The title was inspired by a post in the thread announcing the contest. It was a derogatory term used by The Unripe Plum in one of his serial, gratuitous attacks on another forum member. As with all fiction, the usual disclaimers apply: any resemblance to real events, persons, places or forum members is entirely coincidental. Except, of course, where it’s entirely intentional.
The light fog added a moisture to the air. The coolness of the night wrapped around her like a wet towel, sending a shiver up her spine. She was lucky she knew the area so well, or she could have easily become lost. She looked through the trees at the house where he lived, slightly smiling at the one electric candle burning in the kitchen window.
She saw a shadow cross the window and breathed a sigh of relief when she realized that the man she had come to refer to as Mr. Wonderful was home. He had been such a perfect neighbor during her long, cold winter holed up in a cottage on the Lake Michigan coast to try to write The Great American Novel. Sweating through long days of splitting firewood, shivering through long walks on the icy beach, laughing at the follies of politicians they both formerly worked for, warming themselves with hot chocolate and a romp between the sheets.
The snowy winter wasn’t entirely successful. The Great American Novel had quickly turned into erotic fiction, then morphed into a far-too-revealing trip into the depraved depths of her mind. But, even when her writing began to infect her own thoughts, desires, even needs, Mr. W had been most understanding, even amused. And, despite his gentle nature, he had even indulged, to a degree, a few of her newfound fetishes when she was feeling particularly needy and begged him.
Yes, he would be the perfect antidote after her days (or was it weeks?) of abuse by her captors. She realized that she had no idea how long it had been, just that it must now be sometime in June. She looked up at the sliver of moon and wondered if it was waxing or waning, but realized she had little frame of reference to equate it to even an approximate date. Perhaps she shouldn’t have flushed from her memory everything she learned in that astronomy class.
The rickety wooden steps creaked as she climbed to the log cabin’s porch, and she hesitated a moment as she remembered her nakedness. Oh well, it wouldn’t be the first time she’d shown up here undressed. She knocked tentatively on the door and was relieved when she heard his first words.
“Come on in!”
* * *
The invitation to cocktails on Friday, May 28, was both a surprise and welcome. It just showed up on my doorstep as I was loading my Jeep and preparing to vacate the cottage I had occupied for over eight months. It would be a nice way to end my stay at the beach and perhaps meet some of the summer residents who were arriving for the start of the Memorial Day weekend. The word “cocktails” always made me smile inside, and I wondered if I’d wind up the evening with cock in my tail. More likely, though, the summer residents would be a stodgy group of wealthy Chicagoans. Maybe Mr. W would turn up—I hadn’t seen his car all day—and we could have a little farewell romp before I headed off to…to…uh, wherever the heck I was going next. Hmmm, have to figure out a destination at some point.
I grabbed a rather low-cut, short, summery dress from one of my bags, then finished loading my stuff and cleaning the cottage. After a long, hot shower and some primping, I put on the dress and a pair of sandals, put my hair in a ponytail, deposited the key under the rock near the front door, and drove the Jeep a few doors down the beach to the address on the invitation. After a day of manual labor, I was looking forward to a beer or, if the hosts were generous, a flute or two of good champagne. Those bubbles always made me a little giggly and often liberated me from any inhibitions I might be harboring.
There were few cars present, but I figured that most of the guests had walked from their nearby beach houses. The sun had just set on the lake and the house was only dimly lit inside, so I couldn’t tell what was going on inside. I raised the door knocker twice and let it fall to announce my presence. When the door opened I was greeted by an intriguing redhead in a black leather jacket and bare legs between her black knee-high boots and jacket that looked like it scarcely covered her buttocks. Hmmmm, interesting.
“Hi, I’m--,” I managed before she abruptly cut me off.
“We’ve been expecting you,” she said as she gripped me firmly by the arm and pulled me inside. I was startled, and tried to look around to see what I had gotten myself into, but in the dark interior could see only small groups of people holding drinks and, now, all apparently looking at me.
“We know your name,” the redhead told me. “As a matter of fact, we know a great deal about you,” she added with a mischievous leer. “But, that is no longer your name. From now on you will simply be Pet.”
I started to open my mouth in protest, but felt someone grab my arms from behind. And someone else buckled a wide leather collar around my neck.
