“Shall we start the bidding at five thousand?” Sheila was whimpering now, and Mike’s cock was rock hard. Mike glanced at the brunette beside him, but in true ice-queen fashion she ignored him.
“Oh come on, now, look at her,” the auctioneer pleaded. “She’s beautiful. She craves the whip. A shorter stay, but oh, what a weekend it would be. Four thousand, anyone?” He nodded to Mistress Anna, and she stepped back from the panting blonde. “Gentlemen? Ladies?”
He nodded again, and Mistress Anna took a step forward, and, altering her swing, struck the leather flap of the crop squarely against Sheila’s shaved crotch, causing her to cry out anew, in a fresh, sharper sound.
She didn’t whip as hard, but the sound of the leather hitting between Sheila’s spread thighs sent chills through Mike’s body, his cock throbbing, his imagination soaring. Sheila stood still, her hands still offering her breasts, face up and now visibly sobbing.
Someone raised his hand. “Four thousand!” the auctioneer said, pointing into the darkness beyond the lights. “Do I hear forty-five? Forty-four?”
More slaps against poor Sheila’s cunt. “Forty-four! Do I hear forty-five. Listen to those screams, folks. That could be yours! Forty-five! Forty-six?”
Sheila’s body was quivering, shaking from her sobs, but she stayed put.
Mistress Anna stopped her whipping, looked out toward the audience. She reached to Sheila’s upheld breast and wiped her finger across it. She held it up to the crowd, wet from Sheila’s tears, and placed her finger in her own mouth, tasting it. She seductively drew the finger from her lips. She lowered her hand to Sheila’s crotch, and showed her finger to the crowd again. It was glistening wet. Now she licked it, tongue extended, not taking it into her mouth this time. She stepped behind Sheila, and whipped her across her ass, hard, harder than she’d whipped either her tits or cunt. Sheila cried out accordingly, a loud, open-mouthed moan, with her hands still supporting her breasts.
“It’s five or nothing, ladies and gentlemen,” the auctioneer said, and hands went up. “Five! Do I hear fifty-five hundred?”
“Oh, look,” a woman’s voice had said during the presale reception. He had been told to keep his eyes lowered, and never speak unless asked a question. His balls ached from the handling, and his cock was still swollen. The voice was familiar. “I know you,” she said.
“His name is Michael, the sale bill says,” a man’s voice said. Mike was looking down at their shoes—nice but not ridiculously expensive. As if he knew.
The woman’s hand reached under his chin and lifted. “You’re Mike, from the coffee shop,” she said. “You know Mike, dear. The barista who always makes the little hearts in the foam. Tries extra hard, to please.” She smiled.
“Oh, yeah. Hey, Mike.” Mike was blushing intensely. He’d really hoped he wouldn’t run into anyone he knew, here.
“Hello, Sir,” he said. He knew them. The Millers. They looked like the couples in the erectile dysfunction commercials—Carl was graying but in great shape, “robust”—Barbara younger, though older than Mike, and very attractive, no gray in her reddish brown hair. They were both always elegantly dressed, and friendly to him when he handed them their lattes.
Barbara looked Mike up and down. Jesus, how could he ever face them again at the café?
“He could be our…what was the name of that prince in those first novels we read? The trilogy, in the castle.”
“The French one was the first one I ever read,” Carl said. “You showed me that trilogy when we started dating.” Now he looked down at Mike’s naked body, at his cock still half-hard. “If I remember, that prince got it up the ass pretty often,” he said.
Mike closed his eyes tight, then remembered being told never to do that. He lowered his eyes, as he’d been told to do. But Barbara lifted his chin again, forcing him to look at them.
“How are things down at the coffee shop, Michael?” she asked.
He could barely speak. “Fine, Ma’am.”
“Mm-hm. Do you get medical there?”
“What?” He caught himself. “Ma’am?”
“Medical benefits?”
She must be joking. But he kept it simple:
“No, Ma’am.”
