“Oh, good, that’s good. Sharer, the slut is doing it like a good girl. Keep going, Fishy. Don’t stop. “
Fishy wasn’t about to stop. It felt so rewarding to please the slave woman. So gratifying to do what others wanted instead of worrying selfishly about her own concerns.
Fishy worked her tongue for a long minute on that asshole. Her face felt steamed with humidity from the close contact with that hot shaking ass in the warm room. When she pulled back her tongue for a moment to re-supply it with saliva she found she could actually taste ass.
Swampy’s voice was thick with demanding arousal, “Get that tongue up my ass. Deep. Do it, Fishy! “
She sounded so needy! Fishy hurried to obey. It took a lot of tongue strength to get the tip past the sphincter. She got the tip in and then worked it in and out trying to maintain and expand her precious beachhead.
Swampy flexed in passionate reaction and the muscular ring of muscle compressed on Fishy’s tongue, nearly entrapping it before rejecting it, “Oh, ooooh. Keep trying, Fishy! “
Fishy was having a hard time getting air with her tongue out and the sweaty butt cheeks occasionally pressing her nostrils closed. She wasn’t about to give up. This was the most important thing in the whole world. It was the only thing. Nothing else mattered.
Fishy reached her manacled hands between Swampy’s legs and up. When she contacted Swampy’s saturated bush her hands were instantly soaked. She knew she was onto a solution when she heard Swampy groan and then keep groaning in delight as the fingers of one of Fishy’s hands penetrated that pussy while the fingers of her other hand sought, found, and squeezed her clitoris.
Now Fishy’s insistently stabbing tongue forced Swampy’s sphincter to blossom open. She followed that success with deep tongue thrusts as far in as she could manage. She felt the root of her tongue aching, then screaming in pain, but that was not significant. The pain was fine. The pain was good.
It was even better when Swampy whooped her climax and her sphincter clenched tight and painfully on Fishy’s soft tongue. Fishy delighted in Swampy’s flesh-quaking cries of orgasm. Even with the bitter taste of ass on her tongue, success was sweet.
Fishy herself was so close to coming. Just a little more contact, maybe one more thrust of fingers up her hot loose pussy.
It was not to be.
Swampy staggered forward, leaving Fishy’s tongue seeking empty air. Vision clouded by lust, Fishy saw droplets of pussy oil streaming down off Swampy’s still orgasming pussy. The droplets spattered all over the floor as Swampy stumbled away. Sharer slapped Fishy’s fingers so hard they popped out of her pussy. Fishy’s pussy and tongue felt simultaneous abandonment.
Fishy could hardly bare the loss of pleasure or the loss of a task to perform. Terrible. Her needs were terrible. Both her manacled hands descended on her ripe pussy and delved multiple fingers into her wet slot.
Satisfaction was not her immediate destiny. She heard the grinding chains and harsh rattles. The pulled chains forcibly plucked her hands away from her hot wetness and dragged her away from achieving satisfaction. She looked up and saw Sharer standing over her with the chain and manacles remote control in her hand.
“Selfish, Fishy. Remember, you’re here to serve. Since you are the newest -- and sluttiest -- slave you must serve all others. Your pleasure is incidental, or sometimes even a negative. Now that Swampy has come from your ass-sucking, I, too, can take my enjoyment. We’ll keep your naughty hands right there over your head so they don’t make mischief in your pussy. It’ll make it much harder to make me come. That’s good though. You’ll be sucking my ass much longer. “
Sharer turned and bent forward, hands on knees, and backed up in little shuffles met halfway by Fishy squirming roughly forward on pained knees.
Fishy found Sharer’s ass was just as slick with sweat in the warm room but was much more toned and muscular than Swampy’s soft cushions. The crack was not as deep but the asshole was much more prominent and thick. Fishy swiped her whole tongue rough and wet up and down the crack and then swirled it all over the anus, over and over, counter-clockwise. She felt Sharer’s ass tense and vice grip her face. The sensation was surprisingly pleasing because it was a reflection her tongue was accomplishing its aim. Service to another seemed so rewarding!
Sharer couldn’t help but jerk and sway with pleasure from time to time and it caused her ass to gently smack Fishy’s face. It made it hard for Fishy to keep her tongue in contact but she tried her best and mostly succeeded. As much as she could she kept her mouth directly on that asshole.
She kept changing up what her mouth was doing. Stretched and manacled so awkwardly in that kneeling position, and with all the previous tasks her mouth performed, her entire jaw ached wearily. So she moved from licking the dark hole, to kissing it, to nibbling with her lips, to plunging her tongue in and out, thrusting like a tiny agile cock. Each time her jaw muscles began to scream she moved to the next method.
