I watched this with horror. My own pussy burned in sympathy. I dropped to my knees beside her, took her in my arms, and said, “Oh, baby, I’m so sorry.”
She sobbed in my lap for a minute or more, while I felt like the world’s most worthless scum. Then she rolled onto her back, spread her legs again, and looked at me wide-eyed.
I kissed her and stood up. I looked over at the frame. The woman in red who’d turned off Amanda’s anal plug was cuffing a fat naked man into it. I looked around for Master and finally spotted him a few feet from the cross, half hidden by the crowd, pants off, taking Pipit from behind. Slut, I thought.
Someone near me shouted, “What are you waiting for? Spank her cunt!” I swung the paddle and she screamed and closed her legs, but opened them again.
I don’t know how many times I hit Amanda, but when I finally stopped her pussy was lobster-red. I was tired, and my mind was turbulent and full of foreboding.
Amanda said, “Please, Emily, can I come?”
I guessed it was my call, since I seemed to have been appointed her temporary Dom. I knelt beside her, put two fingers on her clit, and massaged her gently. She looked into my eyes and sighed.
A dozen or so men and women were still watching us, though the paddling was done. I leaned down and whispered in her ear: “Everybody’s looking at your pussy, Amanda.”
She gave me a fearful look, chuckling mirthlessly down in her throat.
I said, “Can you feel their stares? Does it make you ashamed?”
Her hips moved, and she squeezed her nipples. I rubbed harder.
“Isn’t it humiliating,” I said, “to need an orgasm so bad you don’t care if the whole world sees?” I kissed her cheek and whispered, “Come for me, Mouche. Just for me.”
She moaned loudly, her body writhed, and she came under my hand.
Amanda looked exhausted, and I suppose I was too. I hoped Karen and Daniel didn’t have more activities in mind for us.
“Do you want me to give you an orgasm?” she whispered.
“No, that’s okay,” I said. I wanted my orgasm from Master.
We sat quietly. Our little crowd drifted away, and soon Daniel and Karen came for us and attached our leashes.
They led us over to where Master was chatting with Christopher, his slave standing quietly beside him. I had to stand next to Pipit. Daniel said, “Thank you for the loan of your slave, Frederick. She deserves a reward for her cooperation and exemplary behavior.”
Pipit leaned close and whispered, “I hear you’re a toilet-slave, and your Master shits in your mouth twice a day.”
I didn’t know what to say. I wished I was the kind of person who always had a devastating comeback ready. I just whispered, “Whore!”
It was enough. She flew at me, knocked me down, and slapped at my face furiously with both hands. I raised my arms to protect my face and tried to roll away, but she grabbed a fistful of my hair and held me in place while she kicked me. I tried to kick her, but my kicks didn’t connect.
The fight lasted only a few seconds. Christopher pulled Pipit off me and said, “What’s this about?”
As Master hauled me to my feet, Pipit hissed, “She’s a shit-eating toilet-slave!”
I shouted, “She’s a disease-ridden whore!” and rushed at her, aiming blows at her face and ears, kicking her shins, and almost knocking her down.
Master pulled me back by the waist, held me while I struggled, and said, “That’s enough.”
I turned on him and spat, “I hope you used a fucking condom—”
“I said that’s enough,” he said.
Suddenly I was overwhelmed by how in the wrong I was. I’d been jealous—plain and simple. And what right did I have to a feeling like that? Even if our relationship had been a vanilla one with conventional expectations of fidelity, I’d hardly be in a position to complain, given what I’d been doing with Amanda the whole time I was here.
I said, “I’m sorry, Master,” collapsed against his chest, and cried.
He didn’t put his arms around me. I was very frightened. No one spoke for a long time. Then Master said, “The frame’s free right now.”
Christopher said, “So’s the cross.”
“Which do you want?” Master asked.
“I’ll take the frame,” said Christopher.
“Come, Famula,” Master said, and led me to the cross.