“Thirteen thousand,” the auctioneer said. “I’m very disappointed, people. She’s gorgeous, takes a licking, and this is for charity.” He waited. “Sold to number twenty-seven.” Apparently the buyers wanted longer commitments, something besides a play date. Mistress Anna led Sheila, pale and whipped red, off the stage.
Oh god, no. Mistress Anna walked up to Mike, hips swaying, faint smile on her lips. She unhooked his chain from the goddess next to him, the last slave in waiting. Mike understood, now—the level of abuse increased with each slave, and the staggeringly beautiful woman to his left was going to be the main attraction. He was the final warm-up act.
Mistress Anna didn’t leash him: she pulled downward, hard, forcing him onto his knees. “Crawl,” she said. Her voice was firm, authoritative, beautiful. He crawled.
Once he reached center stage, the wood flooring hard under his knees, she placed one shiny leather boot toward him. “Lick,” she told him. He licked, tongue fully extended, his face down, ass up in the air.
“This is Michael,” the auctioneer began, and Mistress Anna placed her other boot under his chin to lick. He licked.
“Michael is dissatisfied with his present Mistress,” the man said. What? “He feels she is only pretending at their relationship. And she feels it might be time to sell him to someone with more serious intentions.” Mike wanted to rise up to his knees and protest, explain that that wasn’t true, he was very devoted to his Mistress. But he kept licking the boot.
“Michael is loyal, devoted and obedient. Loves to give service. He has never sucked a cock, but has told his Mistress he gladly would if she ordered him to.”
Oh good god, she told them that? His face could turn no deeper red. He’d never wanted to be with a man, ever in his life. But the thought of being made to do it, for her, well…
Mistress Anna pulled up on his collar, and he rose to his knees, only to find a dildo being pushed into his mouth. There was laughter from the crowd. The dildo was huge, and he had to open his jaws wide to accommodate its sour taste of silicone.
She pulled on his collar and he stood naked in front of at least seventy-seven people, two cocks pointed at them. He could now see heads, people seated around tables, glasses tilting toward lips. Anna made game-show-prize gestures up and down his body, then turned him around.
She pulled him downward, bending him over. “Spread ’em,” she said, and he obeyed. He always obeyed.
She pushed his head to the floor and he stood bent over, legs fully spread, ass to the audience.
“Yes, it’s virgin, ladies and gentlemen,” the auctioneer said as Anna rubbed his smooth cheeks, stroked up and down between them. She patted the back of his balls. “Well, virgin to men. Toys, not so much. Shall we start at ten thousand dollars?”
I can always get up and leave, I can always get up and leave, he thought. This is just pretend. A social construct, an agreement. He looked out at the crowd with his head upside down. He couldn’t tell if the men or the women were more interested, or repulsed, by his bent-over male ass. What if a man bought him? He shut his eyes.
She turned him around, then pushed him down onto his hands and knees, facing his audience. He waited, until he felt a dab of wet lube against his asshole. No.
“This is real,” Mistress Anna whispered as she knelt down behind him and fastened a strap-on phallus around her waist. “Keep your head up, and don’t you dare close your eyes.” He nodded his head, the dildo bobbing with him.
Mike had no idea how much he’d been sold for, let alone who’d bought him. He could only recall a vague jabbering of numbers and a deep sense of shame as he’d held still and kept his eyes focused on the far wall of the ballroom—he’d also felt an equally strong desire not to displease the forceful woman behind
him. He remembered immense relief at hearing the gavel slam and feeling both dildos removed. He remembered the click of the leash as Mistress Anna attached it to his collar.
He was now standing with the other sold slaves, all bound and gagged, locked in the coatroom. They were unable to watch the rest of the show; it was none of their business now. But they could certainly hear it. The goddess was still onstage, screaming, crying, even begging for mercy. Mike could hear the repeated crack of a whip—a long, single-tail whip, the real thing. He had never felt one of those.
For once, he couldn’t just walk out of this game. Was this even legal? Mike looked at the women, wondering where he’d be taken for the weekend, and they looked back at him, at his big hard dick.
