Own This Body

by Reese Gabriel

  The explosion hit, rocking me to the core. I seized against the invading hand, trying to throw off the clamps, to throw myself into orbit. Yet, sticky and abused and violated as I was, it was true; I needed to see it through, to get to the other side and I wouldn’t trade it…and yes, there was nowhere else I wanted to be, and no, at this instant I didn’t know any different.

  “Again,” commanded Silvio when the orgasm had finished wracking my bound, soaked body—the residue of the wine mixed with a layer of fresh sweat, not to mention the flood pouring from between my legs. “Give it to her again.”

  Too weak to move, to breathe, I shook my head. “No,” I groaned, my voice barely audible, the words coming in pathetic spurts. “I can’t…take…any…more.”

  Joey pulled off the clamps one by one and lowered his mouth to mine for a hard, hot kiss. The sudden release of tension combined with the sudden contact of his lips and tongue was more than I could bear. I found myself straining at the chains to be closer, to give him all of me, for fucking, for pain, for his total and complete domination.

  “Now,” he pressed his finger into my soft folds. “Give it to me now.”

  It was like a seizure, every muscle twitching, convulsions, pure sex-fire, mainlining from my hot, wriggling body onto his hand, my flesh, my will, my soul pouring out onto Joey’s hand, spilling and gushing, till there was nothing left but a shattered husk, a broken, emptied vessel, and all for the amusement of cruel and wicked men, nefarious villains, who liked to make pretty girls cry.

  “And again,” said Silvio, the word, the very concept an absurdity, a patent impossibility.

  “N-n-n-o,” I whimpered, my voice pathetic and broken as Connerly’s. “Please, no…I’ll die…I really will. Please, Silvio—I mean Sir. Can I call you, Sir?” I bargained desperately. “What if I could do something else, Sir? Would you like to chain me to that cross…or maybe put me in the cage? Wouldn’t you like that, Sir? Wouldn’t you?”

  Silvio barked an order and Joey struck me savagely across the face. “Here’s something else for you, cunt,” Joey sneered. “Try this on for size.”

  He had the wine bottle, the neck of it pushing between my involuntarily splayed thighs. Over and over I cried out ‘no’, my body shuddering and bucking to remove the foreign object, but in the end I was powerless to resist, powerless even to not want what was happening to me…invasion, consensual rape.

  “Hump it, cunt,” he encouraged, “hump the bottle like a little bitch-slut.”

  Joey played me now, making me raise my hips to get it, stuffing me full one minute then leaving me agonizingly vacant. I was like an animal, craving release, utterly subjugated and without shame, and yet a part of me still knew, the sentient, civilized part, that what I was doing was humiliatingly wrong, that it was making me in these men’s eyes something lower, so much lower than a whore.

  “I don’t…I can’t,” I stuttered, lost in some trance, my past, present and future all garbled into one magic and agonizing ride.

  “See, here’s something else ya gotta learn,” Silvio interjected, his calm, smug reason a lash stroke on my pulsing, melted down flesh. “From here on in, orgasms aren’t something you get; they’re something we take from you, however and whenever we want. You go off as many times for as long as we say. Got it?”

  “Ye—ssss.” The word came out as a loan moan, a dozen syllables long. It was a dry hump; I swear there was nothing left in me but itching, spasming flesh.

  “Good girl,” Silvio coaxed, clearly satisfied with his display of power over me. “And don’t worry, none of my girls have died from screwing…yet. All right, Joey, give her a little rest.”

  Joey pulled the bottle from my cunt with a little popping sound. The men laughed and I nearly came again from the sheer humiliation.

  “Clean it off, cunt,” Joey thrust the glistening bottle to my mouth.

  I devoured it on the spot. Never had I been so eager to please, so anxious to obey. In part I was sucking up, so as not to be punished with any more orgasms, but there was something else, too. Something deep, dark and deliciously erotic.

  “Slow it down, cunt,” said Joey, indicating that he wasn’t as satisfied as the boss. “I want to see you licking. Show me how you’d do it to a nice fat cock.”

