She melted against him. He intended to brand her soul, and he would not use a whip or snarl or put her in a single link of chain. “Yes,” she sighed.
He helped her through the opening.
It was beautiful inside, soft and seductive, yet in no way feminine.
The walls were lined with weavings, bold patterns in red and yellow with stripes and lightning bolts. The floor was covered with straw mats. In one corner was a futon, with a gray covering, very soft like fleece. There was a wooden chest and in the far corner a pair of spears with feathers.
Liandra felt instantly as if she belonged on her knees. This was the abode of a warrior. A man who made use of women as he pleased.
Virgil closed the door behind him.
“Shall I undress for you?” she whispered.
“No.” He moved in close, utterly disarming what little was left of her will. “That is my pleasure.”
His hands were surprisingly deft working the buttons of her blouse. Her breath caught in her throat; her breasts tremored. He would be looking on them soon.
She felt a wave of insecurity.
Virgil slipped the blouse over her shoulders. It fluttered to the floor.
She wore only her skirt and panties and bra now.
“You’re used to better, I think,” she apologized in advance for her breasts. “Having owned slave girls and all.”
Virgil flashed a stern look. The submissive in her responded instantly.
“Do not ever feel shame for your body, Liandra. It is offensive to nature.”
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. Her head spun. She did not think she could bear to make this man angry with her. “I didn’t mean to offend, it’s just...”
She looked at her feet.
“It’s just what?” He took her chin between her thumb and forefinger forcing eye contact.
She was like a deer in front of headlights—the light of an on coming train.
“You’ve been told your body isn’t good enough, is that it?”
Her lips trembled, giving her answer.
“Your body pleases me, girl,” he said. “Or you would not be here.”
Liandra blinked.
“I find you beautiful,” he elaborated. “Does anything else matter at this moment?”
“No,” she whispered, undoing her bra.
His nostrils flared slightly at the sight of her naked breasts. She saw the lines at the edges of his eyes, the upturned lips.
He did think she was beautiful.
“May I?” he asked to touch them.
“Y—yes,” she replied. It did not seem right, granting permission. She was female, she was small and submissive. He ought to be taking them.
“Lovely.” He weighed them in his hands, making her moan softly.
“Oh, Virgil, I need you inside me. I can’t wait,” the words spilled from her mouth.
He lifted her skirt, the mockery of a garment. What had she been thinking wearing such a thing to the construction site this morning? Was she secretly hoping that Virgil would show up to do exactly what he had done...sweeping her off her feet and carrying her across the threshold of his domain?
She gasped as he ripped her panties. The man was strong, very strong.
A finger inserted itself between her legs. “You’re wet,” he rasped.
“I have been since I saw you this morning.”
“Unzip my pants, take out my cock.”
“I thought you weren’t dominating me,” she teased, though she wasted no time, hands pulling at his jeans.
“I was making a suggestion,” he said dryly.
Virgil’s cock was magnificent, silky smooth and rock hard, every bit as large as she’d imagined. Her mouth watered thinking of it in her mouth; her pussy spasmed thinking of it down there.
The length was much too large to grasp, even with two hands. “One you knew I couldn’t refuse,” she quipped, caressing him.
“Stop that, girl.” He took her hands away. “You want me to explode in mid air.”
“No...”
There wasn’t time to make it to the futon. Virgil lifted her by the waist, impaling her in one stroke. She cried out as he buried his cock to the hilt, filling her, blowing her mind. Heat surged, the need mounted, set to explode like a volcano.
“Oh...god...so good.”
Virgil growled, moving her in and out with the ease of a rag doll. The friction was enough to melt her down. Her pussy throbbed, clenching him tightly. She could feel his cock expanding. Was he going to climax already?
She buried her head in his chest, screaming, letting it all go.
Sperm surged from the tip of him, pumping into her cavity, marking her, making her something different than she had been, not quite slave, but not free either.
She was serving as the instrument of Virgil’s pleasure. He was using her, literally and with abandon and she had never been happier in her life.
Virgil kissed the top of her head in appreciation, once, twice, three times.
Something occurred to Liandra, even as the last few echoes receded, explosions within explosions, orgasms within orgasms.
“So...now that the first fuck is over...do we still have to be vanilla?”
Virgil clenched her ass, tight, possessive. “What do you think?”
Wincing, she smiled. “I think...I’m going to be glad I played hooky from work today.”
“Good,” he said. “Now how about a little tour around the place?”
She giggled, taking a glance about the small single room structure, some fifteen feet by twelve. “I didn’t realize I’d missed anything...”
“You’d be surprised.” He set her down. “It’s all in how you look at it. My brother was a firm believer in economy. Besides how much space do you really need to tame a girl?”
“I’m sure I don’t know,” she said, though she sure as hell wanted to find out.
The first thing he showed her was the trunk. She nearly fainted as he showed her the contents: exquisite woven whips of colored leather, silken ropes in red and blue, leather gags and restraints, even collars, beaded and lovely, with detailed designs in silver and gold. Except for the intimate kinky nature of them, they could have been for sale at some pow wow with very high price tags.
