“I wouldn’t be so sure of that,” he said, standing. “She chose a naïve schoolboy; he can’t satisfy her for long. I’m the only one who’s ever appreciated her true beauty, and she knows it.”
Pipit stood and picked up the check. She couldn’t keep herself from glancing at it—it was made out for five hundred dollars. She slipped it into her purse and said, “Fuck you, Christopher.”
“Good luck, Jennifer,” he said.
She walked over to Mamoun’s Falafel and sulked over her lunch. It wasn’t fair. She had as good a soul as anybody, and her kinks and Christopher’s had been a great match. So what if she was a slut? A slut was what he needed, and she was the best around.
She spent the afternoon drifting among the stores and then stopped in to a Just Salad, but couldn’t eat much. Afterwards she found Frederick alone in his apartment. He stood in the doorway and stared at her coldly.
“I came to apologize,” she said.
“Don’t,” he said. “They gave me fifty thousand for you, and it was a good bargain.” Then he relented, stood back, and said, “You’d better come in.”
He waved her to a sofa and sat across the room in a chair.
She said, “It was bad, what I did—”
“You know better, of course, than to ask if I’ll take you back,” he said.
“I loved you,” she said. “I could love you again.”
“There was never any love in you,” he said. “I was an idiot to think there was.”
“And I suppose you think that cunt Famula loved you?”
“I know she did,” he said. “I think she still does, and someday she’ll understand that.”
“And come back to you?” Pipit laughed.
“I can see it’s a mistake to talk to you about this kind of thing,” he said. “You have no understanding at all of the more refined emotions.”
“I was good to play with, though,” she said.
“You were. You didn’t like the pain, but you put up with it anyway. As a sadist, I found that appealing.”
Pipit stood up and undid her belt. “Give me some pain tonight, Master,” she said, pulling her dress over her head. “Make it worse than you ever have before. I’ll hate it, I’ll scream and cry, but I won’t safeword. It’ll be the best night of your life.”
She kicked off her shoes and pushed down her panties. She sat down again and put her feet up on the cushions so her pussy fell open. She could see the lust in his eyes; she touched her clit and ran a finger down into her dampness to make him want her.
“You liked my pussy, Master: you can spank it and turn it pink. You loved my skin: you can cane me and raise welts.”
He licked his lips. “You’re beautiful,” he said, “and I’ve paid a high price for your beauty, but I won’t be suckered again.”
Suddenly she felt obscene and whorish. She closed her legs.
“Give me some money, anyway,” she said. “You got enough selling me.”
“What did Daniel and Karen give you?” he asked.
“Ten thousand,” she said, knowing she couldn’t get away with a lie. “You know how far that’ll go in this city.”
“Have you been to see Christopher?”
“Yeah. He wouldn’t have me either.”
“What did he give you?”
“Two thousand,” she said.
“I’ll give you the fifty. I don’t want to make a profit off you.”
She almost thanked him, but thought better of it. He fucking owed it to her, and he probably didn’t want to be thanked anyway. He disappeared down the hallway towards his study; she dressed, then sat on the sofa and waited for him. He was tucking away his phone as he came back. He handed her a check and a slip of paper on which he’d written “Mistress Ai” and an address.
Mistress Ai was well known to her, having several times fucked her while Christopher looked on, and she was one of the few women Pipit considered to be as beautiful as herself. Pipit respected and feared her.
“Mistress Ai is expecting you tomorrow morning at ten,” said Frederick. “I’ve asked her to advise you, and she’s agreed. Believe me, her advice will be far more valuable to you than that check.”
“Okay,” Pipit said. “Well, thanks.”
He saw her to the door. “Good luck to you,” he said. “Don’t come back here.”
It was almost ten. She walked over to Second Avenue and hailed a cab to take her to midtown, where she went into one of the big hotels and found a bar. She sat and ordered a glass of chardonnay. Before long a glossy young man approached her and said, “Are you with someone?”
She looked at him briefly and said, “I’m waiting for a friend.”
