by Argus
The next man to discover her was made of sterner stuff, but not quite stern enough. He did successfully restrain himself long enough to remove both dildos and to unchain her and lower her carefully to the floor. But once there, freed, the faceless female positioned herself face down, raising her bottom high, spreading her knees wide for mounting, and began to roll her hips invitingly.
It was too much, and he mounted her... it, with an eagerness he had not known in years, thrusting desperately as the female grunted yelped in muffled pleasure. Then, he too scuttled away to leave someone else to find the female, whoever she might be.
After the Irish police had secured the premises, Smith walked in, in company with one of his colleagues. They searched room to room, and found the female who, despite being anonymous within her hood, could only have been Hannah. They glanced at each other, then back at her. For she lay on the floor, knees up and back, masturbating with a dildo.
“Oh... my,” Smith's colleague said.
Smith made a face.
“You know, if she's that much of a nympho, we could put her to good use in any number of operations,” he said.
“Yes, I can imagine the use you'd like to put her to,” Smith said.
It was better for her anonymity, and for theirs, since there could be cameras around, that the hood remain in place for now. They found a robe for her, and she was taken out into the car. Since it would have drawn too much attention were her hands free to do what they wanted to do, they simply locked the wrist restraints behind her back before putting the robe around her.
Hannah was taken to a small, quiet house and placed alone in a bedroom, still hooded and bound, to wait the attention of psychological staff.
* * *
Hannah woke in a cot, groaning weakly. She was naked, she saw, and her wrists were strapped to the bars above her head. There was certainly nothing new in that. She could see, however, which had to be good. She had no idea where she was, but the room looked small and cheap compared to all the others she'd been in of late. It was hard to think of recent events, hard to even know what was recent. Much of it was quite foggy.
She raised her head a little, and looked down the length of her body. It seemed unmarked, and she had been washed. Her hair felt clean. And then she felt the familiar rising of heat at the sight of her own nudity. She thought of a cock, next, and wished she had one there, inside her.
There was no sense of anxiety other than how long it would take before someone arrived to make use of her. She hoped it would not take long. She wanted to spread her legs around someone's hips and feel them deep inside her!
The door opened and she looked up with a sense of eagerness. The man there seemed unprepossessing, older ,with a white jacket, as if he was a doctor. She wondered if he liked to play doctor games, and would examine her now. He sat down on a small chair next to the bed, and Hannah thought about how well sized the chair was for her to straddle him and ride him.
“Good morning, Miss Foster” he said.
She blinked uncertainly.
“My name is Doctor Goodman,” he said.
That certainly sounded like a phony name to her, and Hannah smiled hungrily at him. Next he would tell her he was going to examine her.
“You've been through an extremely trying experience,” he said, “But it's over now, and you're away from those people. You seem in relatively good condition, given your experiences, and we hope to be able to release you soon so you can return home.”
What game was this, she wondered.
“Now I'm going to unlock your wrists. I do not want you to make any sexual contact with your body Do you understand?”
She nodded, though she didn't.
He reached across her and unfastened the restraints. Hannah didn't move, since he hadn't told her to.
“Would you like to sit up?”
Again Hannah frowned. What did he care what she liked to do? What did it matter what she liked to do?
“You may sit up,” he said.
Hannah took that as instructions and did so, slowly, again checking herself to ensure she was not damaged or marked. She cupped her breasts lightly, and her fingers went automatically to her nipples.
“No. Put your hands at your sides, please,” he said.
She reluctantly obeyed.
“Can you say your name? Who are you?”
“I am a slave, master,” she said.
He blinked and shook his head, blushing a little. “Uhm, no, no. You misunderstand. You are no longer a prisoner. I want your real name. Hannah Foster. Can you say Hannah Foster?”
She stared at him.
“Say Hannah Foster.”
“Hannah Foster,” she said warily.
“There. You see. We're making progress,” he said happily.
Epilogue
It took some weeks before Hannah was able to resist the urge to touch herself almost constantly, or before she got used to wearing clothes. And even then she wasn't happy with having to do so. She went home, briefly. But though her family was delighted at the reversal of their economic fortunes they were bewildered by the change which had come over her. The way she dressed, for one thing, was so unaccountably sexual, the clothing so revealing, that they found it difficult to cope.
So did she.
She returned to New Jersey to be a stripper, but while she made a lot of money she was soon fired by a manager afraid of the police. Her lap dances now inevitably ended with her client's cock deep inside her pussy as she rode him excitedly.
Hannah became a call girl for a time, but while the money was even better, the time between calls, the time alone, the time without a man near her, became too frustrating. A visit to a local university pub created a diversion for a time. She made a pair of very attractive college football players and returned to their dorm.
What followed that was a series of sexual parties where Hannah wound up servicing various members of the football team, sometimes in large numbers. Acting bratty, very obviously bratty, soon also got her the bondage and spankings she yearned for, as well. And for a few weeks she became the in-house 'slave' of a fraternity house filled with three dozen young athletes.
The fierce hunger within her began to gradually diminish after that, and she returned to working as an escort and sometime stripper – though with enough discipline now to keep from mounting all her clients. She continued to attend wild parties, however, and haunt the better nightclubs in search of strong, handsome male partners.
The hunger and submissiveness O'Brien had roused in her took some time to exorcise. Or at least, to tone down to a level where she could think straight and not be entirely controlled by the hunger and lust within her. At that point she returned home, and then reapplied to the navy. She was accepted, but assigned to a shore job on a base working mainly with other women.
That was frustrating, at first, but there were a number of lesbians there, and she soon found ones cruel enough to give her some of the dark, submissive thrills she sought. She still had little interest in women, of course, but it was the bondage and misuse she craved – even if their cocks were silicon.
And then she was sent to a supply ship under the command of Captain Richard Black, a cold man who nevertheless turned out to have his own dark, and even violent heat. Black beat and tormented her into an even more desperate hunger for masochistic sexual passion.
And so she found herself standing before Smith again, of all people.
“You,” she said, startled.
“Me,” he said.
“What do you want?” she demanded.
He looked at her carefully. “Every time you leave ship you get written up for having hair that's too long,” he said. “Do you know that?”
She shrugged. Black wanted her hair long so he could pull on it as he rode her.
“I've got another assignment for you.”
“Are you kidding?” she demanded.
“A harem, in Saudi Arabi
a.”
She stared at him in disbelief. The logical side of her mind was outraged by the gall of the man, but then there was that other side, a side which began to feel an intense rush of heat at the thought of herself as a helpless harem girl, as a … sex slave.
“It pays very well,” he said. “But the sheik is considerably nastier than O'Neil, and you can expect harsher punishment.”
The logical side of Hannah considered what curse to fling at him.
“Yes,” she breathed.
It didn't matter how she had become the way she was. It didn't matter whether that submissive, even masochistic side of her had already been present, inert, waiting to be exploited, or whether O'Neil had created it. The fact was it was there, and it ruled her fantasies and passions to the point she could only just control herself, and only then so long as she got a lot of hard, nasty sex.
She was still young, she thought, a trifle dazed. She had time to revel in lust and passion and sex yet. And perhaps the more often her lust got satisfied the less often it would one day arise.
Perhaps.
THE END