The cloth began to wind around her head, covering her eyes in meticulous layers that gradually shut out her view of the basement. “Was this what you thought it would be like?” Paula whispered. Her rough voice seemed to scratch Ruby’s ear.
“It’s more,” Ruby told her.
“Good. Remember, we’re still just getting started.”
Then Paula stepped back, and Ruby couldn’t feel her anymore. Ruby’s jaw worked for a moment. She was hot, uncomfortable, abandoned and scared. Her cunt twitched again, but she couldn’t give herself over to arousal without a little reassurance. “Paula?” The sound was small.
“I’m right here. I’m just going to let you stew in that for a minute. I like watching you trapped like an insect in a spiderweb.”
Paula’s image brought up old fantasies for Ruby. She remembered her vivid and confused reactions to damsels in distress in old movies, attached to train tracks with coiled ropes. She thought of spies strapped down to chairs and interrogated. More than these common fantasies, though, Ruby had always been struck by butterflies struggling to free themselves from cocoons, people stuck in quicksand, and one movie in which a hotshot starship pilot had been encased inside a solid block of an unyielding mineral. That total and complete imprisonment had always awakened her deepest longings. Immobilized by Paula’s plastic, Ruby’s heart seemed to beat from her clit.
She was still uncomfortable in her bondage. Her body froze and burned. Now, however, Paula’s other promise came true. Deep and undeniable arousal stirred in the depths of Ruby’s cunt, and she was completely helpless to satisfy it. Knowing she could do nothing made her feel it even more.
Soon, though she knew it was futile, she was fighting the plastic as hard as she could, grunting and raising her body temperature, squeezing her inner muscles, desperate to grip anything at all.
Ruby had no idea how long her private battle went on. At some point, metal scraped on metal and there was pressure over her left nipple. Then that sensitive flesh was somehow horribly and miraculously bare.
She felt as if she’d grown more nerves while inside the plastic. Even the air stimulated her nipple beyond endurance. A fingernail skimmed its tip, and Ruby screamed as if she’d been ripped in two. “What the—? How are you—?” She spluttered, unable to collect herself enough to demand an explanation.
Paula pinched the nipple, making Ruby howl. “This is one of my favorite tricks,” she said. “Those coins I taped to your body let me cut through the plastic without hurting you. It means I can get access to the spots I want to play with.”
As Ruby absorbed this information, there were two smart strokes over her right nipple, and then that flesh, too, was yanked out of the plastic cocoon.
A tear fell from Ruby’s eye but was absorbed by the bandages before it could trace a path down her cheek. She couldn’t decide whether her raw, sensitive nipples were hungry to be touched or desperate to be left alone, but that didn’t matter because they were Paula’s playthings now. When Paula flicked them, Ruby could not so much as jerk.
She panted, gasped and grunted. Her body was absolutely restrained, but her voice had been unleashed. She made unhinged noises when Paula scraped her teeth over the tips of her nipples, and she wailed like an otherworldly being when Paula fished some ice out of her bucket and pressed it pitilessly against Ruby’s chest.
“How do you feel?” Paula asked once more. Ruby could still hear the concerned inquiry of a good top, but they had both gotten lost in the scene, and the question had a decidedly sadistic twist as well. “Do you like being helpless like this? Wrapped tight like a mummy? Unable to pull back even a centimeter?” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Does it make you horny?”
“Yes,” Ruby sobbed. It made her desperately horny. She had masturbated to this fantasy a hundred times, but the reality, in all its glorious discomfort and overpowering sensation, turned her imagined impressions into dull shadows.
“I can make you come,” Paula said, tweaking Ruby’s nipples for emphasis, “but it’s probably going to hurt. Do you want me to?”
Ruby thought of the quarter over her clit with a shudder. If she felt the same wild nerve signals in her clit that she had in her nipples, she thought she might lose her mind. She couldn’t resist, though. A part of her wanted to lose her mind. “Please do it,” she told Paula.
“If you say so.”