What was this twisted behavior called? She knew she’d heard it before. Previous references had caused distaste. Now here she was on her knees, achy, sore, abused, aroused and her distaste had become just taste. She could literally taste it. Analinguas. That was the word for it.
Swampy grabbed a handful of blonde and pulled her face out of Sharer’s crack, “Which ass tastes better? You have to say. “
Fishy urgently considered the question. She knew pain was hovering a moment away. Even without the threat of pain, imagined or real, she wanted to get this right. The women did each taste surprisingly unique. She had to work her mouth in order to form a name.
“Sharer does. “
Swampy spanked her ass hard but just once and she seemed a little amused when she spoke, “You like dark chocolate! “
Swampy pushed her face back to work in the crack and Fishy immediately dove back into her work. She had even more gusto now. The simple question had forced her to use her rusty mind, forced her to take things into consideration. She did like the taste of Sharer’s ass. A lot. But only just a little better than Swampy’s. She liked them both. She liked it all. She really did. The realization made her give her utmost effort to please and perform.
Sharer kept moaning and gasping and shuddering but, as long minutes passed, despite all of Fishy’s devout efforts, she just did not come. Fishy was eventually frustrated almost to the point of tears. She was working so hard but her mouth was hurting more and more, and was getting looser and weaker. How much longer could she continue? Fishy understood a woman like her could suffer a lot of abuse, even deserved a lot of abuse, but there must be some limits. She was only human, after all. She wasn’t really a slave but… even if she was… a slave was still a human, wasn’t she?
Fishy honestly did not know what was worse, the aches and pains glowing all over her body, flaming in her knees and jaw, her weariness, or her own sexual need to have another orgasm. She needed one soooooo bad. Maybe the worst was not being able to complete her mission and satisfy the hotly aroused Sharer. She wished they would let her get her face up into that steaming hot pussy whose lowest portion was barely an inch from the dark hole she was servicing.
Finally, Swampy took mercy on them, “Sharer, do you want me to diddle your clit? “
“Ohh, God, yes! Please, please, please! “
Fishy wished she could also beg but kept her mouth working hard. It sounded like she was in the home stretch and it renewed her lingual vigor.
Swampy reached out and cupped Sharer’s mound entirely, her wrist grinding on the clitoris, her sweltering breasts rubbing Sharer’s sweaty tits.
“I came with her tongue up my ass, you can too, Sharer. “
Fishy hurried to cram her tongue up Sharer’s ass channel in order to better comply with Swampy’s spoken image.
Within seconds Sharer released a primal roar, her ass cheeks juddering. When her legs
went bolt straight in muscular reaction to the climax, her butt smashed Fishy’s face and Fishy bounced backward. She would have ended up on her back if not for the suspended shackles holding her up, arms straight over her head like she was trying to eagerly volunteer for something. Or, perhaps, trying to surrender.
Sharer lunged over to a bed and sprawled on her belly and began grinding her squirming pussy into a mound of blankets. She released a wavering keening howl as she ground down.
Swampy stood over the dazed and needy Fishy. She cocked her head to one side, “Does Fishy need an orgasm? “
“Oh, yes, please! I do need one! “
“That’s nice. “Swampy moved to the other bed and laid on her back with a vacant expression.
Fishy couldn’t believe it. Why wouldn’t she let her have one? She needed relief, needed satisfaction. She had earned it, hadn’t she?
“Please, Swampy! I beg you! Please, please! I’ve done everything you’ve asked, I’ve worked so hard, please help me come! “
“Hmmm. “
“Please, please, please, please. “
Swampy stared at ceiling dreamily, “Well. . . “
“Please, Swampy, please! “
“You did satisfy us well and you did do as you were told. That does not mean that you get any reward. You don’t perform to get something in return. You’re a slave. You do what you are told because you are told, not for any ulterior motive such as obtaining an orgasm. Your pleasure is of very little importance to anyone but you, and should not be all that important even to you. Give them up as a goal in and of themselves and, conversely, you will have more of them and orgasm more powerfully than ever before. A selfish slave is a slave failure. If your orgasm-denial gave a Master or Mistress the slightest mental pleasure, shouldn’t you suffer it? “
Fishy was horrified and worried there would be no orgasm, “Oh, please, Swampy. Just a little mercy, please! “
“Answer the question, slave Fishy! Shouldn’t you gladly suffer orgasm-denial for the satisfaction of a Master or a Mistress? “
Fishy’s wild thoughts of sexual satiation were cornered in a dark alley with no escape. After a long moment her shoulders slumped in resignation, “Yes, I guess so. “
“Very good, Fishy! Well, lucky for you, I’m not actually a Mistress. I don’t begrudge you another orgasm. “
“Oh, yes. Thank you, Swampy. “A vision of orgasmic pleasure danced in Fishy’s head. It would make everything -- the pain, abuse, humiliation, hard work, and teasing -- all well worth it.