“What the fuck?” I protested before a ball gag was strapped around my head, effectively muting anything else I might try to say. I struggled to free myself, but soon felt padded cuffs attached to my wrists, then clipped together to restrain me. Someone ripped the dress from my body in one tearing motion, and I stood naked and handcuffed, helpless before my captors.
Was I scared? Well, yes, I was. I had been in compromising situations before, but these people were complete strangers to me, and I had no idea what to expect. Was I also excited by the multitude of possibilities? Well, yes, that, too. And, I’m pretty sure that my tell-tale nipples were broadcasting my enthusiasm whether I wanted them to or not. *sigh*
Spotlights began to shine on me from all over the room, and I was naked and alone in the middle of the room, a piece of meat for the inspection of everyone present. Due to the cuffs, I was unable to even pretend to make any effort at modesty.
The redhead moved toward me, no longer wearing her jacket. Now wearing just a strappy black leather outfit that included bikini panties and silver studs, very little of her creamy, curvy body was covered. The straps emphasized her ample bosom, bikini tan lines showing the delicate coloring common to redheads: freckled soft skin, pale pink areolas, and erect little buttons that had darkened to a coral pink.
She stood right in front of me with a stern, menacing look on her face, and the four-inch heels on her boots elevated her so that her eyes were level with mine. Her eyes bore into mine and I think a tear may have escaped one of my eyes as a shudder of fear made my body tremble.
“Oh, you can pretend to be scared, Pet,” she began, “but we all know better. After all, we know everything about you.” I’m sure my face betrayed the fear and curiosity that I felt. How could they know? “All will be explained in time, but first let’s make sure you are as well-qualified for your new position as I’ve been told.”
She walked slowly around me, inspecting me, prodding parts of my body with a short riding crop she carried. As she placed the crop between my legs from behind and tapped it lightly against my sex, I was half-afraid of injury, but equally excited that she might find me worthy. After all, she was incredibly hot and in spite of everything, I wanted to pleasure her.
“First, the taste test,” she said as she forced a finger into my vagina. “Mmmm, nice and juicy. You are such a slut!” I had to agree with her. In a situation that should have made me dry, closed and resistant, I had instead spread my legs a bit to open my moist pinkness for her. Behind me, I heard a sucking sound. “Your vegetarian diet has indeed made you a tasty piece of fuckmeat, Pet.” It was probably just as well that I was still gagged, because my lame (and often untimely) sense of humor wanted to tell her that I was a ‘vagitarian’ too.
Her moistened finger returned between my legs, this time to my puckered anus, teasing it at first, then thrusting inside to the hilt in one powerful motion. “Nice tight little asshole,” she observed, “but for a trashy trollop like you, I’m sure it has seen as much action as your other cunt.”
“Let’s see, 5-7, 120 pounds, long legs,” she said as her hand stroked the backs of my thighs. “Cute bum, too,” she added as she kneaded my asscheeks. “Unmarked skin to provide a blank slate,” she said as she landed the first blow with the riding crop on my left buttock. By the time she had landed a half dozen strokes on each cheek, I felt moisture in my eyes, but I managed only muffled complaints from my ball-gagged mouth.
“Long, silky blonde hair,” she said as she pulled firmly on my ponytail, forcing my head back uncomfortably. “And a long, graceful neck,” she added as her other hand stroked it. “I’ll bet a lot of loads have been dumped there, you dirty little whore.” Her degrading words were having as much effect on me as her contact. I felt myself flush at every degrading reference, as much from excitement as from embarrassment.
“Now let’s check out the rest,” she said as moved to once again stand in front of me. “The face is okay, nice blue eyes,” she observed casually. Taking a step back, her eyes regarded me from head to toe. “
“I think we need to do something about those tan lines. A daily session of nude sunbathing should give you a nice golden glow and make you quite marketable,” she casually noted as her hands roamed my torso, gently massaging my stomach and pale breasts. Marketable?!?
“Cute titties,” she said as she gently slapped them, seeming to understand that anything harder would result only in pain and not the erotic response she seemed to be seeking. “34B, firm yet soft and jiggly,” she added as she continued to cause them to jiggle.