  I gasped as the man slapped my tits, small, measured strokes that hurt like hell but left me wanting more.

  “Yes,” I whispered, my emptied mouth already hot and dry despite all the saliva I’d had going moments ago. “Sir.”

  Truthfully, I would lick anything now for Joey: his bottle, his cock, the bottom of his shoe if he so much as hinted that was his will for me. What a little slut I was, spit dribbling down my chin as I laved the empty wine bottle, suckling the head, running my tongue up and down the neck as he held it in place for me.

  There was something about him slapping me, punishing me like this, in such a sexual way that was like a turbo boost to my libido, forcing me to reach depths, soar to heights I’d never even imagined in my wildest fantasies. I’d been put in my place, forced to be what I was, an available slut, horny and shameless, completely submissive to a man’s will.

  I looked Joey in the eyes, not knowing what I wanted, but pleading nonetheless, unable to will anything for myself, but craving it all—the fucking, the sucking, the manipulating, teasing and breaking of my own spirit. For the first time I think I understood what Jennifer must feel and maybe Marie, too. Surrender, the total, hundred percent sexuality of submission. Making one man your ruler and god, or many men, if the one so decrees. Yes, I saw it, for the first time, from the inside looking out—how Jennifer could sit on that bed, tears in her eyes, a smile on her face and tell me that the thing she wanted most in life, for the rest of her days, was to crawl and strip at Harold’s command, to give over her body, to grovel and know chains and whips and pain and…pleasure, beyond any woman’s wildest dreams.

  I gave a lick for Jennifer and one for Marie, as well, hoping the dear, sweet thing had found her bliss, too, that Rene, encouraged by his early success with me would rally himself, taking a stronger and stronger hand with his sexy French doll. How else would she know how much he loved her, how far he’d go if he didn’t humiliate her, break her in public, reduce her to a toilet slut, orifice or orifices available on demand, for bills or even coins as she kneels by the urinal or the condom dispenser?

  Reduced to a thing, a possession: that was the secret thrill, the ultimate jazz and jolt, the mainlined sexual drug. Being owned…and used and fucked and abused, and having to take it, having to want it because you have no will, just a body that belongs to someone else…to a man, strong and unbendable, who hurts you if he wants or pleasures you, who exalts or humiliates by his will, and who, through all of it, you cannot fight, not really but only yield, calling him, ‘sir’ or ‘lord’ or even ‘master’.

  Joey read the wonder in my eyes and telegraphed back what he’d be happy to do to me right now: consensually rape me and own me and hurt me, in Silvio’s stead for as long as the boss might loan me out.

  Aftershocks careened down my spine, ricocheting through my stomach and blowing holes in my sex. A minute ago I’d begged and whined like a slave not to have to come, and now I’d didn’t know if I’d ever be able to stop. And all this with men I hated, dreaded enemies. What if someone more intimately known to me was to take me in hand like this? Harold Baines, or even Agent Johnny Reynolds. But I’d almost forgotten; the man had no interest in me. I was just a job for him, a case. And so he’d used my female nature to get what he wanted, tied me to my own hotel room chair, and then he’d abandoned me, to the horny, psycho chief and ultimately to Galentano.

  Dimly, I thought of rescue. It wasn’t an impossible idea; surely they’d see I wasn’t coming out and then they’d come in after me, guns blazing. The NBI, like in all the movies and books.

  Except this was reality, and things seldom worked out ideally. In this world, the strong won over the weak, the powerful over the helpless. And wh
at was I if not helpless and weak, a nude, bound female among many strong men? One look at the walls, the human tables and the ceiling was enough to tell me how much civility and morals mattered here: the women in this room, all the pretty girls being displayed, shocked, forced to orgasm and beaten, had all had other lives, dates at school, boys who had crushes on them, held hands with them at movies and necked with them in cars, trying their hardest to get to third base. You can guarantee none of these women ever wrote in their high school yearbook how they would like to be a human table, so slobbering men could wipe their hands on their hair and eat ranch dip out of their cunts. Nor had they sighed and whispered to their friends at sleepovers how they would like one day to be sex slaves, swallowing the cum of one man after another, like the tattooed blonde now chained on stage on her knees, whose mouth had been bracketed open and who had no choice but to take whatever was forced into it.

