“This is for your own good,” he’d announced somberly as he ordered me over his knee, the paper trail of my latest crimes strewn across his desk. I’d laughed in his face, but when he buzzed for security, I crawled onto his lap pronto. Pulling up my skirt, he delivered a dozen crisp blows across my wriggling satin-covered buttocks. My thin little panties afforded no protection at all and before he was halfway through, ruthless little me was crying like a baby.
“Please don’t send me to prison!” I begged when he was done. “I’ll do anything!”
“Anything?” he’d purred, voice like velvet.
Thinking he wanted my body, I was out of my skirt before he could finish the question, but Blaine laughed dryly, telling me he had something else in mind.
And so I spent the next two months as the man’s personal secretary, performing the most menial, though entirely asexual, tasks. I filed reports, I answered his phones, I composed letters. I called him ‘sir’ and I wore my hair down, the way he liked it. Gone was my arrogance, my provocative clothes, my flamboyant lifestyle. Though he in no way harassed me, he did supervise every aspect of my life, insisting I live simply on my new greatly reduced wage.
At first, I was furious, but he was oblivious to my expressions of rancor. This stunned me, as my flashing eyes alone previously were enough to dispatch the weak-hearted. But as my service continued, a strange thing happened. I began to discover a heretofore-undetected part of myself in my service to Blaine. At first, I was merely doing my work well to spite him, but soon it became a matter of devotion, a badge of honor.
At my own insistence, I found myself starting to assume more personal tasks, such as fetching his laundry. In the morning, I would wait for him, a cup of hot coffee in hand. I actually looked forward to seeing him smile, and when he said thank you, I glowed with pleasure. From there, it became intimate, almost as if I were the man’s wife. A thousand times a day, I would fuss over the knot in his tie, find specks on his jacket, and even attend to the polishing of his shoes if I saw they were in the least bit scuffed. All I had to do was hear him say he had no time to do it himself, and out I went to buy some. I would then do it kneeling, shining the leather while he was on the phone to London or Paris. The experience left me flustered in a way I couldn’t explain.
A subtle chemistry was developing. An exchange of power. Very honest, very raw. Our first kiss was as inevitable as it was inflammatory. I was straightening his tie for a meeting when I caught his gaze one time to many. My lips had been waiting for so long—softening, yearning, needing. Blaine seized them, kissing me breathless. Then, just as quickly as it had begun, it was over.
“Don’t do this,” he’d warned gravely. “Don’t get involved with me.”
“Why not?” I whispered, nuzzling his ear.
“Because I would mistreat you, Rhiannon.”
I laughed, splaying my fingers over his magnificently broad, silk-covered chest. “If you mean you’d cheat on me, don’t worry honey, I can do the same to you.”
Blaine grabbed my arms, pinioning them behind my back. It was then that he let loose the statement that would change my life forever. “No, Rhiannon, you wouldn’t ever cheat on me,” he declared, not an ounce of malice or bravado in his voice. “You see, once a woman becomes mine, I assume control of every aspect of her life.”
I felt a strange, vague tingling. “Every aspect?” I repeated, giggling nervously, feeling myself weakening at the knees. “If you mean you’re possessive, I think I can handle...”
“I’m not possessive,” Blaine interrupted. “I’m a possessor. When a woman comes to me, she becomes mine in every sense of the word. Emotionally, physically, psychologically, sexually.”
I swallowed hard. “I don’t understand.”
Now it was Blaine’s turn to laugh, though there was little humor in it. “Oh, I think you do, Rhiannon, I think you do. This little game of yours, pretending to wait on me hand and foot—well it’s no game. The reason I’m not married is because I don’t accept women as equals; I only accept them as slaves.”
My mouth had gone dry; I could not speak. I couldn’t run either, though I longed to with all her heart. Instead, my body betrayed me utterly. I just stood there for what felt like forever, my eyes locked on his. Then, at last, at long last, I did the only thing left to do.
I knelt before him.
The next thing I knew, I was bent over Blaine’s desk, his cock inside me as I wrote out my resignation. He was like an animal, thrusting in and out, grabbing me by the back of the hair to control my motions. Though he had no care whatsoever for my pleasure, he induced me to come three times before finally exploding inside my spasming canal.