Several more men approached her before she got one she liked, a man in his fifties, not unattractive, though a little soft. But she hadn’t been studying the men so much as her own responses to them, and now she felt a little emotional tremor, part thrill and part fear—not strong, but enough. She let him sit and buy her a drink.
He was in town for a sales convention, something to do with medical devices. She didn’t listen all that closely, and he didn’t ask about her.
At length he said, “Are you, um—”
She said, “I’m not a prostitute. Just a girl that wouldn’t mind getting laid.”
She went with him to his room and watched him closely while she undressed. She liked the look of wonder on his face—sometimes being beautiful wasn’t so bad. She went to him, loosened his tie, and undressed him, the way she thought a whore might do it. His cock was already hard as she slid his underwear off. She pushed him onto the bed, crawled on top of him facing his feet, and sat on his face. He squirmed under her as she stimulated herself on his lips and nose.
She leaned back, supported herself on her hands behind her, and scrubbed his face with her pussy and ass, listening to his sharp gasps, “Uh! Uh!” in the moments when she let him breathe, watching his erect cock strain towards the ceiling. When she sensed the tension building in his body, she climbed off him, knelt beside him, and looked into his eyes.
“Oh, God,” he said, “you’re—”
“I’m a bitch,” she said, smiling. “I’ll fucking walk all over you if you let me.”
When he hesitated, she grabbed his balls and squeezed.
She made her voice soft and high and said, “But be my big stern Daddy and take what you want, and I’ll be your sweet little girl.”
Her throat got tight as she saw comprehension dawn in his face. She was taking a stupid risk, inviting this stranger to play Daddy, but some desperate need was driving her on and making her careless.
He sat up and stared at her. His eyes seemed darker now. He said, “What’s your name?”
She’d dropped her purse on the nightstand. She reached for it now, fished inside, and brought out a condom packet, which she waggled in front of him.
“Call me Little Girl,” she said, “and fuck me.”
“Okay, Little Girl,” he said. “You want to come to Daddy?” He reached for her, but she shied away.
“You can’t be Daddy,” she said. “Daddy doesn’t ask. Daddy takes.”
She opened her eyes wide and looked into his so he could see the fear in her. Need radiated from her belly all through her body. She wanted to touch her pussy but restrained herself.
“Okay,” he said slowly, taking his time to think. Then he moved suddenly, up on his knees, and shoved her down on the bed with his left hand while he reached for her pussy with his right. Two fingers slid into her easily, she was so wet.
“Yes, Daddy!” she cried as he finger-fucked her using all the muscles of his arm and shoulder, shaking her whole body. “Oh, fuck me!”
Now he was rolling the way she wanted him to, letting his body think for him. He straddled her face, and she flung her arms around his legs as he pushed into her and started to thrust, fucking her mouth, which filled with thick saliva and overflowed. She listened to the liquid slopping of Daddy’s cock in her throat and sensed his a
rousal building; and when she felt the explosion almost there she raised her knees and pushed off hard with her feet so she scooted between his legs, so far his cock was waving over her belly.
She still had the condom packet in a fist; she held it up and said, “Daddy’s Wittle Girl need a fuck.”
He took it from her and tore into it. He rolled the condom onto him and repositioned himself between her legs. Kneeling, he started to ease into her, but she said, “Daddy fuck Wittle Girl hard,” and he slammed in the rest of the way.
She didn’t have to coach him after that. He fucked her hard and deep, banging against her cervix, shaking her, till she cried out, pretending to come. Sensing he was close, she whined, “Daddy come in Wittle Girl’s mouf,” and he pulled out of her, straddled her head again, tore off the condom, and fucked her till his semen pumped over her tongue and filled her up. She swallowed it. You always swallow Daddy’s cum.
She didn’t want him to hold her; he didn’t feel like Daddy anymore—he never had, really. But she let him do it and cuddled with him. They said little; they were strangers with nothing in common, not even sex.