“Let us not forget the features that you find so important,” she said as she pinched first one, then the other pink nipple. “Your ‘on buttons’ as you call them,” as she twisted each of them. “The ‘mini-sluts’ that give away your whorish nature,” as her other hand held a chain with nipple clips at each end and a lead ball in the center to add to the pain. If not for the ball gag in my mouth, I would have been panting like a bitch in heat. I can’t help it. I am a complete whore for attention paid to my nipples, even torture. The pain-pleasure combination drives me wild, and she seemed to know that. She seemed to know a lot!
She pulled my left nipple toward her and stretched it painfully, attaching the clip when she was satisfied. Already I could feel my pussy beginning to drip fluids down my thighs. She repeated the process with my right nipple, and held the weight in her hand, taunting me by tossing it up and catching it. When she deliberately failed to catch it and it dropped to the chain’s limit and bounced, even the ball gag couldn’t muffle my scream, and I could feel tears running down my cheeks.
“We’ll just keep those there during your workout tonight.” I knew the worst part would occur when they were removed and the rapid flow of blood back into them would result in excruciating pain, and in throbbing, swollen, bright-crimson nipples that just begged to be soothed, or sucked, or, who knows, maybe even subjected to further abuse. Oh my, this was going to be really horrible, or maybe, just maybe, really wonderful.
A large man stepped out of the shadows, at least 6-4 and well over 250 pounds, and even before he opened his mouth I had him pegged as a pompous ass—haircut just a bit too expensive, Abercrombie & Fitch-style summer clothes just a bit too well tailored, and when he did speak, he did indeed look down his nose at me. You know the type—just a bit too wealthy, and way too many years in eastern boarding schools.
“You’re probably wondering why you’re here,” he began in a faux English accent that must drive real Brits nuts. “On behalf of the Lakeside Cottage Association, I’d like to welcome you. We are a group of people with ‘special’ interests ….” He droned on, oblivious to what I’m sure was the disgust evident on my face. Good thing I was gagged or I’m sure I would have told him what a pompous prick he was.
As he fell in love with his own voice I mostly tuned him out, but heard him mentioned my selection “based on good genes—not bad out of jeans, either…” laughing at his own joke even if others weren’t “…and a unique attitude toward…” he leered as he said this “…servicing others.” Well, he did get that right. I was a pleaser. Not one of those smarmy suckups who want everyone to like them. No, I was one of those people whose principal objective in sexual matters was to pleasure my partner or partners. I was in a way “all give, no take” but rarely missed out on achieving my own pleasure, for orgasms came easily and often for me.
He really needed to find new lines for “rich traditions” and “forefathers.” He kept using those words over and over and over. And, hey, what about the foremothers, asshole? He spoke far too long and fatuously, and his tone was the same smarmy, insincere one he would use while refilling a woman’s champagne flute while trying to look down her dress. I was pretty sure I wouldn’t be getting a cocktail, though. More likely cock.
Sure enough, as he wrapped up his interminably long remarks with yet another comment about a “rich tradition,” someone removed the ball gag from my mouth. Wetting my lips and making sure my mouth still worked, I was apparently a little slow to pick up on this last “rich tradition.” The pompous ass had whipped out his modest dick and I hadn’t acted promptly, so he grabbed the weight on my nipple clips and pulled down. I was on my knees instantly, hands still cuffed behind me, and nearly laughed out loud when I first noticed that he wasn’t cut. It’s as though his mother had made a deliberate decision to create a “realistic” Anglophile.
Although I was very much of two minds about my situation, I was unable to resist the urge to look up at the pompous ass and give him a piece of my mind. “What the fuck do you people think you’re doing!?! Do you think you’re the fucking Bush-Cheney administration or something? Do you cocksuckers have any idea how many laws—“
I didn’t get any further. He reared back and slapped my face full force. I was in tears, but no one noticed because he grabbed my ponytail, shoved my head into his crotch, and said, “The only cocksucker I see here is you. Suck it, cunt!”
Stunned, and figuring that further resistance would be futile, I took it in my mouth and, hands unavailable because of the handcuffs, used my lips to peel back the foreskin and begin laving the head with my tongue. As his cock gained firmness, he continued to hold my head in place. I heard him say to someone, presumably the redhead, “You’ll deal with this mouthy little bitch, won’t you.”