“Don’t move,” he growled as he withdrew his still throbbing member.
I obeyed, lying face down on the mahogany, my breasts pressed flat against the wood, my exposed cunt upturned and still twitching. With a single motion, I could have pulled my skirt down, but I didn’t dare. The door opened and closed, and then he was gone. Seconds ticked by on the clock, each little tick like a fresh assault on my supercharged sex. What had I done? What had I said? I’d just resigned and agreed to be a man’s slave. Talk about a bad hair day!
When the door opened again I called out his name, but there was no answer. Again I called for him, my voice on the knife’s edge of hysteria. Never had I needed a man so badly; never had I felt so alone.
I shuddered as I felt someone grasp my hip. It wasn’t Blaine, I knew that much.
“Who are you?” I whispered in anguish. “What do you want?”
His answer came in the form of a pulsing erection, which he thrust hungrily between my unprotected nether lips.
“Oh, God,” I moaned, balling my tiny, useless hands into fists. “Please, don’t…”
The man was silent as he plowed my furrow, although I could hear a kind of nasal lisp the whole time he was fucking me. He came like he was going to apoplexy, but at least it was quick. Then he too was gone. The next one I recognized by his cologne. He was one of Blaine’s overseas vice presidents, a hideous, potbellied old man. In total, seven men took me this way. I was aching and tired when Blaine finally came back and told me I could get up.
For some strange reason I felt an odd sense of peace. It was as if the burden of my unruly sexuality had been taken from me. No longer my own whore, I’d be Blaine’s. He would pimp me now, harnessing my sex into something useful. Not to mention delicious.
“Change your mind?” he asked brusquely.
Smiling shyly, still lost in a dream, I shook my head. “No, Blaine,” I said softly, reaching up to touch his face. “I haven’t.”
Blaine’s eyes flashed. His hand moved so swiftly, I never saw it coming. A moment later, I was on the floor, touching the tiny drop of blood on the corner of my lip where he’d struck me. Eyes wide, I looked up at him.
“From now on you call me, Master,” he said.
I sighed with relief. For a moment I thought he’d rejected me. But he was only drawing the reins tighter. As much as I am capable of loving any man, I realized at that moment, I loved Blaine Forrester. Without being told, I put my forehead to his foot, allowing my hair to fall across his shoes. “Yes,” I breathed, my whole body an orgasm waiting to happen, “Master.”
“Firelli, my hired man, will come and get you, he’ll take you to your apartment to get a few things. You’ll be moving in with me. While you’re with him, he’s an extension of me. You’ll obey without question. Understood?”
“Yes,” she replied, her mind wrapping round the implications of his staggering words even as the reservoir of imposed come began to drip from between my legs. “I understand.”
Christopher Firelli proved to be more than an extension of Blaine’s power; he was like a lightning rod. From the minute he put me in the front seat next to him and told me to unbutton my blouse and spread my legs, I knew I was lost. He was a hard-featured, thickly muscled man with dark curly hair, almost as thick on his chest as on his head, and a f
oul mouth.
“Hands on the seat, cunt,” he ordered. “Bend forward and spread your legs.”
I was helpless to resist as he took out a pocketknife and sliced open my bra between the protective cups. Letting it dangle free, he parted the halves of my blouse, largely baring the sensitive flesh. Next he moved to my hips, delving under my skirt to sever my panties on either side. Flicking away the useless panel, he now had full access to my already well used, semen- soaked sex.
He took one look at all the fluid and told me I was a worthless whore and slut. He kept up the verbal assault, one hand on the wheel and one on me the whole way over. He kept asking disgusting, rhetorical questions, and then when I wouldn’t answer, or just for the hell of it, he’d slap my breasts or yank my pubic hair.
At one point, as we were within a few blocks of my building, he put his hand over my crotch and made me tell him the most humiliating sexual experience of my life. Why I didn’t lie, I don’t know. As it was, I shared every detail of the time a nun had caught me playing with myself in a bathroom stall in seventh grade. Grabbing the offending hand, she’d taken me right to the principal, so she could see the evidence of what a slut I was.