“What do you think?” Virgil asked, seated cross legged on the futon.
“They’re...incredible,” she said breathless.
“There is a deer skin garment,” he said. “Take it out, try it on.”
Liandra found the neatly folded garment. Her fingers trembled to touch it. It was light and small. She pulled it out, holding it up. The hem was quite short. There were no openings on it. Almost shyly, she slipped it over her head.
It was a perfect fit.
The material clenched slightly at the waist. It came to mid thigh, though there were deep splits up both sides. The neck line was scooped low, exposing much cleavage.
She modeled it for him.
“It’s a slave’s garment,” he told her, adding in the same breath, “You wear it well.”
Liandra’s pulse raced. Who had worn this before her? Virgil’s slave girls or was it his brother’s?
“Thank you,” she whispered.
She wanted to call him Master.
“Take it off,” he said.
She was momentarily disappointed, but then he said for her to choose one of the collars. She picked out a very thin one, almost a rope, woven in black and white. It was stark but feminine. There were ties to hold it on.
“Bring it to me.”
Liandra handed him the collar, then knelt for him facing away. She lifted her hair, exposing her neck.
“This collar is for here,” he explained. “For today.”
“Yes,” she whispered, shivering at his touch.
He cinched the material, drawing it about her pulsing flesh. It was good that this was temporary. She didn’t want to get too deep...did she?
“Show me.”
She turned about on her k
nees.
He regarded her, expressionless.
“You...don’t like it?”
“Like is not the word, Liandra. In fact I could not invent a word.”
Her mouth was dry as a desert. He was not making this up. He was touched, infatuated, genuinely pleased. Though why she couldn’t imagine. She wasn’t anyone special, she hadn’t done anything in particular.
His cock was rock between his legs.
She looked, longingly.
“What is it you wish?”
She couldn’t say the words. “You’ve read my mind pretty good so far...”
“But you need to say it.”
“I want...I want...” She steeled herself. “I’d like to suck your cock.”
“Kiss me first.”
She leaned forward from her knees, half crawling up his chest. His mouth was fire, his mouth was a singing brand. She melted, liquefying. The scent of her submission filled the air. She wanted to worship him, pleasure his cock and generally give him the run of her body. There were toys, wonderful things in that chest, and she wanted to try them, too...on her.
Eyes half closed, lost and drunk on his smell and power, she kissed her way down, tiny, feminine offerings, soft butterfly kisses, at once pleasing and teasing every inch of his chest. She was his slave girl...she wore his collar, here, today, now. What did it matter if she had to take it off? Wasn’t this real enough?
Liandra tried to kiss like a slave. Like an owned girl, whose purpose was pleasure, whose life centered around one man, the master, who must be pleased at all times. If not pleased, he could punish, harshly as he wished. Her body tingled, open, not her own…she felt subject to pleasure, to pain...even to love.
Did Virgil love his slave girls? Was it worth loving a collared slut who crawled for you, who lacked all of the power and pride women were supposed to have? Slaves were needy little bitches, especially in this age, when they were consensual. At least in the old days a woman could cling to the pride of having been captured, knowing herself forced to fuck and suck and yield.
Virgil leaned back to give her better access. She moaned slightly, kissing the tip of him. He sighed, a good sign, a definite indication of happiness. She was being a good slave girl!
She opened her mouth, taking the tip of him. He was so big. She popped him in and out like a lollipop, light, reverent, but with indication that soon...soon, she’d be sucking like a slut, an unpaid whore well aware that the tenderness of her ass was on the line.
One long run of her tongue down to the base. She could feel her collar, so snug...so right. The thick purple vein throbbed. All men liked to be pleased this way, a woman’s tongue adoring them, Virgil was no exception.
He caressed the top of her head. “Liandra...” he spoke her name, like a prayer, an anointing. She heard it differently than she ever had before. She was his Liandra and she wanted to keep it that way...at least for the moment.
What did he do with the other slave girls? Sell them? Give them away? Did they go weeping? Begging on their bellies to stay and be his pets? What about bad moods? Did he have them? Was he ever cruel? Would he bring home another woman for her to fuck, would he spill beer on her rug and make her lick it up?
And if not, if he wasn’t like Rave, would she be able to keep getting off on him or would she get bored, stale and dry.
“You need this,” Rave was fond of telling her, usually with a sneer. And you’re goddamn lucky to have me to give it, so audaciously. Self centered, sadistic, utterly without conscious; she was mighty privileged he’d come into her life.
Virgil was stroking her hair, making it feel silky, making her feel beautiful. He would not let a woman do this that he didn’t think was pretty; he would not let lips touch him, let a tongue bathe him.
I want this to be the blow job of his life, she thought.
She relaxed her jaws, taking him inside her mouth. He was so awfully big, she’d never come close to getting him all. And thick. She bore down with her lips, sucking, adoring. She wrapped her fingers around the base, encasing the parts that her mouth wouldn’t reach. She took him...straight to the back of her throat.
