Barging into his office without invitation, I stood waiting for him to acknowledge me. And when he didn’t in sufficient time, with a breathless voice, charged with energy, I asked him directly, “What did I do wrong?” The same cool expression of superiority that somehow jerked my chain silly spread all across that sculptured face. Suddenly, all my impetuous bravado vanished and I felt like a fool being there. I wanted to slink away, erase the picture of me from his mind, but it was too late to retreat. Committed to my folly, I had little choice but to press for his answer.
“My goodness, you held out a lot longer than I expected you would,” Preston answered my question with a droll smirk.
“Held out?” I mulled that thought, trying to make sense of it. “As in your avoiding me was part of the plan?”
“Of course, it was part of the plan, Syke.”
I stood there stunned, my jaw wide open in awe. “And you would have gone on forever if I hadn’t walked in on you?”
He shrugged, as if he couldn’t be bothered. “I don’t know how long this would have gone on, but I’m capable of waiting months.”
This hit me wrong, all wrong. The man was twisted, vile, evil, incapable of compassion. I suddenly hated him and his game.
“You bastard!” I muttered thoughtlessly under my breath.
He maintained his amusement effortlessly.
“You would have put me through months of waiting… until I finally snapped?”
“I had to be sure you really cared enough to move ahead.”
“And what if I never gave in? What if I followed your rules to the letter, waiting for your move, and there wasn’t one? What if I finally gave up because you never summoned me again?”
After another blasé shrug, he glibly answered, “I don’t know. But then, it didn’t happen that way, Skye, now, did it?” He was almost smiling. “You aren’t the type to suffer in silence. You aren’t the type to give up without having your say.”
“Ooo, you! You are a cold, insufferable bastard!” I wanted to walk out the room. I could even see in my mind’s eye, that indignant departure, perfectly accomplished. Yes, my mind was out the door, but, sadly, my feet stood firm.
Instead of more repartee, more witty comebacks, Preston scribbled something on a piece of paper and handed it over the desk.
“Here, you’ll want to be there at eight o’clock tomorrow evening, no earlier and certainly not a second later.”
“And what’s this?” I snapped, staring at the address on the paper, completely puzzled.
“What you’ve been waiting for, I suppose. I hope your weekend is clear of plans because this will keep you tied up until Sunday evening.”
His choice of words were gauged just right to maximize the effect. I’d never felt my emotions so efficiently dispensed with.
“Tomorrow? That’s Thursday,” I reminded him, while making the mistake of gazing into his eyes. Just one long and solemn stare was sufficient to put me back into my submissive place.
“I’ve taken care of your absence here at work. All you need to do is show up.”
“And what is this? What’s going to happen?”
“Let it be a surprise.”
“And what should I bring?”
“Just yourself, and your mind set on surrender—perhaps with more poise and dedication than you’ve shown me today. I trust you’ll recover your good grace.” The last was spoken as a threat.
“I’m sorry about that. This game makes me a little crazed.”
“I won’t always be this easy on you, Skye. You were out of line today; your behavior inexcusable and grounds for punishment. If you weren’t so damned charming you’d be naked now, tied over my desk and caned. Keep that in mind.”
“Yes, sir.” My whole body shook at the very thought. I was totally cowed by the time I left him. While returning to my desk, I was certain the entire office was staring at me, understanding not just the game we played in secret but my humble position within it.
***
42 North St.
I arrived on the street, parking my car in front of the small brick marker with a brass address placard; it looked aptly like a tombstone. I couldn’t see the house from the road… all those damn trees. But the neighborhood suggested an estate on a grand scale. I wouldn’t know that, however, for at least fifteen minutes. I planned to wait until two minutes to eight, when I would finally drive up the white gravel path.