My mind works in strange ways, and not just the gentle tug daring me to try ever more risky situations. Since Prince Charming was simply face-fucking me, I didn’t have to concentrate on giving him a good blow job. And, yes, as much as I hated and feared him, I would have felt duty bound to do my best work.
So, I thought of things I wish I had said to him earlier. My favorite was, “We fought wars so we didn’t have to talk like we have marbles in our mouth.” And he never would have come up with the actual huffy response I got when I tried that out on a Brit: “At least we don’t talk like we have marbles stuck up our nose!” He totally nailed the Midwest nasal twang that I thought I had left behind years earlier.
Soon my mouth was filled with the prick’s eruption. Er, maybe that should be “the prick’s prick’s eruption.” He didn’t release me yet. He held my face firmly in place while I thoroughly cleaned the diminishing worm. Was I tempted to bite it, to cause him even more pain than he had inflicted on me? Oh my, yes. But, I was fearful for my own safety, and I certainly wasn’t the least bit interested in becoming a punching bag. Even at that point, knowing only that I had some subbish tendencies and inclinations, I was quite certain that I did not want to experience pain for the sake of pain.
I was still sobbing a bit when the redhead approached me and pulled me up to my feet. Her gentle touch was somewhat reassuring, and so were her words when she whispered, “They’re not all like him. Not any of them, really.”
She spoke soothing words, even when laying down the rules as she helped me mount a table in the middle of the room and strapped my wrists and ankles into place, legs spread wide while I was on all fours, the lead ball swinging freely and further stretching and punishing my nipples with her, or my, every move.
“If you learn to always call me Mistress and obediently follow my every command, we’ll get along just fine. I’ve read your book several times and I think I understand you pretty well. We’ll use our time together to test some of your limits and to find out where this life you obviously crave will best fit your needs. Do you understand?”
“No! I don’t understand shit. How long will I be here? What the hell are you planning—“
THWACK! Her riding crop landed firmly between my legs, stinging my labia and shutting me up as I gasped. “Now, I know you won’t disrespect your Mistress again, you ungrateful fuckwhore. And you WILL address me as Mistress,” she began in a stern voice. Then she added, more soothingly, “All of your questions will be answered in time, but it is simply not your place to question, only to obey. Do you understand?”
“I guess I sorta under—“
THWACK! Another stroke from the riding crop sent the lead ball swinging wildly and sent electric jolts of excruciating pain from my nipples to most of the rest of my body.
“Poor choice of words, you silly slut. I think you meant to say ‘Yes, Mistress’ and nothing more.
“Yes, Mistress,” I grunted through gritted teeth. This was clearly going to take some getting used to.
“Good little Pet,” Mistress cooed as she patted me on the head as she might a puppy.
Did she forget the pompous ass’s admonition to “deal with this mouthy little bitch?” Not exactly, but throughout a long, punishing and painful night, never once did she seem to cause pain just for the sake of pain. But, did she whip my ass? Oh yes, she certainly did. And just about every other sensitive place on my body as well, but nowhere that didn’t provide some kind of sexual reaction—nothing on the soles of the feet, for example.
Throughout the night she cooed soothingly that she was “just testing” me, looking for reactions and limits, assuring me that the marks on my body would soon go away thanks to the soothing balms and salves she would apply, making my body a blank slate for the next such session.
Three times she took breaks from her use of hands, whip and riding crop. Once she used a HUGE strapon, which I lubricated with my mouth. She used the occasion to “test” my throat by shoving the thing in and leaving it there for a few frightening seconds while I was unable to breathe at all. She climbed behind me and thrust it into my pussy, just once for further lubrication she said. Then she lined it up with my anus and immediately invaded it with a strong push. At first slowly, then more rapidly, she drove the invader into my rear entry in a way that was painful but apparently not damaging. By the time she finally withdrew it I was sweating and panting and begging for release, which I was unable to achieve because my hands were still cuffed to the table.
During the next break Mistress said she wanted to “feast on some slutmeat,” and boy did she ever! She climbed up on the table behind me and put her very talented mouth and fingers to work on every stimulating place between my legs. From the first, her licking and rimming and sucking and poking had me creaming on her face and hands, and, when she manipulated my clit and made me cum over and over, I was quite literally gushing in ecstasy. Was it love at first sight? Well, close. I thought of it as lust at first sight.