He cuffed me facing the room, adjusting the cords so I could barely touch the floor and my wrists had to take a lot of my weight.
“Are you going to whip me, Master?” I asked.
“No, Famula.”
“What are you going to do, Master?” I asked.
“I’m going to come back for you when it’s time to go home.” He walked away and joined Christopher, directly across the room from me. He was finishing up with Pipit, who also faced the room. He spoke to her briefly, then walked with Master towards one of the bars. Christopher said something, and Master laughed.
“In the shit, eh?” said one of the men who’d played with our remotes—the heavyset man in latex. He’d come up to me as I was gazing at Master’s back. He was standing closer than I liked.
I thought the answer to his question was obvious, so I didn’t say anything.
“Bit uppity for a slave, seems to me,” he said. “Master got the right to sell you?”
I shook my head.
“Pity,” he said. “I’d buy you up in a heartbeat. Big cunt. Great nips. Puffy—I like that. I’d have you straightened out quick enough, I bet. My subs always get straight quick.”
I wondered if there would be consequences if I told him to fuck off.
“Too bad we’re not allowed to touch,” he said. “Like to stick a paw in that cunt of yours. Bet that dildo left it looking like the Holland Tunnel.”
I’d just about decided to risk the consequences when a man in leather pants came up behind him, slapped him on the back, and said “Teddy! Where’ve you been, old boy?”
As he steered Teddy away, my savior looked back and winked at me.
I looked across the room at Pipit, who was disgustingly gorgeous in her frame. She stuck out her tongue at me, and I wrinkled my nose at her. I wondered if Christopher had the right to sell her.
The blond girl came up to me, without her Dom. She said, “I was so turned on watching you with that slave—what was her name?”
“Mouche,” I said.
“Funny name,” she said. “I’ve never made love to a woman. I wonder if I’d like it.”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I never did it till a few weeks ago myself.”
“Did you want to—before?”
“Not a lot. If I’d thought about it, I’d probably have said it was icky.” I decided not to tell her I’d once fantasized about her.
“Are you really a toilet-slave?”
“No. But one of my best friends is.”
“Now that’s icky,” she said.
“We’re all icky here,” I said. “Have you told your mother what your love life is really like?”
“No,” she said. “I guess you’re right.” She hesitated. “If I ever get a chance to make love to a woman,” she said, “I want it to be you.”
“Thanks,” I said.
I think she wanted to say something else, but her Dom came and hauled her away. I passed some time summoning up memories of what she’d looked like getting fucked.
My arms and shoulders were sore, and my feet were starting to hurt from stretching my toes out to touch the floor. It occurred to me that maybe I shouldn’t try to support myself, but just relax and let my body sag. I tried that, but it made my arms hurt more. It seemed there was no way to get comfortable.
There was a draft—not much of one, but it made me shiver even though the heat in the apartment was set pretty high for all the naked people. My bladder was filling up. I tried to distract myself by looking at Pipit again. She was miserable, too, naked in the frame. I wondered if she was cold and had to pee.
She looked up at me, but I didn’t see anger in her face now, just tiredness and strain. She spoke to a woman who was passing by. The woman said a few words to her and walked on. If Pipit was asking the woman for something, it didn’t work, because no one came.
I thought about Master. Of course he was right to punish me, leaving me alone and exposed to everybody’s gaze. Humiliating me this way was a fitting punishment for embarrassing him. I thought about his firmness, how gentle he could be when he wanted, how considerate. I tried listing all his little kindnesses in my head—there were many. Then I thought about his punishments, and, tired as I was, reviewing them turned me on. I had no idea how much time was passing; I was in a reverie.
I heard a shout, and laughter. I lifted my head and saw Pipit, looking completely miserable, peeing—urine trickled out of her as if she were trying to suppress it; it puddled on the floor. A little group of people had gathered around, commenting and laughing.
I couldn’t hold out much longer myself. Now that my reverie was broken, I realized that my bladder was about to burst. I closed my eyes and concentrated on staving off disaster.
“Do you need to piss?”