The day was fading rapidly, predictable for early autumn. There was a hint of a chill in the air, or maybe it was just my own chilling panic affecting me. Another adventure awaited. Sometimes I felt lost in a maze from which I could not escape. Sometimes I very much wanted to be free of this bondage, and other times the maze itself was pure freedom. I couldn’t decide which, as I waited for my next trial to begin. Were these trials? Tests? Or were they simply events concocted by Preston Lockhart to please his kinky sexual tastes? With no immediate answer, that was one to mull for a while.
But then mulling would have to wait; the hour arrived, the minutes just prior to eight p.m., and my little car pulled away from the curb, slinking its way up the drive. I stopped the car in the yard, a bit deflated to find the glorious romantic estate of my dreams a little less splendid than I expected. It was grand, all right, but a bit rundown. The two-story stucco home had stone casings around the windows and doors in an Old World French design that was actually quite appealing, perhaps even erotic, if I could forgo my dreams of pristine palatial elegance. The whitewashed house was a bit dingy now, and the grey slate roof needed replacing since most of it was covered with moss and several tiles were missing. I could see that the overgrown yard needed trimming, and in general, the house and its grounds had been neglected for some time. But despite my initial disappointment, the setting seemed to match the mood of sexual debauchery that I expected of my weekend. Warm yellow light shone through the window drapery making me curious to see what was inside. I might have studied the structure and its surroundings a good deal longer, but my appraisal had to be quick. Eight on the dot, I was at the door, knocking—my fright setting my knees to knocking as my knuckles knocked on the wood.
A man wearing black pleated pants, a white shirt and a gold vest—looking a bit like a butler, a bit like an old-fashioned gentlemen—answered the door with a crisp formal air of command.
“And you belong to?” he asked me directly. No, “Hello” or “Welcome”, or “Please come right in”
“Preston Lockhart,” I promptly answered.
“Late is no way to start your weekend here,” he brusquely scolded me. “Property enters through the service entrance.”
He was about to close the door in my face.
“And where’s that?” I jumped in.
He nodded to his left. “The side of the house.”
The house was atypically placed on the property, turned 90 degrees to the right. Instead of facing the street, it faced woods on one side and backed into them on the other. While one ‘side’ of the house faced the street, the side of the house he referred to was adjacent to a driveway that swept around the back of the property. Although there were neighbors close by, it was unlikely that they could see much of the well-hidden house.
I walked around the corner, finding the only door on that side. It was three steps down from the yard, suggesting that it entered the basement or kitchen. There was a yellow light overhead, illuminating the small space with a dismal eerie glow.
A woman answered, eyeing me up and down, through a pair of thick glasses.
“You haven’t been here before, have you?” she decided. She was a big woman, but not without a womanly shape.
“No, ma’am.”
“Then you get the short course on rules. First rule: property respects its subservient status and enters the house naked. You’ll have to remove your clothes.”
“Remove my clothes?” I repeated astonished.
“That’s what I said.” She closed the door in my face, leaving me to obey her.
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The strangest quiver raced up my spine as the message registered.
I shouldn’t have been worried; I’d been taking off my clothes for Preston Lockhart regularly since our relationship began, and this may have been the least compromising situation of them all. No, it wasn’t real fear I was feeling, it was something much more. She called me property, as had the man at the front door. This wasn’t new to me; I’d been referred to as property before. But it all fit together now in a different way, as I realized what my master really meant by the derogatory term. I was not allowed the dignity of clothes, the right to cover myself in this house. I was less than human, demeaned, judged, stripped of the normal rights I would expect as a person. Had I any rights at all in this world? I shuddered deeply as I began to disrobe. The players in this game were serious sadists, I just a lowly creature.
I wondered if this was still a game, an innocent game of sex and thrills? It seems I’d stumbled on something much bigger than one man’s fantasy.
Naked as the day I was born, and shivering from the chilly air, I knocked on the door again and waited, finally hearing the shuffle of feet as the woman approached and flung the door wide open.