She climbed back up on the table for the third break, now pantyless, and lay back in front of me, her legs widespread, and told me she would “permit” me to service her. At this point, I was most anxious to please and to reciprocate for her own use of me. Although unable to use my hands, I, too, feasted, eagerly, on the spicy goodness of her delicate pink pussy, which was crowned with a small gingery patch that proved that the carpet matched the drapes.
She was very responsive and seemed genuinely pleased by my performance. “Oh my, you are a whore for pussy, aren’t you?” she said when she had recovered her breath. “Yes, Mistress, I’m a regular vagitarian,” I said, hoping that my one-liner wouldn’t incur her wrath. I was pleased to hear her trying to stifle a giggle.
For the first time in hours, I risked a glance around the room and didn’t see anyone watching. She noticed my surprise and said, “Fear not, you shameless exhibitionist, there are cameras here, and I’m sure many of those who will be using you are at home getting ideas.” I blushed at her immediate understanding of why I looked around, but was quite pleased with her answer, just hoping that the pompous ass wasn’t one of them.
My introduction to what she called my “new life” concluded after some number of hours that I couldn’t begin to imagine, my brain was so clouded with pain, confusion, and, yes, excitement. Although I’m fairly sure I would have walked out if told it was all a joke, I was beginning to understand why some people chose to be sex slaves. Probably not for me, but it certainly had whetted my appetite for being used and abused—so long as the abuse wasn’t gratuitous and did something to contribute to sexual excitement, preferably mine.
Mistress released my hands and feet from their restraints, massaging each gently. When I had regained some degree of composure and balance, she helped me down from the table and instructed me to stand before her at attention, naked but for the nipple clips, chain and lead weight that all continued to torment me, I knew what was coming. When she removed both nipple clips simultaneously I felt numbness for a fraction of a second, then twin bolts of lightning rocketed through my body. I don’t recall screaming at all, but felt Mistress steadying me as I felt myself begin to crumple into a lump of sobbing, sweaty blonde.
Much to my relief, instead for subjecting the swollen, bright red ripe fruits to more abuse, she held two ice cubes against them. At first painfully burning, the ice soon worked to provide some numbness and presumably reduce the swelling. But when she removed the rapidly melting ice and I looked down, I found it difficult to imagine that they could possibly have grown any larger.
Attaching a leash to my collar, Mistress led her wobbly slave to a room unfurnished but for a small cage. Exhaustion had taken its toll physically and mentally. Mistress gently applied salves and lotions to the sensitive places where she had presumably marked my body. She unclipped the leash and told me to crawl in. When I was halfway inside, about to curl into a fetal position and drop off to sleep, she bit my right ass cheek.
“That is my mark, Pet, signifying that you are MY possession while you are here. By the time you leave, it should be gone.” I mumbled, “Thank you, Mistress,” and promptly fell into a deep sleep, not even realizing how quickly and reflexively I had come up with the “proper” response.
The following morning began a routine that varied only slightly. Mistress guided me through the first day, but after that often left me on my own to prepare myself for my day’s work. I ate from a dog bowl, most often a fortified gruel, and day long I lapped up water or fruit juices from another bowl. Mistress told me it would help improve my “tongue performance” though she was kind enough to declare it rather good to begin with.
There was always a mineral oil enema to clean and lubricate my rear entry, a long bath with soothing oils, and some time preparing my hair which was tied into a French braid—a “convenient handle,” Mistress called it—unless otherwise specifically directed. I rarely wore any clothes at all unless there was a special occasion or some special request.
Each day there were random visits from members of the community. I was pleasantly surprised that the pompous ass was never among them. Women sometimes came in to play with me like a doll, primping and painting me, dressing me in all sorts of bizarre getups. More of them came to sample my “tongue training” and a few brought pulsing and even electrified toys to watch of writhe through a series of forced orgasms.
The men visited even more often, usually stopping by for a quick blow job or fuck. I didn’t keep count, but I think I can say that I had roughly “equal opportunity” bonerzones. A few of them were into corporal punishment, and my body, especially my buttocks, was constantly marked by their weapons.
Combined with Mistress’s training sessions, I was exposed—pun intended since I was performing for cameras nearly all the time—to all manner of slave behavior: punishment, manners, humiliation, degradation, and, of course, sexual service to all comers. If I had to grade myself, I’d give myself an A for sexual service, a B for willingness to do just about anything, and at best a D for demeanor.