“Jeezus, you’re fucking coming all over the leather seat!” Firelli bellowed. “You mess up the seat, I’ll beat your slutty ass!”
I screamed when he grabbed my nipples, one after the other. He squeezed so hard I wanted to die. And yet when he pulled over just down the street so I could blow him, I couldn’t have been more eager, more servile. I took him as if he were a god, letting him know he’d taught me my place. I’d obey him, not only for what Blaine had said, but on account of his own sexy, masculine powers.
I was ready to swallow him, but Firelli had something else in mind. Grabbing me by my sweat-soaked hair, he pulled out, putting my face in position to receive his thick, spurting discharge. The cum was still on me, dried and pasty in gobs all through my hair and dripping from my cheeks and chin when Firelli made me turn my key over to the super of my building.
“But, Miss Kiley,” the man sputtered, seeing my disarray. “Surely you wouldn’t leave without your belongings?”
“We’ll send a truck,” said Firelli who was next to me.
“I—I suppose, yes... . okay... .” the man stammered, rubbing the back of his neck.
“Is there a problem?” Firelli asked, sliding my skirt up to my waist to show the man my bare pussy. “‘Cause if there is, I’m sure we could work something out.”
The man declined, clearly disgusted. For my part, I should have been mortified. But all I could think of was having Firelli’s cock inside of me. The man seemed to get off on the humiliation, because he was hard again when we returned to the limo with the one small box of personal things I’d been allowed. For the drive to Blaine’s penthouse, I had my head in Firelli’s lap, nursing his second amazing erection.
“Taste good, bitch?” he coaxed. “I hope so, because when we get home, I’m gonna ram this thing so far up your asshole, you’re gonna see cock from the inside of your eyes.”
Firelli was true to his word, opting to take my anal virginity over the hood of the limousine. It had been painful, and it was this very pain, and Firelli’s reaction to it, that would be my eventual undoing.
What the man did next seemed small, and at the time meant nothing. He’d taken my hand in his, that was all, and then he’d whispered in my ear, “It’ll be okay, I swear.”
I’d relaxed at once and he was able to finish using me. Nothing more was said, and all went according to Blaine’s plans. I assumed the role of household slave, attending him sexually, performing menial tasks and tending to the needs of the other servants as well. I was seldom clothed, and frequently subject to male usage. Even the gardeners had access to me, as did the pool boys.
Blaine doted on me, calling me a model slave. Every night, I was at his feet, sleeping on the floor beside his massive bed. He spoiled me, truly, and in many ways I lived the life of the pampered mistress. Though he ruled with an iron fist, he gave me all I needed. We had even begun to talk about a lifetime contract, a permanent sealing of our commitment as master and slave.
It would all have turned out so happily, if only Firelli hadn’t lost his head. I wasn’t sure when the change occurred, but I knew it had begun over the car that first day, with him comforting me, trying to make it easier, even as he followed the boss’s orders to break and humiliate me. That such a gruff and angry man should fall for a little blonde was something no one expected.
I was feeling something, too, the way our eyes met whenever he’d bend to unchain me or whip me, and again when we fucked. Before long, we were taking walks, and laughing. The days began to revolve around my moments with him, not the hours with Blaine. Ironically, it wasn’t sex that Blaine caught us at. Intercourse with me was perfectly acceptable, even encouraged, especially where it humiliated me and put me in my place. Intimacy, on the other hand, was strictly forbidden.
Firelli had been with me in the garden at the time, stroking my cheek with a feather light touch. I had no idea how long Blaine had been watching us. I tried to chase after him once he’d made his presence known, but he’d gone straight to his study. For an hour I cried outside his door, pleading with him to let me in. Finally he opened the door. I was terrified to see him standing over me, his face transformed into a mask of coldness, a clinical hardness I’d never seen in him before.
Gone was the joy of using me, the thrill and pride of ownership of his one and only love- slave.
“You will be taken from my sight,” he said. “For formal training at an auction house. Afterwards, they will sell you off, to a brothel, maybe, or some harem. Someplace more fitting for treacherous sluts.”