Mike’s ass was sore, inside and out. He’d been spanked, hard. It had been quite a show. The organizers had played to every slave’s appeal—the pain slut thrashed, the only male emasculated, publicly buggered by a dominatrix. And the cool and collected homecoming queen out there, well, she wasn’t so collected anymore.
He heard applause, and the sound of chairs scooting. The door opened and the coat-check girl, wearing a black latex cocktail dress, leashed him and brought him out into the ballroom. “On your knees,” she said.
The crowd was ambling toward the doors, talking and laughing. He looked down, away from their faces. Two pairs of shoes stepped in front of him—familiar shoes. “Kiss your new Mistress’s feet,” the girl in latex said, and handed Mrs. Miller the leash as well as her coat and hat. He bent forward and touched his gag to her relatively expensive shoes, and then Mr. Miller’s, as well. Right in front of all these people leaving the ballroom.
“Stand up,” Barbara said. Mike stood. He felt his gag being unfastened, and then Carl placed a raincoat over his shoulders, his hands still cuffed behind his back.
Barbara—Mrs. Miller? Mistress?—brought the lapels of the coat together and tightened the belt around his waist. “Put on these loafers,” she said, and he slipped his feet into the pair of old leather shoes that Carl dropped onto the floor. “Let’s go.” She pulled on his leash.
It was dark and raining outside. Mike started to walk toward the limo waiting in the valet queue. He was finally going to be hauled off to a big mansion, to be used as he was in his fantasies, just like in all those novels.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Barbara said, tugging on his leash as the rain rolled off her elegant hat. “We’re walking. We live two blocks from here.”
In a downtown loft? Mike thought. “Yes, Ma’am.”
“You will call me ‘Mistress,’ and Carl ‘Master,’” she said. It felt absolutely surreal to be led down a fairly busy urban street, naked and bound under a raincoat, bare legged like some old-fashioned cartoon flasher.
“Yes, Mistress. I’m sorry, my Mistress taught me to call everyone but her ‘Ma’am.’”
Barbara stopped and turned, letting Mike stand in the rain as a fedora’d Carl walked on before stopping as well.
“You don’t understand, do you?”
Mike shook his head no; he truly didn’t.
“We bought you. In perpetuity. Your Mistress has sold you off. You’re ours.” She started walking, and he was compelled to follow.
If this were for real, Mike would say nothing, accept his fate and follow without question. But this was all a game, an agreement, for crying out loud.
“Mistress?”
“You’ll be punished for speaking out of turn.”
“Yes, Mistress, forgive me. But I’ve got to be at work in—”
“How much do you make a year, pouring coffee?”
“What? Oh, uh, twenty thousand?” This really wasn’t her business, but what the hell, after tonight.
“We paid three times that for you. Your Mistress sold you because she just doesn’t want the same things you do—or that we do. And because she found out she could make the commission, a little finder’s fee. Times are tough, you know.”
“Yes, Mistress. But I’m—”
“You really haven’t been trained very well, interrupting me twice. That’ll change.”
Mike shut his mouth.
“We found out where you live. Tiny apartment down on Tenth? Not exactly the high life. You’ll move in with us. You’ll quit your crappy job. You will obey our every command, both of us, twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. You’ll never wear a stitch of clothing.”
Mike followed in the rain, barely able to process what he was being told. Of course he could still always walk away.
But he wouldn’t.
“We live in a big warehouse loft with brick walls and steel beams in the ceiling,” she said. “All the better to fasten you to, suspend you from. We throw parties. You’ll serve.”
Mike swallowed hard, and his stomach began to tighten with the thrill of possibility, of not knowing what was next.
“It’s not exactly a castle,” his new Mistress said, “but it’ll have to do.”
MELT
Elizabeth Coldwell
It’s the most devilishly frustrating thing he’s ever done to me. I could almost applaud him for his ingenuity, if only my hands weren’t cuffed in place.
The position I’m in is comfortable—to a point. Bryan took the time to ensure I could hold it for as long as is needed. Neither of us knows quite how long that will be, which is the object of this particular exercise. All part of the learning process, as he trains me to be the obedient little submissive he claims he saw lurking beneath the surface the very first time he met me.