When she sensed him getting restless, she said, “Can I sleep here tonight? I . . . I don’t have a place . . . to stay.” It felt horrible to say that. It made the reality of her situation crash in on her, and the horror of what she’d just done.
He hesitated. She could tell he wanted her to go. But she had no credit card, only a little cash, and three big checks which would do her no good till morning. She couldn’t get a hotel room; she was homeless.
“Okay,” he said. “No problem.” She took a shower, then he did, and they went to bed. She listened till his breathing became deep and regular, then quietly got up, went into the bathroom, and closed the door. She got into the bathtub, sat, and leaned back. She didn’t run any water.
She spread her legs wide and touched her clit with one finger. “Sorry,” she whispered. She put two fingertips in her mouth and wet them with a little saliva; she massaged her clit with a circular motion. “Sorry . . . so sorry.” She’d just fucked a man for a place to sleep—could she have sunk any lower? Arousal building, she could feel her clit swell under her fingers, sensation spreading out from there. She lifted her legs and let them rest on the sill of the tub. “I’m sorry, Daddy,” she sobbed, tears running down her cheeks. She drew her left leg way up so she could reach her pussy with her left hand; she slid two fingers into her damp hole, wishing she had a dildo. It wasn’t her fault—it wasn’t fair—but still she was sorry, sorry, sorry. She rubbed faster and fucked herself harder, pleasure and shame becoming one. She thought she could still taste the man’s cum, fatty and nasty. She put the fingers she’d been fucking herself with into her mouth to drive out his taste. She whimpered “Sorry” around her cunty fingers and rubbed her clit hard till she came, breasts heaving.
She slid down to the bottom of the tub and lay quietly. Christopher, Frederick, and Karen—they all hated her now, almost as much as she hated herself. It wasn’t fair . . . She closed her eyes and let sleep take her.
She woke up early in the morning, shivering in the air conditioning. She went out into the bedroom and saw the man still sleeping. She dressed quickly. His pants lay puddled on the floor at the foot of the bed. On an impulse she picked them up and searched the pockets. There was a wallet in a back pocket with some money in it—maybe eight or ten twenties. She took the money and dropped the wallet and pants on the floor. She picked up her purse and looked to make sure the checks were still there, then let herself out.
A clock in the hotel lobby told her it was six thirty. She hurried out onto the street, found a Macdonald’s, and ate half an Egg McMuffin. She lingered over her empty coffee cup for as long as she dared and then took the subway down to the Village. She wandered the streets until the banks opened at nine. She went to the one where she had a dormant account left from her college days and deposited the checks.
She walked to Washington Square and sat on a bench facing the fountain. She watched the people as a way to keep from thinking about herself and her problems. There were couples everywhere on this mild summer day—some talking animatedly, some holding hands, some walking side by side. She wondered what it would be like to be in a vanilla relationship, faithful to one boyfriend. She’d never had that experience—maybe she’d like it. She closed her eyes and constructed for herself the image of a man who’d love her devotedly and wouldn’t want to lend her to friends, leash her like a dog, whip her, or shit in her mouth. All he’d want to do was fuck her. The image warmed her, but she wasn’t aroused by it.
When she opened her eyes, there was Famula not twenty feet away, just passing the fountain, stupid rose vine sprouting out of the neck of a black T shirt. Seeing that cunt was all she fucking needed to make a bad day even worse. Famula was walking rapidly, trotting every few steps to keep up with a long-legged, slender young man with short brown hair and a lean, handsome face. This must be the storied Andrew, who’d won her in that auction Daniel and Karen had talked about so much. Slave Bitch Emily. Her body was turned a little towards him, her head tilted up so she could see him. He was looking straight ahead, face set, saying something through tense lips. She answered briefly, gesturing. They rounded the fountain so Pipit couldn’t see their faces anymore. She smiled at their backs. They hadn’t seen her, and she’d found out something about them.
She got up from her bench and walked towards the arch. It was time for her appointment with Mistress Ai.