  But here they were, and here was I, unable to choose my fate of slavery, or to whom I might belong. I could only imagine, of course, what it might be like, how much more potent all this would feel with Reynolds at the helm, steering my ship, telling me I was his, property, voiceless, without any rights…totally possessed.

  “That’s enough, Joey. She’s starting to enjoy it too much.”

  My bottle was taken away, and my Joey as well. Breathing deeply, I focused once more on Silvio. To my surprise, I saw a head bobbing attentively between his legs, dark brown and very familiar. Her clothes were gone, but there was no mistaking the statuesque body, the long graceful neck sporting a black choker. The girl deep-throating her master so diligently was none other than Mindy, back from her time with Silvio’s bulldog lieutenant.

  She was wearing bracelets now, the cuffs shackled behind her back. A very sexy waist chain complemented it well as did a series of fresh red stripes on her round, shapely ass.

  “You see, Raven,” he raised his arms dramatically. “I’m a god in here. A god to every one of them.”

  There was a leash in his left hand and as he raised that arm, a chain was pulled taut. At the other end of it, a female whimpered. It was Connerly, being forced up on her haunches, having no way to displace the tension suddenly imposed on the locked, black leather collar at her neck.

  Making no complaint, she waited, looking at him with humble eyes. There was a dish of food at her feet and she was surely very hungry. Silvio had interrupted her feeding and she would not resume it again till he released the line. Not an ounce of resistance did she make, her hands held in front of her, like paws, her head cocked, her blue eyes unblinking…begging.

  “A god,” he repeated, lifting the left hand tighter.

  Connerly lifted her neck to breaking point and very quietly, making as little fuss as possible, began to choke. I looked down at the bowl she’d been devouring. It was filled with scraps, the sort one gave to dogs, barely a step above garbage. You could see around her lips the greasy film, the residue of what she’d so far gotten down.

  I made no response; what could I possibly say? The boss just smiled, inclining his head so Joey would pick up the bowl. At the same time he lowered his arm, allowing the naked Connerly to collapse onto all fours.

  A moment later Joey returned the food to her, but not before spitting into it, letting loose several large and loud honkers. The prize-winning reporter, sleek and sexy in her collar and chain made no hesitation before diving back into it. Already straggled and soiled, her blonde hair spilled into the slop and over onto the floor.

  She was still chewing, her pinkly glistening crack happily bobbing in the air behind her as I began to come yet again, not a finger on me or in me, no one having even said a word to me or about me.

  “That one will cost you,” said Silvio, referring to my blatant act of defiance.

  I shuddered, then, remembering his words. I was owned, and so were my climaxes. I came when they wanted, not when I did.

  “I—I’m sorry,” I began to blubber, but it was too late. The leather gag was already being inserted in my mouth, thick and hard like a cock, and so nasty tasting, like old jockstraps and sweat. Pulling at my hair, they fastened it in place. I noticed now the hole in the center, through which might be poured liquid. I struggled, but hands were on me, undoing the chains, but only to bind me tighter in a new position.

  “Get her out of here,” Silvio ordered.

  “Where you want her, boss—the dungeon?”

  “Nah, she’s gonna attract too much heat here. Take her down to The Farm. It’s the last goddamned place on earth they’ll look for her.”

  They all laughed at this, harder than they had at anything all night.

  “To The Farm,” Silvio toasted, the table quickly echoing the word, at once simple and child-like and yet fraught with unknown danger.

  The Farm. My loins trembled and spasmed at the word; I had a funny feeling the place was going to have very little to do with raising vegetables or singing Old MacDonald.

  Chapter Seven

  I had to admit it myself; it was pretty damned funny.