I’m standing perfectly still, my movements constrained by my bonds. A translucent plastic collar has been fastened around my neck, and a length of chain passed through the D-ring at its front. Each end of the chain is connected to thick, padded-leather wrist cuffs, and my hands have been arranged so that they are clasped together beneath my bare breasts, in a position of supplication. This also means my forearms offer some support to my tits, keeping the heavy globes thrust upward and out. Bryan has tested my resolve a couple of times by rolling and pinching my nipples, the guitarist’s calluses on his big fingers stimulating them in all the best ways until the tender buds are ripe and red as summer berries.
So far, I’ve held out, but I can’t take much more of this stimulation. It sends hot, urgent need pulsing down to my pussy, which has been stuffed with a thick silicone dildo that’s held snugly in place by a harness. To complete my ordeal, my legs have been shackled to a spreader bar, but not arranged so far apart that I lose the subtle friction of that big, fake cock inside me. Bryan wants me to be aware at every moment that I am full, plugged to his satisfaction.
In those respects, this is really no different from any other session of bondage training he’s put me through. I’ve learned well, or so I’ve always thought, absorbing the message that obedience will be rewarded, and gratification will be sweeter the longer it is delayed. I’ve discovered a place of what I can only call Zen calm in my head, and the longer I stay still and patient, the more a strange, reassuring feeling of well-being permeates my senses. Lost in that secret haven, I can endure all the discomforts of being restrained, punished, frustrated. In the battle of wills between dominant and submissive, it counts as a small victory.
But today he’s raised the stakes, finding the perfect way to taunt me with the promise of release.
I thought nothing was out of the ordinary as he fastened me into the collar and cuffs, and slid the well-lubricated dildo up into my pussy—though in truth I’m always wet enough to take that fat length without too much additional help from the moment he orders me to start undressing.
Only once the spreader bar had been secured in place did he reveal his master stroke. He left me for a minute or two while he went into the kitchen. When he returned, he brought with him the ice-cube tray from the freezer. An involuntary shiver went through me at the sight, my mind already imagining how it would feel to have one of those cubes played over my sensitive skin as I writhed in my bonds, helpless to pull
away.
What he had in mind for me was something less predictable and far crueler. He popped a wine-bottle-shaped cube out of the tray and brought it over for me to see. Embedded in the ice were two small silver keys—unmistakably those to the cuffs that hold my wrists and ankles in place.
“I thought we’d play a little game today, Kay.” My dismayed reaction must have been evident on my face, and Bryan grinned widely in response. “It’s called ‘let’s see how long ice takes to melt.’”
Biting back the groan that threatened to escape from me, I could only watch as he turned the cube this way and that in his fingers, giving me one last lingering look at the keys to my freedom, held suspended in the frozen water. Then he took a double-ended crocodile clip and fed the short length of plastic through one of the loops in my wrist cuffs before clamping each of the toothed clips to the ice cube. This meant that as the ice melted, it would dribble directly into my cleavage, increasing my torment. That’s when I realized he really had thought of everything.
“Don’t worry, I made sure to turn the thermostat right up. The ice will be gone before you know it. Just think of this as a necessary part of the training.”
With that, he dropped a soft kiss on my lips and wandered into the kitchen. The noise of the kettle boiling let me know he was making himself coffee, intent on enjoying his usual Sunday routine of reading the papers with a mug of Blue Mountain in hand.
I don’t know how much time has passed since then. He’s positioned me so I’m facing away from the clock on the mantelpiece. I can’t see how much of the ice has melted; all I’m aware of is the slow, relentless trickle of water down the valley between my breasts and lower, toward my belly. I need it to stop and yet, strangely, I don’t want it to end.
For the first few minutes of my ordeal, things were a blur. The sheer deviousness of my master’s scheme took my breath away. How long had he been planning all this, and when had he frozen the keys? Or maybe the idea had come to him last night, after I’d gone to bed and left him watching the football highlights. I can just imagine him cracking open a beer and chuckling to himself as he thought about the shock I’d get when he revealed the secret of that ice cube.
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