It was Amanda’s whisper. I opened my eyes, and there she was, looking beautiful and holding a quart Mason jar.
I said, “I’ve never been so happy to see anyone in my whole life.”
She held the jar under me. A few people gathered to watch, but I wasn’t nearly the show Pipit had been. I peed, it seemed like forever.
Amanda held up the jar so I could see. It was more than half full. “It’s really yellow,” she said happily.
“Thank you, Amanda,” I said.
She gave me a radiant smile and scurried away with the jar. I knew exactly what she was going to do with it, and I didn’t mind even a little.
Pipit was sagging in the frame, not trying to support herself at all, head hanging. I wondered if she was passed out, sleeping, or just tired. A man in a white jacket was mopping the floor under her. I sagged too. I didn’t have much choice—my arms would just have to hurt.
The redhead in the red dress paused by my cross. “You look fucking awful,” she said.
“Thank you,” I said.
“You can safeword, you know.”
“I know.”
“Why don’t you?” she asked. “I’d’ve safeworded ages ago.”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I guess I’m just not there yet.” I didn’t want to insult her by implying I was tougher than she was.
The woman moved off. I wondered where my limit was and what would trigger my safeword in the end: my sore arms, the cold, needing to pee again, another man talking about putting his paw in my cunt?
Pipit moved in her frame. She hadn’t safeworded either. She was tough. She raised her head and looked at me. She looked fucking awful too—ghostly white, rings under her eyes, makeup mussed. I smiled at her. She let her head fall again.
I wondered what time it was. The room was only about half as full as it had been when Master had cuffed me to the cross. People were keeping Karen and Daniel busy with goodbyes.
Master came to me and uncuffed me—first my feet, then my hands. My legs wouldn’t hold me: I fell into a heap on the floor. Across the room, Christopher was uncuffing Pipit, but she managed to stay upright.
Master said, “Daniel and Karen have offered us a bedroom. Come—you’d better have a snack.”
He picked up my leash and I got up on my hands and knees. People stared as I crawled beside him, slowly, out of the party room and down a hallway to the kitchen. Master left me curled up by a little breakfast table and went foraging in the cabinets.
He returned in a couple of minutes with a bag of trail mix. He pulled a chair close to me, sat, shook a little trail mix into his palm, and bent down, holding his hand out to me. I ate from his palm, happiness blazing inside me. He fed me three handfuls this way, and then I shook my head when he offered more.
“Come to bed, then,” he said.
I crawled beside him to the bedroom we’d used earlier.
We stopped by the bathroom door. “Do you think you can clean your makeup off?” he asked.
“I think so, Master,” I said.
“Don’t worry about the rest.”
I crawled into the bathroom and struggled to my feet, holding onto the vanity.
Washing revived me a little—I walked from the bathroom into the bedroom. Master had turned down the bed. He took off my harness and collar. “Get in,” he said, and I crawled into bed. He sat beside me.
“Master,” I said, “you promised to give me an orgasm tonight.”
“I did,” he said, “and a promise is a promise. This is your orgasm. What would you like? Some nice vanilla lovemaking, since you’re tired?”
“Never,” I said.
He sat up beside me. “You’re assertive for a slave,” he said.
“Being a slave’s the only thing I’m assertive about, Master,” I said. “You don’t make love to a slave girl. You fuck her—violently.”
“All right,” he said, grinning, and reached for my pussy. “You’re wet,” he said, and started to fuck me with a finger.
“Always for Master,” I said.
Suddenly he was fucking me hard, with two fingers now, shaking my whole body. The stimulation was too much—it was painful, and I moaned with the shock of it.
“I don’t know you, slave,” he said. “Tell me what you are.”
I could hardly bear it—I thought surely he’d tear me apart.
“I’m your fuck-toy,” I cried. “Ow, Master!”
He seized me by the middle and turned me over. He dragged me roughly towards him and bent me over the edge of the bed. He spanked my bottom hard and said, “What else?”