Under the plastic, Ruby shuddered. Her teeth chattered. Her nipples seemed to throb and grow larger with each beat of her heart. They had become obscene, swollen fruit ripe for Paula’s taking, and her clit was about to be the same.
Paula cut the quarter free and blew on Ruby’s revealed clit. The humidity of her breath felt like a hundred thousand jets of water shot at Ruby’s engorged flesh with force. Every muscle in Ruby’s body tensed uselessly. “I changed my mind!” she cried. “I don’t think I can take it!” She knew that Paula was about to lick her clit, and she thought of the rough, complicated surface of a tongue and knew that it would obliterate her newly awakened nerve endings.
“Are you changing your mind with a safeword?”
Ruby could hear the smile in Paula’s voice. She knew as well as Ruby that there was no turning back. After fantasizing about mummification all her life, Ruby was too curious to back away from its extremes. “No,” Ruby whispered. “Not with a safe-word.”
“Then you’re saying you want me to lick this hard little clit even though you know it’s going to feel like ice and fire rolled into one.”
Ruby hung her head. “Yes,” she whispered. “That’s what I’m saying.” Paula’s care and solicitousness had begun to seem meaner than the cruelest insults a top could throw. She never let Ruby off the hook. She always made Ruby take full responsibility for the things she wanted done to her.
“Then say it for me,” Paula ordered.
Blinded, desperate, hot, sweaty, tingling, Ruby felt as if the only parts of her body that really existed were the parts that Paula had exposed. The lower half of her face, her neck, her nipples, her feet and her clit. They all pulsed in the harsh open air. “Please,” Ruby said. “Please lick my clit even though it’s going to hurt like hell.”
Paula did as Ruby asked. The flat of her tongue rolled up Ruby’s confused clit, and it was velvet, it was pinpricks, it was lightning, it was ocean, it was flooding Ruby, it was killing her. It was making her come.
The orgasm slashed and burned through Ruby’s captive body. She had almost no other sensations to distract her from it. There was a sound she didn’t recognize until she figured out that it was a raw scream torn from the purest, deepest part of her.
One stroke of Paula’s tongue shattered Ruby inside her cocoon. Only the plastic was holding her together. She sagged, though that did not change her position much.
Beneath her, Paula waited, and Ruby wondered for a moment if she could take another lick of the unholy fire of her tongue. Perhaps another time, Ruby thought. If Paula wanted to do this again.
In a small, reverent voice, Ruby whispered her safeword, because safety and comfort were what she needed now. Paula responded at once, holding her, finding a spot to start in with the shears.
“You’re a good girl,” she whispered. “A brave girl.”
Tears leaked from Ruby’s eyes, but they were different now, cleaner. This had been Ruby’s most extreme fantasy, and trying it with Paula had moved the horizon of her imagination back and made her world feel larger. Though still wrapped in the plastic, Ruby felt as if she had entered a more expansive place. She wanted to travel more unexplored territory with Paula, who knew so many cruel tricks and was also so careful and good. They could talk about that later. Now, Ruby closed her eyes as Paula gradually pulled her out of her cocoon and reintroduced her to the world.
AUCTION, IN QUOTATION MARKS
LN Bey
Mike was mortified at being the only male slave in the auction. It made it even more humbling, more emasculating than if there were another. He stood naked on the stage but for
his leather collar, two nude women to the right of him, one astonishingly beautiful brunette to his left, too proud to speak to the likes of him. Another woman was standing out in front of this line of naked people, in the bright lights. She was the second to be sold. The first was already gone.
Of course, this wasn’t a real slave auction. It was a social construct, an agreement made by everyone in the room to behave in a certain way. Mike could turn and leave at any moment.
But he didn’t.
He kept his place in the line, this wall of otherwise female flesh. Leaving would involve raising quite a commotion, drawing even more attention to himself. He had no idea where his clothes were, and the metal loops in his padlocked collar were attached by thin chains to the collars on either side of him, keeping everyone close together—so close he could smell their scents.