“Better,” she said in her dull monotone. “Follow me.” She turned, leading me up a short flight of steps and down a corridor. I quickly hung my clothes on a hook near the entrance, where I noticed other women’s clothes were stored. Noting that I wasn’t following close enough, the woman turned back to me, a little annoyed. “You tardy, you get punished.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I quickly made up the distance between us.
The corridor led to a door at the end of the hall, a half open pocket door, which she pushed a little further to the left. She peeked inside. I could barely see beyond her, as my eyes were still adjusting to surroundings where everything was new to me and completely mystifying.
“The new one,” the woman announced, then she stood aside, allowing me to pass in front of her.
For all my nakedness on Preston’s previous assignments, this occasion was clearly the most alarming. I stepped into a room of strangers—clothed strangers, a cocktail party of well-dressed men and women who chose to silently greet me with analytical stares. I gazed from eye to eye, bewildered, my body weak from fear and embarrassment. I wondered if I’d stumbled into the wrong room, or that I was crashing a party, uninvited. I expected a refrain of disgust and rebuke to follow, at least until the first man spoke.
“Ah, Preston’s lucky with you,” an immaculately beautiful boy-man strolled from the crowd and began to maul my breasts with obvious pleasure. The abundance of my malleable brown tits seemed to intrigue him. “He gets all this bounty to abuse.” He pinched my nipples so hard that I shrieked and jerked back. “A little jumpy are we?” he mocked. Like Preston, he was the kind of well-born, well-heeled, glamorous man I’d always taken great pains to avoid. But he was worse than Preston: too pretty, too stylish, too casual, too smug. I was wet between my legs just looking at him and that made me furious.
“Ease up, Ryder, she’s new. Can’t you see the fear in her eyes?” an unknown party spoke up at my defense.
“That’s her problem not mine. She’ll adapt.” He tweaked my nipple even harder, evilly, as though he despised me. The smirk on his face cut to my core. He backed away, smiling, enjoying the fact that I was trembling with fear.
I stood by myself in the center of the room, staring wide-eyed at my surroundings. I noted the same sort of decadent shabbiness inside the house as I’d noted outside. I found that oddly thrilling. But the people were another matter. All those eyes! There must have been two-dozen people filling the living room. They were as clean-cut and well dressed as the ones in my office—looking vaguely familiar, but dissimilar enough for me to understand that I’d never laid eyes on any of them. Frankly, I didn’t want to see a familiar face—with the possible exception of Preston. Oddly, he might have been some comfort to me had he been there—but I had no such luck.
At Ryder’s retreat, I was assaulted by the entire gathering, as a thorough inspection of my body began in earnest. At least six of the men and two women pawed and poked me. They slapped my ass, fingered my slit and probed the backside of my body. I had no instructions for my behavior, but just the fact that I was naked and they were clothed suggested that I had better let them do as they wished. After all, I was property.
One rather hefty fellow with a take-charge attitude pushed me into a crouch. “That’s it,” he glowered over me. “Now hands behind your head.”
I tried the awkward pose, but I could hardly hold my balance, squatting on tiptoe without my hands to assist me.
“Oh, that’s very pretty,” one of the women exclaimed, seeing my splayed pussy like candy for her eyes. In this grossly lewd position, my labia were very prominent, and my clitoris hung down between them, raw and vulnerable to whatever scheme they had in mind. I gasped each time someone bent down, leaning in to give my genitals a good yank. Somehow, I managed to stay on my feet. When someone moved behind my back and began fingering my asshole, I jerked right out of the position, and received a sharp slap on my ass for my error. It took some seconds for me to right myself and put my hands behind my head again.
“Better move to your knees, slut,” the take-charge fellow spoke, giving me a rude shove forward.