And that was the last word he spoke to me. Two of the Handlers came to pick me up the next morning. Blaine made Firelli assist them, securing and gagging me in the non-descript trunk which slid neatly onto a delivery van. My eyes had telegraphed a plea for help to Firelli, but I could read nothing in his. It was just as well, of course. A man like that, a man who falls in love so easily should never be with the likes of me, a slut, a slave, a girl who betrays her lovers then tries to forget so she can move on to the next thing.
I was brought here, to the house, where at this moment I am hanging in Room Number Two, my wrists chained to the ceiling. I see a baton, before my eyes in the hands of a dark-skinned man who has been instructed to thrust it up inside my helpless cunt. My eyes welcome him. I deserve this, I know I do.
Moreover, I know, too, I have craved it all my life, pushing men as hard as I could in the hope that someone would seize me and do precisely what these men have done. It is a turning point for me, this moment.
The rest of my training goes smoothly.
I become the model student, rivaling even Rina for my popularity as an object of abuse. One of the Handlers has told me it is most likely a function of my own intelligence working against me. For the quicker witted a creature is, the more malleable it becomes in the right hands, the more susceptible to training methods.
Blaine was at my auction, as was Firelli. He looked uncomfortable, and I supposed that his employer had made him attend. I registered their faces from the block, as I went through her carefully orchestrated paces, designed to advertise my desirability and obedience. There were even some oohs and ahhs (rare expressions on the part of such jaded connoisseurs of female flesh) as I’d been made to orgasm with the whip handle inside me. They seemed especially amazed to see how passionately I kissed and licked the clean-shaven crotch of the beautiful Rina just prior to her sale to an Arab sheik.
Neither Blaine nor Firelli placed a single bid on me, and in the end it was an African who bid the highest—a developer, rumored to have a unique game preserve for captive females. As for Rhiannon Kiley, she is a girl who no longer exists. Happily, I’ve left her behind, somewhere in the memory of men like Blaine and Firelli, and a hundred others, competitors, rivals and would-be suitors.
That is w
here she belongs. And this is where I belong.
Chapter Seven
The Bonds of Matrimony
My husband owns me and I couldn’t be happier. I’m his lover, his property, his slave and best friend. What I do, what I think, what I wear (or don’t wear), how and when I fuck and even if I get to come is all up to him. From the moment I get up each day, bright and early at five am, till he chains me up at night, I’m controlled.
I do work a regular job, but I’m his all day, anyway. Sometimes he’ll check on me, calling me at work. I have to be wet for him at all times. This rule—along with many others—is enforced with his leather belt. Sometimes I get so hot when we’re out and he’s wearing that belt and no one knows how he uses it on me. How my poor little body writhes under the hissing leather, how my pale skin reddens in response. Sometimes I just moan and moan.
Of course, I never would come, no matter how excited I got, because I can do that only when he tells me to. I have a chastity belt, by the way, a nasty little iron thing I wear for enforcement. What I really hate is wearing a dildo or vibrator. Sometimes I have to take one up the backside or cunt and then go about my business. Imagine that—acting normal while you’re being fucked all day!
As soon as I get home, I have to strip in the garage. I can only enter the house naked, on my hands and knees. In the morning, I am allowed to dress in the bedroom, but I can’t put on my shoes till I leave. When I have to go out somewhere is the only time I wear real clothes. Otherwise, my wardrobe consists of chains, ropes, collars and little bits of silk and fluff that my man likes to see me in.
Naturally, all the household duties belong to me. When my husband comes home, I await him, on my knees, legs spread, head pressed to the floor. Heart pounding, I stay this way till he’s completed his inspection. Deficits may be dealt with by smacks on my exposed posterior. Or, if I am very fortunate, he may choose to take me this way, vaginally or anally. I take care to keep both channels slick and ready.
If I’ve passed inspection, my man presents his feet and I kiss and lick the leather of his shoes. When he tells me to kneel up, I know I may raise my head to be leashed (my leather collar has a ring for this purpose) for the evening’s activities. My husband then does with me as he chooses.
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