“Your cum-slut,” I groaned. My ass stung and my pussy hurt.
“Okay,” he said, stood, and took out his cock. “What else?” He pushed into me savagely, holding my hips.
“Cunt. I’m Master’s cunt.” I could barely talk for the brutal force of him.
He seized me by the shoulders and held on as he pounded, so tight I thought he’d leave bruises.
“More!”
“Butt-fuck vixen.”
He grabbed a fistful of my hair and pulled my head back.
“Dyke! Oh, fuck me harder!”
He yanked my hair and leaned low over me. “More!” he growled.
“Rimjob skank!”
He let go of my hair, put both arms around me, and held me tight against him as he fucked me. “Say!” he hissed in my ear. “I still don’t know what you are.”
“Master’s—slave!” I cried.
“Are you a good slave?” He fucked me mercilessly.
“I’m a bad slave!”
“Tell me!” His body was so hot on my back.
“I’m jealous!”
He freed his right hand, seized me by the chin, and turned my head so his lips brushed my cheek. “What else?”
“I want—”
“What do you want, slave?” His breath was hot on my face; his cock felt so huge inside me.
“Oh, hurt me!” I moaned.
He pulled out of my pussy and shoved into my ass. I was still a little stretched from the vibrator, and his cock was slick with my wetness, but without any more lube than that it was like a bomb going off in my ass, he was so fast and rough. I screeched “Oh, fuck!” He shoved my face down on the bed with one hand and reached for my clit with the other, and his touch was a match to gasoline. All at once my body was on fire, and I came long and hard, and as I came under him he was rasping in my ear, “I still don’t fucking know what you are!”
I cried in his arms as the pain slowly faded. “I’m nothing,” I said in a choked whisper. “Only Master’s slave.”
“You don’t love me, slave!”
“I do love you, Master, more than anything.”
He held me tighter and kissed my cheek. He pulled the covers over us and lay back, and I snuggled under
his arm. I managed a few tired thoughts about my night: being bound, exposed, powerless even with a paddle in my hand, a toy for the crowd. But I had wanted a thing, and Master had given it to me. I felt warm and safe beside him, a little girl with a terrifying but good daddy.
“Shall I sleep on the floor, Master?”
“No, vixen. Tonight I want you here with me.”
That was the last thing I heard him say before sleep overtook me.
Chapter 7. Rigged games
I can’t stop looking at his shoes. They’re so clean and glossy—I can almost taste the leather and feel the slick hardness of them on my tongue. I want to crawl to him and lick them, but he won’t let me. What can I offer him, hanging from the ceiling?
He comes to me with a pail of wooden clothespins and begins to fasten them to me, taking his time. One on top of each ear. One on each of my labia. Two on each breast, near the nipple.
He turns on my probes. Now the torture of pleasure contains pricks of pain.
“Ooohh!” I sob. “I need to pee, Master!”
“You can pee anytime,” he says.
“No, Master, I can’t!”
I’m too tired for this arousal, and my bladder’s full to bursting. An orgasm now would tear me apart.
I flail in my ropes. He turns off the electricity.
He takes off the clothespins: ears first, then labia, then breasts. The pain’s off the scale. I’m sweating, writhing, crying, “Master, please.”
“Say it,” he says. “Say it and it all stops.”
I can’t.
* * *
Pipit knelt by Christopher, sitting back on her heels, head bowed, all creamy skin and perfect curves. He petted her absently and said, “The custom of the house is for Masters and Mistresses to sit at the table while slaves sit at their feet. How to feed a slave is up to a Master, of course, but what I do is feed Pipit tidbits from my plate. It’s not usually messy, but spills are a hazard when you’re not used to it.”
I’d been worried about this dinner ever since Master had told me he’d accepted the invitation. I’d pictured Pipit flying at me with teeth and nails, or at the very least finding subtle ways to humiliate me. Master had been out most nights that week, but we’d played the night before the dinner, and I’d told him about my worries as we’d cuddled afterwards.
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