – I think somebody stopped him after that – on my pussy.

  I cried, but my tears had no place to go, simply welled up in my eyes, sharp and stinging, before the salty water found its escape route, back inside my tear ducts, or down the side of my nose. My body was burning, but it was itching madly too; of course I couldn’t scratch, could not even shift my position to relieve the torment. I simply lay there, apparently impassive, and watched while a fat brown cock twitched just a few inches from my face, then shut out my vision with a thick clot of cream.

  For a time, I could only watch as the mess slithered slowly away, down the sides of my nose, towards my mouth. Even though I knew I would not taste it, my lips

  instinctively recoiled, while I lay disgusted by the thick, filmy pond that was left over my eye. Somebody was dry humping me now, their cock… at least, I think it was a cock… banging against my spread plasticked hole. Another man climbed on board, jerking in my face; this time, when he came, he angled his cock against my mouth, and I felt his heavy load against my lips.

  Now I was like a bouncy castle, with people coming from miles around to see how much fun they could have with the Incredible Latexed Woman. Occasionally a voice would float over from the far side of the room… “Keep the noise down, we’re trying to play cards…” and I wondered just what kind of people could simply carry on with their lives, while a growing mass of naked limbs cavorted in the center of the room.

  How many were there now? Just the weight of them – one on my legs, at least one on my abdomen, another on my chest… and; okay, that does look bizarre… one on either side of my face, sword-fighting with their stiffened pricks for the right to cum on my nostrils. Neither won; the excitement of the contest sent both of them spurting together, and I was granted the unedifying vision of two parallel jets of sperm shooting high into the air above me, and then raining down… literally raining down, in splats and globs – like cats and dogs, only messier.

  There was a lull, and a sudden burst of water from a hose. I felt it from head to foot, and was just preparing myself for the next bout, when I felt a hand fumble at the side of the sheet, then peel it away from me. Nobody spoke, but I began climbing out anyway, wringing wet, sore and itching.

  “Thank you, Master,” I said as I stood and, balancing first on one foot, then the other, let my fingers scratch at the skin. Still nobody spoke, but a hand offered me a glass of water and, as I sipped, the hose came on again, to play over my skin with a gentleness that, quite frankly, surprised me. I looked around, half-expecting to see the Doctor standing there, but I didn’t recognize the man. I thanked him anyway, set down my glass and stood awaiting further orders.

  “Ah, Miss America!” I turned and saw Magdalene. “Gracing us with your presence and, no doubt, your wisdom once again. And what do we have to say for ourselves today?”

  I shook my head. “Nothing, Ma’am.” “Oh, how disappointing. Perhaps the cat has your tongue? Or perhaps your tongue has not had enough cat?” I was expecting some kind of pussy pun; instead, she stepped over to face me, her fingers caressing my face. I was right, they really were the stumpiest little digits I had ever seen on a woman, so ugly that no manicurist on earth could do more than brighten the tips and shape the nails – which only accentuated the beastliness of them.

  “Do you think I am beautiful?” she was asking.

  “Yes Ma’am.” “’Yes, Ma’am’,” she parroted. “And tell me, Miss America, if I am so beautiful, what would you do to me, if I was yours’?”

  “Whatever you required, Ma’am.” “Whatever you required.” she echoed again. “That is not what I asked you. I asked what you require. Would you use me like your slut friend used you, while you were immobile in our little latex bed?”

  “Perhaps.” I ventured. “Or maybe you would rather take me with a violence, with all my holes gagging and pleading for your spend?”

  “I don’t know, Ma’am.” “Or maybe you have other desires, depths that our own inquiries have yet to touch? Now that is an exciting thought. What are Miss America’s darkest, deepest, most personal fantasies? We know, I think, what they are not. We can read that in your eyes as you pass through every lesson.”

  Slowly, deliberately, she reiterated the humiliations to which I had been subjected since I came here. “Miss America does not seem to have enjoyed any of those. So we ask her to write us stories, but what do they really give us? A little titillation, a quick roll in the hay. We return to square one. She will take it, but she will not dish it out.”

  “There was Jurgens,” a tall man to her side said quietly. “She dished it out there.” “Yes, didn’t she?” Magdalene replied. “But did she really enjoy it? Or was she just proving a point? She certainly did not hang around to savor her triumph. Why did you leave, Miss America? And without even saying goodbye?”