For all intents and purposes, her mouth was a pussy, warm and soft and pulsing. She moved up and down. It was liberating and a little heady to have the freedom to suck as she saw fit. Where was Virgil’s fist? Where was the pressure to her head? He was letting her take the lead, whereas Rave flat out face fucked her.
Rave got off on humiliating her. If he treated her nice, it was only to get to this. He probably thought of it non-stop, as he talked to her, taking the time as he sometimes did to explain something in a game he was watching or enjoying a quiet meal with her, knowing that at any moment he could make her get down on the floor and gag on his hardness.
That was their bond, really, the brutality and he knew the formula. Sure, he pushed her to the brink, farther these last two nights than ever. But he’d level off. The fucker would pull back. He’d be a little sweet again and then what would she do?
Virgil swelled inside her. His shaft was so full of life. She sucked away the saltiness and sweetness, infinitely subtle, in layer after layer. She wanted his come, down her throat, she wanted it as an internal merit badge of temporary slavery but…Virgil had something else in mind.
“Liandra, bring me a whip, you choose.”
She took her mouth away with ultimate reluctance, though her body was charged with the implications of command. A slave girl didn’t get what she wanted, not even if it was to serve like the slut she was made to be.
“Yes, Master.”
She looked for indication of disapproval. Finding none, she crawled, glowing, back to the chest.
Her body was weak, electrified, run on a single wire leading from him...Virgil, Master for the day. Would she have the strength to lift a whip from the carved and magical chest?
There were a number to pick from.
Choosing her own torture instrument; now there was a concept to make one squirm.
She ran her fingers agonizingly over the braid of each, imagining them on her skin. The narrow sharpness of the crop, the large meaty strands of the cat o’nine tails. She took so long she half expected him to shout something out.
Move it, bitch. Pick on, or I’ll use them all. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?
She could almost hear the sort of things that Rave would say.
Liandra opted for the exotic cat. Seven leather thongs, beaded, in red and yellow leather with a thick handle that reminded her of a cock—a bull’s cock.
Virgil had Liandra kneel on the futon and lean all the way forward, so her breasts were flattened and her cheek was against the soft material. Instinctively, filled with fear and desire, she pushed up her ass.
“Whip me, Master.”
He pushed a finger into her cunt. “Are you telling me what to do?”
“No, Master.” She whimpered, put in her place.
He continued to masturbate her, reducing her to a writhing animal.
“Still,” he commanded with a crisp smack.
“S—sorry, Master.” She was breaking a sweat, panting, a bad girl.
“You have great potential, Liandra, but you are undisciplined. You’ve received no training.”
She wanted to blurt all about her experiences and Rave, but she held her tongue. If Virgil didn’t think that was training, who was she to argue.
Although it did leave the question, what exactly did you call Rave was doing with her?
“You’re offended,” he said.
“No, Master.”
The whip came crashing down, stinging, burning out of the blue. “Slaves make poor liars, even novices like you.”
“S—sorry,” she stammered.
He punished her again, another blast of the thongs. “I don’t want apologies, little woman, I want the truth.”
“I have a man,” she sobbed. “He...he dominates me.”
“And you call him Master?”
“S—sometimes.”
>
Virgil whipped her, one time for each question. “Has this man ever lost a night’s sleep administering your discipline? Has he bound you for your own good, spanked you or confined you for any reason other than sexual gratification? Has he made rules for you with consistent punishments? Does he share your dreams? Is he at least as committed to your well being and growth as he is to his own?”
No...no...and no, across the line, and for god’s sake, why did he have to keep illustrating his point with the slash of leather? Her ass felt like a huge, pulsing mass. She must look so ugly this way. He should just send her home, she was the worst possible slave.
“I’m...a...fuck up...” she wailed. “I’m....worthless.”
Virgil took her in his arms. He didn’t say a word, just held her.
She let her tears go, let the tension drain from her body into his. She trusted him, she relied on him to guide her, to know what they were doing here. The seas seemed pretty hazardous, but he was hardly a novice like her.
In time he eased her back and then he was inside her...again, filling and healing, exciting her, his cock a balm, his mammoth body over hers a shelter from any storm, enough so that Liandra was able to close her eyes and just surrender. The ultimate letting go, not of her body for sex, which she was used to, but of her own worries and internal fault finding...an enterprise which went on 24/7.
CHAPTER FIVE
It was after dark when Virgil took her back to the city. She clung to him, sleepy and dreamy...and charged all at the same time. The bike’s energy passed through her, willingly absorbed by her gaped thighs. She’d left him her panties, as a gift to add to his trunk, which meant her pussy was splayed naked over the leather seat.
She felt it appropriate as a slave girl to be panting and hot for Master, available. He had removed the collar, much to her chagrin. But it had been temporary; he’d said that from the outset.
There was no talk of the future, no voices could be heard over the wind anyhow. He took her back to her car, deep kissed her—she was open mouthed and melted against him—and asked if she was okay to drive.
Yes, Master! Page 6