by Isaac Byrne
Anyone observing – other than me, as I had my field of vision obscured by a thicket of a police officer’s pubic hair – would have seen the two negotiating, working out the timing of their second climax. They must have, or otherwise the timing would have been too coincidental as Young pulled out of my mouth, pumping himself to spurt all over my sweaty face, while Black simultaneously withdrew from my cunt and slid his tip into my butt, jetting his spunk up into my asshole.
I came so hard I blacked out. Just like my wonderful, perfect Master had remade me to do.
When I came to, the officers were both gone. I suppose they were worried someone might’ve heard my final scream of release, or maybe they were just bored of me, having gotten what they wanted. Either way, I was alone, naked and face-down on top of a park bench. The riot cuffs had been cut in the middle, though were still around my wrists, and my clothes were wadded up next to me on the table.
I wondered if they were self-conscious that I might report them. As my mind returned to its normal state, the tsunami of lust receding back into the distance, I almost laughed at the prospect. Two men who knew my trigger had nothing to fear from me. I didn’t even know their real names. Even if I stormed into the police station to make a report, how hard would it be for them to trigger me again, and watch the credibility of my complaint vanish like steam as I invited the whole station to run a train on me?
Of course, I wasn’t exactly in a mood to complain anyway. I actually felt incredible. I felt like I’d been satisfied for the first time since my escape from slavery. My mind was free again; nonetheless I wished I had some way of calling those policemen back for another go around. Heck, maybe Curly was available, even.
I’d spent so much time dreading what was happening to me that I’d never let myself just sit back and enjoy it. As I arrived some time later at where my car was still parked, I looked down the way to Miguel and Justin’s house. There were lights on still. I could knock on the door, tell them I was a fuck-in-the-head former sex slave with a target on her back for whoever this twisted bastard was who was giving out my triggers like candy on Halloween. I could make them believe me. Convince them to let me apologize. They could help me, watch over me and keep me safe.
Keep me from doing things like getting fucked mouth and cunt in the park by two strangers who’d used me like a public commodity. Who’d made me come harder than I’d known was humanly possible.
I started my engine, and put the car in drive.