“Twenty-two thousand dollars,” said the auctioneer, a short man in a suit behind a podium. A tall brunette dolled up in stiletto boots and black dominatrix regalia walked up to the naked girl center stage, attached a leash to her collar, and led her away.
Mike wasn’t sure where the money from this event went, since they weren’t really property. He’d gathered this was some sort of charity event, possibly for a local animal shelter. He knew this wasn’t the wealthiest crowd in town, like the people who made up the owners/Masters in most erotic novels and stories—characters who could afford exclusive mansions, private islands, even castles, global networks of slave training and trading.
No, these were west-side suburban McMansioners, kinksters who could afford to have some fun, lease a downtown ballroom to rent out their play-slaves for the weekend, but not import the latest beauty by private jet for their harem or stable. They owned car dealerships, not hedge funds. They drove Lexuses and Audis, not Rolls Royces or Bugattis. He knew the type. His Mistress was one.
“Sold to number seventy-seven,” the man said. That many people were here? He felt even more nervous and ridiculous.
The dominatrix returned and unhooked the next girl, a petite redhead, from the end of the line, and led her up to the center of the stage. The dominatrix became a game-show showgirl, holding her arms toward the slave, palms up, as though she were a new car.
“Next up is Janella, if you’ll check your sale bill,” the auctioneer said. Sale bill? Really? “Yes, she is a natural redhead. Too bad they shaved her, eh? Bidding starts at five thousand dollars.”
Mike had never been on such display with anyone but his Mistress, except for one weekend when she’d had a friend in from out of town. He’d had to make them drinks, serve them food, be her guest’s footstool. It was thrilling. But this was different—public, impersonal.
The worst part of tonight had been the opening hour, when all the buyers were served drinks, and the six slaves had to hold perfectly still so the prospective bidders could look them over close up.
Not just look. They were lined up against one wall of the ballroom and told to stand with their hands behind their heads, elbows back, their legs spread as wide as possible. The buyers made the rounds, cocktails in their hands.
He was told to open his mouth wide for them, bend over as far as he could. He was pinched and prodded, his balls squeezed and slapped, his cock pulled and handled, brought to embarrassing erection more than once. At least he was never penetrated.
The most embarrassing thing was when people just talked to him, especially the men. He could see the amusement and confused derision on their faces, and they would ask him questions, getting increasingly intoxicated. “Look at her, next to you,” one man said, gray-haired and starting to slur. He pointed his glass at the gorgeous and splayed brunette beside him. “You should be fuckin’ her, not standing there naked yourself. What are ya, queer or somethin’?”
“No, Sir,” was all Mike could say. He had never been with another man, had never wanted to.
Why had his Mistress thought this would be fun? Did she think he needed more training, more experience? Which novel was that, where the Master sent the girl off to be trained and sold, expecting to get her back?
“We’re only going to do this once, but her Master wants you to hear it,” the auctioneer said. The dominatrix was holding a long rattan cane. She placed her hand gently on the redhead’s hip and whispered into her ear, and the girl raised her arms. With no hesitation or warning, the dominatrix swung the cane and struck the girl hard across the ass, causing her to cry out in the sweetest, saddest cry of pain and desire and—was that betrayal?—that Mike had ever heard. Had the girls before her been whipped? He just couldn’t concentrate.
“Nice, eh?” The auctioneer said. The dominatrix turned her around to show the audience the marking. Mike’s heart sped up and he felt a stirring in his cock as he saw her pained expression. “She has agreed to spend her entire two-week vacation with whoever buys her. Think of it—twenty-four hours a day, two weeks. You could grow that little red bush back, in that much time. Ownership reverts to her Master once she returns to her waitressing job.” Wow. Mike only had the weekend to spare. The thought of submitting, full time, to someone for two full weeks—it was something his Mistress had never asked of him. It was an intoxicating idea, an amazing fantasy.
The audience felt the same way. Mike could make out hands being raised, and the auctioneer was suddenly very busy counting. “Forty-eight thousand dollars,” he said, slamming his gavel. “Sold to number fifteen.” She was led by the leather-clad woman off the stage, and the dominatrix took the next woman off the line.