Oh, I was obedient and compliant. But even though my occasional one-liners seemed to amuse Mistress, I knew she was frustrated by her inability to train out of me my need to act out in inappropriate ways, quite often misbehaving in small ways in the hope of being punished in ways that I favored. Of course, Mistress caught on to my naughtiness and stopped punishing me in ways that I considered a reward. Mistress came to know me very, very well, and not just in the Biblical sense.
Throughout my stay, Mistress often referred to my “new owner” in terms that implied that there was some question of whether I would qualify. When a new face would appear to play with me, Mistress frequently whispered for me to be on my “best behavior because this might be someone willing to take you on.”
Take me on? Did I really want to be at the complete mercy of some person I didn’t even know? The prospect was both daunting and exciting. I just hoped it would be someone with a sense of humor and a little tolerance for my quirks. And I desperately hoped, hoped, hoped that it would not be the pompous ass.
I don’t know just when I had resigned myself to this new life, if indeed I had, but I know I was surprised one day when Mistress rewarded me with an afternoon date with a well-hung young stud who seemed to have no interest in the submissive aspects of my nature. He was polite, thoughtful, insisted on extended foreplay, and used his hands, mouth and long shaft with consummate skill. Everything a woman should want in a lover. But, I was left unfulfilled by the “normalcy” of the experience, and was quite troubled. Had I really fallen so far into submissiveness? Did I actually need this new life?
* * *
My focus on the question of my future intensified one day when Mistress herself assisted with my daily preparations, telling me, “You will be with your new owner very, very soon, my little Pet.”
“B-b-but, Mistress,” I sputtered, “does this mean that I won’t be serving you any longer?”
“I don’t know if we’ll meet again, my sweet little tonguetarget, but I do know that today’s final exam will be a day that both of us will always remember.”
I was terribly torn. Did I really want to dedicate myself to this life? Would I find a situation that I could tolerate? Would I ever see Mistress again? I was nervous and confused, but determined to do everything possible to make Mistress proud of her Pet.
Mistress helped me come closer to giving up my hard won feminine independence with everything she did that day. She joined me in all my preparations, including a long bubble bath, and fussed over my appearance like a mother hen over a newborn chick. She prepared herself, and me, during hours of primping and trying hairstyles and outfits. Outfits? Yep, Pet would be wearing clothes for her big day. Sort of.
Mistress dressed us identically, every stitch the same. Except for the colors. While I wore a pristine white from head to toe, she was identically attired in a fiery red that added even more heat to the substantial lust that her gingery goodness always inspired. We each wore pumps with four-inch spike heels over sheer thigh-high stockings held in place by garter belts, crotchless panties, and bras with cutouts to display our nipples. We were definitely a couple of hotties on this special day.
Mistress spent a good bit of time getting my hair just right for the look she sought. She tried the traditional French braid, a couple of different ponytails, but in the end brushed it all out, long and straight, with bangs teased onto my forehead. Then she added the one difference in our attire, a white leather collar.
“When I ring for you, I want you to be on your best behavior. When you reach the middle of the room, assume a proper pose, but do that thing you sometimes do with your left foot when you’re a little shy or apprehensive. Same thing with your lower lip. Understand?”
“Yes, Mistress,” I answered automatically.
“We both know you’re a dirty little slut,” she said—I love it when she calls me naughty names—“but the look we’re going for here is ripe innocence.”
She went to her knees and licked me to the very edge of orgasm, then rose to tweak my nipples before turning and leaving me alone.
Panting in arousal and anticipation, I turned to the mirror and examined myself while awaiting her summons. The flush of lust she had added could indeed be misinterpreted as a blush of innocence. And that would have been my overall appearance were it not for the erect coral pink nipples that screamed “suck me” and the moist, puffy, pink pussy lips that screamed “fuck me.”
When the bell rang, I walked into the large room, lit with dozens of candles, all shades drawn. It looked like a dungeon. I walked deliberately with perfect posture, shoulders back and head held high, but eyes downcast in submission. When I reached Mistress and the stranger, I stood with legs shoulder-width apart and cocked my hips forward to offer my pussy. I turned my left toe inward in what could pass for a shy gesture, and I lightly bit the right side of my lower lip in apprehension. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Mistress beaming.