  Here I’d expected this hideaway hellhole, some gangster place in the mountains or off in the desert, and all along they meant something entirely different.

  The Farm wasn’t illegal at all, in fact it was the height of legality, being a nickname for a low level detention center for females, a revamped prison farm now in private hands and housing an inmate population from all over the country. Sure, I wasn’t actually a convicted criminal, but Silvio Galentano’s partners ran the place and who’d look close enough to see if everyone there had a real-life sentence or not?

  “It says here,” the warden was going over my file from behind a battered metal desk in the corner of the sweltering, steel paneled room, “that you’re a repeat offender. Drunk and disorderly conduct. Petty larceny. Lewd and lascivious conduct.” He began flipping through the bogus pages with pudgy, pink fingers. “And prostitution.”

  A pair of beady eyes looked up at me. They were blue, but so far recessed in layers of fat I could hardly tell the true color. Just looking at the man in his ice cream white suit, soaked through with perspiration, his neck bulging over the open-necked cotton shirt, made it feel ten times worse in here.

  There was supposed to be air conditioning in the administration office, but supposedly it wasn’t working. Actually, I was thankful for a little relief. Outside, where I’d been waiting on the dank prison bus for half an hour, locked in the back like an animal, it was about a hundred degrees hotter.

  “So you’re a thieving whore,” summed up Warden Pinton, the name in bronze on his desk.

  I said nothing, having figured out by now there was no point in arguing. It had all been done quite cleverly, actually. I’d been flown by plane, picked up by a private car and driven me to a dirt road near The Farm, where I met the incoming daily bus. A pair of guards promptly shackled me hand and foot, and loaded me on board, just as if I’d gotten on back at the holding facility with the others. No one said a word, and thus was I transported into oblivion.

  I couldn’t say yet what The Farm was all about. So far all I’d seen was a high barbed wire fence, a lot of Quonset huts and some fields full of green stuff I didn’t get close enough to recognize.

  Once we’d arrived, they took us one at a time off the bus. I was last. Silvio, having a sense of humor, had dressed me for the trip in bright purple underwear and a short, off-the-shoulder dress that screamed whore. The white go-go boots weren’t much help either.

  “I asked you a question, girl. Are you a thieving, filthy whore or not?

  “It says what it says,” I finally shrugged.

  Pinton looked at me for a long time. Every few seconds or so he paused to dab a gray cloth over his neck. The heat seemed to be rising in waves and the overhead fan, which wheezed like an old woman, was making no discernible difference. Beside me, wet spots under each arm, stood a pair of male guards in khaki uniforms and jackboots. I thought of the chief’s wish for me about going to some ‘special’ prison. I
f she could only see me now, I laughed to myself, pushing back the terror, darkness and despair that had been nibbling at my brain ever since Silvio’s goons had loaded me into a crate and taken me to their private airport for transport.

  Naturally, I’d been used on the way, and well.

  The warden chuckled, breaking the thick, dangerous silence. “You gotta sign in,” he told me, in his thick southern accent. “Honey pie.”

  I went to the desk, to the place where he was pointing. I’d expected some tightly cramped miniature print and a blank spot for name and date, but instead there was a handwritten note, from Silvio Galentano to the warden himself. It was turned so I could read it.

  Pinton: This one needs a lot of training. Give her the works. SG

  I clenched the metal edge of the desk, the room suddenly spinning. Somehow seeing Silvio’s scribbled initials, the subtle, yet pervasive reminder of his continuing power over me, was undoing my fragile confidence and overturning my sense of balance. It was likely shock that had kept me going this far, mixed with the feeling of unreality of it all. Surely, any second, I had been thinking, Reynolds would rescue me; it would all prove to be a flash-in-the-pan ordeal, my name would be cleared, Rich would show up and confess, the bad guys would all go to jail and Agent Reynolds and I would move to the suburbs and have 2.56 children, or whatever the going average was now. And yet, here I was, locked up, in front of a pig-faced warden being told, without a word’s being spoken, that I was going to face training.