  “I don’t know, Ma’am.” “No, I don’t suppose you do. So allow me to guess. Was it because you had tasted a power that you did not understand? Someth
ing that cracked every last remnant of the insulation that your society erected around you, so that you could reach inside the depths of your soul, and thrill to the touch of what you felt squirming inside? And so you panicked and fled, in the belief that, by doing so, you might be able to repair the breach, and sequester the creature back in its prison?”

  Again. “I don’t know, Ma’am.” “Do you know what it feels like to be imprisoned? No, not inside your silly dungeon; I mean truly imprisoned? Aware of everything that is taking place around you, able to see, to hear, to feel… but unable to move a muscle to respond?”

  I thought of the latex bag. “I do, Ma’am.” “Is that how you feel inside? Deep inside, beyond the place where you store your thoughts, past the cupboard where you keep your dreams, deeper than your nightmares, even deeper than your imagination? Buried so far that, until that moment with Jurgens, you did not even suspect it existed? But now you can feel it pulsing, pulsating, pleading for release. Tell me, Miss America. Do you feel it?”

  “NO!” I shouted. I wanted to say more… I’m not like you, you can’t make me like you… but the words wouldn’t come, just a scream of denials, over and over, no-no-nono-no.

  She slapped me. “So the answer is yes. I thought as much.” She turned to walk away but, as she left, I heard her tell the tall man, “she is yours for tonight. Use her well.”

  He stared at me. Lowering my eyes, I waited as he approached me, then addressed one of the other men who still milled around. “To my quarters. The usual position, I think. I am a little weary.”

  A man grabbed my elbow, steered me into the corridor, then abruptly pulled up as he opened one of those half-hidden doors that were set into the paneling. I entered a room that was only a little larger than my own, but which was furnished in vastly different style. A four poster bed was draped in dark velvets, the walls were hung with glowing crimson tapestries, the furniture was ancient, heavy and black.

  Magdalene lay on the bed. I started when I saw her, but she simply smiled. “You had your opportunity, Miss America, when I asked you what you might do to me. You chose not to answer. Consequently, we must all exchange roles. You shall be the victim for my husband; and I, sadly, merely a fascinated voyeur. But do not fear. I am sure my husband will thrill you to your core.” And did I detect just a trace of sarcasm behind her level tone?

  Thick leather manacles clasped my wrists; heavy metal chains linked them to the bedposts. I stood, my arms outstretched, at the foot of the bed, as my legs were parted and similarly locked into position. Then, slowly, hands grasped them and began to raise them off the ground, so that I first tilted, then tumbled backwards, my feet now less than six inches away from the chains that held my arms. Metal pegs were pushed into the links in the chain to prevent me slipping. I hung suspended like a grotesque acrobat.

  “Do please remember to gag her,”

  Magdalene said wearily. “The last one kicked up such an awful fuss that I could barely hear myself think until the Master arrived and put an end to the caterwauling.” I was gagged.

  I hung there for who knows how long. From the occasional rustle of paper, I imagined Magdalene to be reading. She certainly wasn’t paying attention to me. Occasionally I would hear her laugh; one or twice she tutted with evident dismay. But she never spoke to me, never gave any indication whatsoever that there was a naked woman dangling from her bedposts, just a matter of feet away from her. My head was tilted back, my ass was in the air, my back arched painfully over the foot of the bed.

  All but upside down, I stared at the door. Finally it opened and the tall man strode in. Magdalene glanced up.

  “Harrison.”

  “Magdalene. Has she been oiled?” Magdalene lay her reading down. “You know, I quite forgot to watch. Let us say she has been”

  A drawer opened, and then closed again. Harrison was standing in front of me, but my angle ensured I could see only his chest. He, however, seemed more interested in my ass, probing with what felt like a finger and then, in a blinding flash of pain, hammering what felt like a tent peg into it. Neither did the pain stop; on the contrary, it only increased, a fiery agony that felt as though it were eating away my very innards, from the outside in.

  “Is that the chili powder?” Magdalene asked. “Why, yes it is,” he replied, as casually as a gourmet chef might, taking audience questions on a cooking show. “I find it hastens dilation. Although I would imagine it is intensely uncomfortable.”

  “Well, I hope she remembers to douche.” Now it was Magdalene’s turn to sound absurdly out-of-place; she might have been a solicitous dentist, reminding a schoolgirl to clean her teeth after every meal.

  Harrison was back at the drawer. “I just wish I could be certain whether or not she has been oiled,” he murmured. “It really is too bad.” Even in my agony, I held my breath to hear what he might say next… “You just cannot get the staff these days,” perhaps. He remained silent, however, then returned to stand in front of me.