I dropped down instantly, my ankles thanking him silently for the change in position, although my gratitude was wasted. Being on my knees was not enough by itself. A heavy hand shoved me further forward. Then for several seconds, I was jostled and prodded, adjusted, readjusted, then finally found satisfactory. The end result of all the fuss might have been agreeable for them, but for me it was akin to torture—not to mentioned cruelly humiliating. My knees were spread wide and my arms were clasped behind my back, with my hands grasping my elbows. Then my shoulders were pushed down to the carpet, forcing my nose into the prickly fibers. The round tan globes of my plump behind must have been quite a sight with my anal cleft and pussy exposed to every eye in the room.
I waited, for a time being too shocked by my predicament to feel anything at all. Then the numbness faded, replaced by a familiar gnawing in my belly, which could only be sexual. I thought I was too afraid to feel anything. But the warmth under my skin, so evident to the hands that mauled me, became real to me too.
“She’s wet!” someone noted the fact while playing with my vagina. Whether the truth about me at that moment signaled the rest of the scene, I’ll never know. But obviously, I’d been found ready for their further plans.
I could hardly see a thing with my face so flattened against the carpet, but I knew without having to look exactly what came next. As soon as I felt a hand sensuously groping my cleft and fingers probing into the depths of my body, I understood their scheme. For a time the fingers were content with my pussy, but that was only to gather the juice from that spot and smear it over my anus. I understood the target, dreading the idea of having my behind fucked. I’d been played with there before when Preston had me impaled with a dildo, but I’d never really been fucked in the ass. My body locked up petrified, every muscle taut, every nerve screaming.
My obvious anxiety hardly swayed my rapists. Their fingers only probed me deeper, and for a time, one womanly voice kindly admonished me to relax. “Breathe deep,” she purred as if that were some comfort. Like hell, I’ll breathe deep! my insides screamed at her. Even so, I could feel my body beginning to ease, and my rear door open as if the act was natural. “Grease her,” someone ordered.
My eyes suddenly shot open—something I soon regretted. With my head positioned as it was, I looked back toward my feet, and saw a metal kitchen baster in the hands of one man, with the pointed end moving into my anal cleft. I should have closed my eyes but they were fixated on the appalling scene. When the metal hit the skin inside my cleft, a cold wave of anxiety passed through me. It was followed by a sudden stab, and then the feel something strange entering my rectum.
“I want that ass as slippery as
her cunt,” the woman’s clear voice made me wince. I saw her then, hovering on the sidelines, just inside my peripheral vision… the one intent on fucking me. She’d been in the crowd when I entered the room, beautifully dressed in a purple suit. Her skirt was gone and her jacket tossed aside, leaving her thin silk blouse waving like a sail. Her groin was very naked, her smooth hips the color of bread dough and her ass cheeks gleaming like pearls in the soft light. From the center of her groin, harnessed to black leather straps, hung a thick dildo. She held her rod much like a man holds his erection before it strikes. Dropping to the floor, she boldly moved forward on her knees until she was at my ass, grabbing onto each rear cheek in preparation for the assault.
The next few seconds went by so fast that I could hardly prepare myself. I closed my eyes and gritted my teeth. My nails clawed into my elbows. Then hot tears formed in my eyes as my body tensed like a bowstring. The tip of her weapon was poised to strike, batting at my anus, fat and firm. Any second, I expected her to lunge into me. I imagined her ruthlessly pounding me like a young male stud fucking. I could feel it, picture it, even smell the intensity in the charged air, as though we were two animals snorting and pawing the earth, making ready for the sexual battle.
To my surprise, and relief, the woman allayed my more frightening speculations by gently, with a firm steady push inserting the fake prick in the greased portal. I gasped and nearly fell out of position, but the sensations were miraculous, not painful at all. My mind went crazed. My nerves sizzled. I almost passed out.
The lady’s friends were there to aid her, two men lifting me at the torso and keeping me in position. I enjoyed their hands and the feeling of comfort they provided. But it was all too much, the physical strain on my body, the reckless sensations flooding my overtaxed system, and then the truly evil and relentless pounding. What had been a simple easy fucking at the start soon shifted. Her gentleness turned savage and I became no more than an orifice for her to use.
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