On a table behind them I spotted a huge array of toys and instruments of torture, whips and cords, clamps and chains, plugs and electric probes. A plastic sheet covered a large area on the floor, and towels were draped on the leather furniture. Oh my, I thought, this is going to be quite a final exam!
“Good girl, my precious,” Mistress said approvingly. “I’d like you to meet someone, a person kind enough to join in your adherence to the course, someone to help push the limits even farther. You may call him…Master.”
I bowed my head in greeting and barely whispered the word, “Master.” Risking a quick glance at him, I saw a man in beach attire, a deep tan belying Florida or the islands, and .muscular arms and shoulders. If it’s true that “clothes make the man,” then he was the exception that proved the rule. To call him a “commanding presence” would be an understatement.
Master circled, then stopped to whisper something in Mistress’s ear. The both laughed and wound up with devilish grins on their faces. Out loud, he said, “My, my, Mistress did not lie. Such a beauty, such a perfect stretch of flesh you are.”
Obviously quite pleased with his initial assessment, Mistress leans into her slave and whispers, “You have been pampered of late. Now is the time for some PRESSURE!” I shivered at the menacing emphasis she placed on that last word.
As Master began to work on me, Mistress narrated. “Leash is not because of fear of flee, but to give Master a way to control without words, through humiliation. And, of course, for the visual stimulation. No gag for Pet because we want to revel in her responses, every sigh, purr, whimper whine, squeal, and orgasmic guttural convulsion.
No blindfold either, for Master yearns to read every emotion through the portals of Pet’s eyes, to see them widen at pinch, pull and plunge, to see them well with tears to plug of hard flesh in throat. No rack or cage, for Pet will submit of her own free will. What Pet can count on is to squirm, writhe and squeal to clamp, wax and ice, to suckle, bite and spank of flesh, to plunging spread of intimate places.
Master tugged downward on the leash and I dropped to my knees. Mistress knelt beside me and I thought again about what a pair of hotties we must, on our knees before a man. She pulled down his shorts and revealed his flaccid penis that was already huge and long. I licked my lips in anticipation. Seeing this Mistress said, “You’ll experience this plenty today. For now you may teabag and rim Master, but it is my mouth that will bring him to full erection.”
Mistress sucked the entire eel into her talented mouth and I went to work on his balls, first nuzzling them with my nose and lips, then licking and sucking them. A tug on the leash sent me behind Master to spread his cheeks and drive my tongue deep into his anus. I heard him chuckle and tell Mistress, “You’re right, Mistress. She really is a dirty little slut!”
Another tug brought face to face, er, face to cock, with his massive member that now stood straight out from his muscular body. He grabbed my face and shoved the cockhead into my mouth, pausing only a second before pulling me toward and burying it in my stretched throat. He held my head against his crotch, immobilizing me and making it impossible to breathe.
When my eyes began shedding tears, he pulled out and tugged the leash to move me, gasping for breath, onto all fours facing away from him. One forceful thrust filled my pussy, but there would be no satisfying orgasm yet. He pulled out and lined up his bulbous glans with my anus. One thrust split me open for the big head, and within a half dozen more he was buried deep inside me.
Brutal thrust after brutal thrust punished my innards. Mistress held my leash high, stretching my neck and discouraging me from collapsing in a heap on the floor. After long minutes of savaging my butt he pulled my head toward his pulsing prick and I opened my mouth to accept his jet-like jets of gism. When he finally finished spurting, he told me, “Clean it, cunt, clean your ass off my cock!” With leaking eyes and trembling body I complied.
Assaults from Master’s bountiful boner continued through the hours, alternating with sessions of torturous experimentation on the tearful “lab slut.” The day was so filled with exploding orgasms and wrenching pain that I don’t remember some of it, but one particularly notable session involved clamps on my nipples and labia.
Master stretched each nipple to painful length before applying adjustable clamps, then ran a chain through both instruments. Mistress opened labia and tasted the pulsing pinkness before attaching clamps to the stretched wings and attaches another chain there. I gritted my teeth and steeled my nerves and tried very hard not to shy from their agonizing attentions.