  My body was rocking, desperately trying to quench the flame in my asshole. His hands held me still for a moment, then prized open my vagina.

  Again the image of some ungodly gourmet came to mind, as he noisily deliberated between “The red or the green one.” I truly believed he was talking about peppers. It was only after he settled on the red, “It goes better with the hangings,” Magdalene agreed, that I realized my mistake, and my heart lurched as my vaginal muscles yawned to welcome the familiar, bulging pressure of the same kind of dildo I’d been plugged with on my first night here.

  He bent and unbuckled the gag; I took a breath and a second dildo was crammed into my mouth. He straightened up; I felt a moment of relief as the weight in my ass was removed, and then a fresh stab as it was replaced with something else, bigger and wider than before. Another dildo.

  “Yes, I’m glad we chose the red,” Magdalene said. “Shame her skin is so white, though.”

  I was expecting a whipping. Instead, I saw Harrison step over to the door and turn the lights down a little. Then, drawing a chair up in front of me, he removed his trousers, sat down and started to masturbate.

  Up and down went his hand, his glans playing peek-a-boo around a thick slab of foreskin, while his eyes never left my body. After a time, Magdalene stepped over to him, knelt and took his cock in her hand – her fat little fingers could barely

  accommodate its girth, but she knew what she was doing regardless. Within moments, I saw his face contort as his climax

  approached; seconds after that, a drizzle of white oozed from the tip as Harrison uttered a faint, strangled groan, and his arms sank down by his sides.

  He began to soften instantly; Magdalene rose, wiped her hand on a piece of tissue that she plucked from somewhere, and then stepped away. I heard her sit back down on the bed, while Harrison remained

  motionless in his chair.

  And that, insanely, was it. The attendants returned, unplugged and unchained me, helped me to my unsteady feet. I glanced over at Magdalene; she was already sleeping; Harrison had disappeared. I was escorted back to my room; the key turned softly and I was alone. Even more astonishingly, I was asleep before my head touched the pillow.

  I dreamed about food. CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Somebody had been writing in my journal. Only occasionally, and usually in pencil. But every few pages, normally in the interludes before I detailed the actual sex, impatient little rejoinders tried to speed along the action, or make suggestions as to what should happen next.

  If I were him, I’d whip you till you begged for more… and

  You should tie him up and bite him till he bruises… And one notation, in a woman’s

  handwriting, Magdalene, I was sure… She seems to relish fellatio. That is the key.

  There was also a date. I’d been snatched in mid-February, 2012. The note was dated for the end of December. Christmas Day. Maybe that was what that great gathering had been for?

  I was horrified. According to my best calculations, I’d been
here two months at the most. Now I discovered it had been four times as long. My sleep cycle had become so disrupted, my body-clock so upset, that every routine my body had ever taken for granted had been shaken beyond

  recognition. Even my periods. I’d had just two since I came here, of that I was sure. But what did that prove? Shock alone can set even that most primal of calendars reeling. Couple it with the kind of abuse to which I’d been subjected, and who knows what could happen?

  I tried to count how many times the Doctor had applied a new contraceptive patch to my arm. Three weeks on, one week off, that was the recommended cycle. But so what? What was there to remember? It was even less of an ordeal that applying a band-aid. I might as well try and count how many times I’d peed.

  I found myself thinking about my family back home in the States, living through their first Christmas since I’d… since I’d what? Disappeared? Were they still wondering what had happened, leaping up every time the telephone rang, or the doorbell sounded, in case it was someone bringing news?

  My mother, my stepfather… my real father, mom’s first husband, died just after I was born… my brother, friends, workmates. What had happened to all my stuff ? Shipped it back to my elderly parents, probably, and then what? Was it packaged up in boxes in the basement, while they tried to decide when it would be appropriate to have a yard sale?

  It amazed me that I hadn’t thought about any of this before. No, that’s not true. I had thought about it plenty, but it was always in terms of my only having been gone a few days… a few weeks… a couple of months. Not ten months. Not almost a year.

  What did they think had happened? Was I dead; had I run away; had I received a blow on the head and lost my memory? Where do you go to find the answers to such questions? Someone would have called the US embassy in Madrid, handed them my description, asked them if there were any reports of an American woman winding up in a local hospital. The embassy would have passed the request on to the police. Who would have laughed and thrown it away, because the police, apparently, knew full well where I was, and what was happening to me.