Mike’s Mistress wasn’t really his Mistress. Sandra was someone who had dominant sex with him, with varying levels of enthusiasm. He’d met her at the café where he worked. Dates during the week were just dates, with her wanting to blow off steam about work, followed by straight sex.
Saturdays were different. Saturdays approximated his fantasies. She was In Charge. He would show up Friday night, and was expected to strip at the door. He would serve her all the next day, a very one-sided pampering, both in bed and out. She had toys, little whips.
But some Saturdays, once he’d gotten her off (always orally, at first), she would loosen up, relax. Tell him to just lie on the bed and watch TV with her, sometimes naked and still frustrated, sometimes telling him to put a robe on.
“Go ahead and call me Sandra,” she’d say.
The game was usually over, at that point, the illusion shattered.
It was hard work, she’d tell him, always having to think of something for him to do. Sometimes, she said, she just didn’t want the responsibility.
He didn’t love her, but he was devoted to her.
He remembered a story he’d read about a male secretary who’d interviewed for an extremely demanding boss, who wanted him at her beck and call day and night—he totally gave himself to her. How thrilling that level of submission and demand would be.
So today, his Mistress had told him to strip, and she had shaved his entire body, except for a patch of pubic hair above his cock. She’d waxed between his legs—very painful. But she was loving, gentle, admiring of his body. He was in good shape. She gave him a little massage.
Then she said, “I’m going to auction you off. Get dressed.”
“What? When?” he’d asked.
“Right now.”
But this wasn’t at all what Mike had pictured. He’d imagined, once he’d realized she was serious, a half-dozen women in her living room, a sort of girls’ night in, drinks and laughs, with him serving as the entertainment. She had shared him, once. Sort of like having a stripper over, but there would be token cash and the winner would lead him by a leash into the guest room. Or, more in line with his longtime fantasies, he’d have to service each of the women, in front of the others on his hands and knees, kissing feet and licking cunts, being laughed at as he crawled his way around the room.
But that kind of thing just didn’t happen. Then again, neither did this.
It’s all about expectations, isn’t it? Reality never quite jibed with the f
antasy. So often it’s a letdown, but sometimes it’s… this?
The dominatrix—the auctioneer had finally called her Mistress Anna—whispered into the girl’s ear. This woman, a blonde with fair skin and magnificent breasts, spread her feet wide, exposing herself to the audience, and cupped her hands under her boobs, lifting them, offering them.
Mistress Anna now held a riding crop, much shorter than the rattan cane, and after a smiling gesture along the girl’s body, struck her hard across her presented breasts. Behind her, Mike watched her bare back as she flinched and cried out.
“This is Sheila,” the auctioneer announced. Mistress Anna struck her chest again, and again she cried. “Sheila’s limits give the buyer a little more leeway in the pain department,” he said. “She likes the whip.”
Mike tried to think of something boring. This was going to be too much. He didn’t know any baseball statistics, the old cliché, so he tried to think of old Top 40 charts from his youth. It wasn’t working.
Mistress Anna struck Sheila’s breasts again, and again. Mike tried to think of the old hit songs, but he could only picture how red Sheila’s fabulous tits must be getting, with their fair skin and light pink nipples.
Sheila’s cries were beginning to meld into one nonstop moan. Mike could hear anxious murmurs behind the stage lights as Anna kept up her whipping.
What had been a slight thickening of Mike’s cock during Janella’s sale was now a raging hard-on, and his face was surely as red as Sheila’s tits up there in center stage. That’s another reason it was so embarrassing being the only man—he was the only one whose excitement was on full display.
“Sheila is available for a three-day weekend, before she has to return to work,” the auctioneer said over the sound of leather against flesh, and there was a collective groan of disappointment from the crowd. “Oh come on now,” he said. “Think of just how intense those three days could be!” More slaps, and Sheila’s moans got even louder.
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