“Good girl,” said Master. “You’re right, Mistress, she is a willing little slut.” When he tightened the clamps further, the pain become nearly unbearable and I did squirm noticeably. A powerful palm smack on my tender, abused pussy by Mistress refocused my attention on trying to remain still. “Don’t squirm unless you want your wings damaged,” she told me and pulled the chain, stretching them to improbable limits.
Then Master joined in, pulling on his chain to abuse my nipples to a degree they had never experienced before. I fluttered in and out of consciousness during their gleeful play with my most sensitive places. Master held my neck in a near choke so that body could not follow nipples forward. I gasped and wailed but held my position and, finally, all four clamps were released in a simultaneous burst of excruciating pain. Sobs wracked my body as Mistress gently soother my wounded wings with her tongue.
In what turned out to be the finale of my “final exam” Master assaulted my tender and well-used fuckholes in seemingly random fashion, driving his daunting dick in and out of me like a piston while Mistress applied vibrating and electro-shock toys to my clit and any otherwise hole. The resulting spasms had be flopping around like a fish out of water and I suspect that my inner earthquakes made the experience quite pleasant for Master’s member. I have no idea how long this lasted nor how many times I came because at some point I passed out.
I recall coming to on the floor, my head in Mistress’s lap as she stroked my sweaty brow. Any last shreds of clothing had long since been torn from my body and as I lay prostrate and sobbing from physical and emotional overexertion on the plastic sheet on the floor, Master dumped one final load on my tummy and tits. Mistress rose and said to him, “I think we should wash that off.” They smiled at one another and proceeded to urinate on my body. Their final and ultimate humiliation left me crying uncontrollably but proud that I had been able to take everything they could give and, hopefully, please my captors, my tormentors, my lovers.
“Go clean yourself up, little piece of fuckmeat,” Mistress said as she left me. “You’ll figure out what to do next. We have a LOT of catching up to do,” she added as she took Master’s hand and they disappeared.
I fell asleep in the tub and it was evening by the time I was cleaned up and had tended to my injuries as best I could. She said that I’d “figure out what to do next.” I looked in my closet for even the most immodest outfit, but there was nothing at all. As I explored the silent house, I realized that it had been emptied of all evidence of what had gone on for days on end, not to mention anything that might resemble clothing.
With a lump in my throat, I tested the front door and was surprised to find it unlocked. Was it all over? Could I simply leave? What about that mysterious “new owner?” Would I be turning my back on my new life if I ventured out to seek the comforting embrace of my gentle lover?
I ventured out and stayed in the shadows of the thick pine woods as I navigated my way down the coast a few doors toward his cabin.
* * * “We’ve been expecting you.” WE?!? Huh?
In the dark room someone took her firmly by the arm and guided her to a standing full-length mirror illuminated by a spotlight. Mr. W waited there with a slight smile on his lips. She watched in the mirror, curious, as he removed the bulky leather collar from her neck and replaced it with a more decorative diamond-studded choker. Just as she broke into a smile at his generosity, he attached a thin chain leash and whispered into her ear.
“You are a good little Pet,” he said as her patted me on the head in a manner that suggested both possession and approval.
Stunned, she paused for long seconds, and took in the image of a collared and leashed naked blonde in the mirror. Then it became clear to her and she dropped to her hands and knees, lowered her head submissively and kissed the toes of his deck shoes.
“Thank you, Master!”
Suddenly the great room of the cabin blazed with light and a chorus of people yelled in unison.
A gentle tug on her leash brought her to her feet and she reflexively assumed the position—feet spread, head bowed, chest thrust out, and hips cocked forward to reveal her pinkness. Spotting a big “Happy Birthday” banner she realized it had been exactly nine days since she had moved out of her winter retreat. She also realized that she was standing stark naked and naughtily exposed in the brightly-lit room and should do something about it. So, she half-heartedly made vague gestures that did little to hide anything strategic, and searched her mind in vain for the ‘perfect’ response. As her eyes adjusted to the bright lights she also noticed some of her captors and abusers in the audience and understood that the whole ordeal had been to prepare her delivery to Mr. W. The thought made her smile.
“I guess wearing my birthday suit was a good wardrobe choice for this evening,” she told the gathered crowd, and managed an embarrassed grin as her comment drew a few laughs.