Chapter 2. Washington Square
Walking through Washington Square with his slave Emily, Andrew didn’t notice the pretty girl watching them intently from a nearby bench. He was too absorbed in a discussion—not quite an argument—that they’d been engaged in on and off since they’d gotten back together a little more than three weeks ago.
When he and Emily had been college kids, Andrew had thought of the Master/slave thing as a fun game. To be sure, he’d loved playing it. He’d had a few girlfriends before, but he’d never felt as aroused and alive as he had with Emily. He liked being in control, making decisions for her and seeing her pleasure when his decisions pleased her, as they always did. He loved commanding her and seeing the pleasure she took in obeying him. He loved controlling her body—pushing her onto the bed, pulling her hair—and seeing her joy when he did. He loved rewarding her and seeing the gratitude in her eyes. And, oh, he loved punishing her and hearing her moan with the pain that he was inflicting, seeing her tears and yet knowing for certain that she was aroused, ecstatic, transported. Sex with her after a punishment was beyond what he’d ever imagined sex could be, and their closeness during aftercare, when he held her in his arms, or rubbed her back, or gave her a bath, was beyond intimacy.
Yet he’d been troubled both by her love of pain and the pleasure he took in her pain; what he seemed to need in a relationship conflicted with the values he’d been brought up with. You weren’t supposed to hurt a weaker person, someone who was at your mercy; love was supposed to be an exchange of affection between equals. He was sure he loved Emily; he couldn’t imagine loving any woman more. Yet surely their love was flourishing in spite of, not because of, their perverse games. How much greater their love would be if they dropped the games and loved as other couples did! A little before graduation he’d insisted, in his bossy way, that the game had to end. She’d pushed back hard, and they’d parted.
It had taken him way too long, all the following summer, to come to his senses. By the time he’d figured out that his best chance for happiness lay with this sprightly, intelligent, and bizarrely assertive slave girl, she’d found another Master to serve, and he was out in the cold.
That year he saw other women, but either they didn’t like him, or, if they did, sex with them was so dull he could scarcely maintain an erection, no matter how pretty they were. He wished he could spank them, tie them up, or whip them—but what had been erotic play with Emily would get him arrested if he tried it with them.
Then, m
ore than a year after they’d split, he was rescued by a combination of luck and the stupidity of Emily’s Master, who in a fit of temper threw her out. That Master almost instantly understood how big a mistake he’d made, but by then Mistress Ai had pointed out to Emily that three Masters desired her, and she was in a position to choose who would own and rule her.
She chose Andrew, who counted himself the most fortunate man in the world. But winning Emily didn’t give him his old life back. Emily herself had changed. She had given herself a scene name, Famula (a word he’d taught her—Latin for female slave), and she looked different: she was black-haired, made-up, and extravagantly tattooed and pierced. That was fine—he thought her more beautiful than ever.
But her love was not exclusively his, as it had been. She had a slave of her own, a girl called Mouche by everyone but Emily, who called her Amanda. He knew little about her. She was a toilet slave—he preferred not to think too much about what that meant. She’d been dismissed not long before by a kinky billionaire couple and had declared herself Emily’s slave. He often saw her gazing worshipfully at her new Mistress. He asked Emily about Amanda the day after she’d chosen him. They were staying with Mistress Ai, the powerful Dominant who had staged the auction at which Emily had made her choice. They decided they needed to have this talk as equals.
“I don’t know why she loves me,” Emily said. “She developed a thing for me the first time she saw me.”
“And why do you love her?” Andrew asked.
“She needs me, she’s sweet, and she’s beautiful—don’t you think she’s beautiful?”
“I’ve been trying not to look at her.” When you were in love you weren’t supposed to ogle other women, especially naked ones.
“You can, though. I want you to look at her. I’m going to have her go naked around our place, when we get one, just as she does here. She doesn’t like wearing clothing: it gives her a dignity she doesn’t want. And then, she has a habit of masturbating wherever she happens to be when the impulse strikes her, and clothing gets in the way of that. After four years as a sex slave, she doesn’t have a lot of inhibitions left.”
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