“Remember what we told you before you licked out our holes. You were so eager you would still owe us after that. Now, an orgasm in addition? How can you fairly pay for everything we have done for you and are about to do? “
“I… I don’t know. Tell me. Whatever it is, I’ll do it. “
Swampy hopped out of bed and Sharer hauled herself more slowly off her damp blankets. Together they unshackled Fishy. No one was concerned Fishy may try to escape. Swampy and Sharer were not at all worried and the thought never even entered Fishy’s pretty head.
Once they had her on her feet a trembling Fishy expected them to lead her to a bed and begin giving her relief/satisfaction. Not to be. On either side they led and supported her over to the tiny two-chair table in the room, an exact likeness of the one in Wayne Jones’ room. They flopped her down.
“Your aim should always be to obey and satisfy others. That is its own fulfilment for you and it also leads to other fulfilment benefits. Mental, emotional, and, just incidentally, physical. You have so much to learn here and everyone is eager to teach you. But you come second. Actually, something like one hundred and seventy-fourth. There is a hierarchy here. Can you guess who is number one? “
It wasn’t even a guess, “Wayne Jones. “
“Right you are, Fishy! Now, focus on your number one goal, pleasing he who is number one. What could you possibly do to serve him? “
“Free him! “Fishy spoke without thought, without any consideration of appearances or ramifications, and with far too much enthusiasm. It left post-exclamation Fishy with a bad taste in her mouth.
“Exactly. Clever girl. “Swampy moved a placemat on the table and revealed a professionally formatted typed report. There was a pen next to it.
Fishy knew the entire scene had been anticipated -- manipulated to occur -- and perhaps had been since before Little Johnson invaded her privacy and then her home and then her sex. He’d just happen to mention Shara Tillings and Carol Milligan’s predicament. Why? This was why. She’d been guided all along to this crossroads intentionally and dexterously.
Fishy picked and scanned the document. It was a very thorough and professional analysis of the Wayne Jones psyche. It was a complete clean bill of health for his sanity. In combination with the ones Swampy and Sharer had doubtless already filled out, it was his ticket to freedom if it was signed by a professionally certified and case authorized Psychoanalyst. The letterhead at the top of each page of the document identified it as produced by “Jacqueline Thorpe, Independent Psychoanalyst”. There was also a line at the bottom of each page for her signature and the date.
They could not make her sign it. Not really. Or, maybe they could, but they actually weren’t. They were telling her to do it saying she owed it to them and offering the carrot of an orgasm. They weren’t actually forcing her. She knew she owed them nothing. If anything, they owed her an apology! An orgasm… would be so nice… but it would just be one orgasm in a lifetime. Maybe the orgasm of a lifetime but, still, she had to keep this in perspective. Freeing Wayne Jones was a serious matter. All this time, she’d worked to keep him incarcerated while pretending to be objective. She had defied him at every turn though never successfully.
The only one who could make her sign it was herself. Her own nature.
Her own nature called for fairness for others though, ironically, she was indifferent or maybe even aroused at unfairness towards her own person. Or perhaps she thought she deserved mistreatment and so, in a way, regarded unfairness to herself as fair. But she did want to be fair to others.
In all fairness, Wayne Jones was not insane and never had been. In all fairness, Wayne Jones should not be incarcerated at this institute. It wasn’t her job, it wasn’t her business, however many people he corrupted and women he enslaved once free.
That was the private business of Wayne Jones and not for… someone like herself… to ask or anticipate. It was not for her to act as a roadblock to Jones. That was hardly good service.
Her fair nature demanded she release Wayne Jones.
But that was not her entire nature. She knew that now. She’d made many discoveries in the dark deep ocean of her soul. She knew now her nature was to submit, serve, and obey. It wasn’t that she liked it or wanted that. It was just her nature. If it hadn’t been her nature, she would have resisted and easily stopped all their machinations.
Her sense of justice to others demanded she release Wayne Jones. Her servile nature demanded she obey and serve and enable, demanded she release him unto the world.
She would do what any good slave slut would do when issued demands. She gave in to them and followed their orders, echoed by the needs of her own heart.
She rapidly filled out and signed every page while Swampy and Sharer hovered over her. She marveled her hand was so steady, the lines so even. She found new strength in embracing defeat.
On the final page she looked up at Swampy and Sharer staring at her, glanced over at one of the staring cameras, and then completed her final signature. Swampy immediately plucked the document away and Sharer replaced it with a different document, several pages long.
Fishy examined it. What could this be?
The first two pages made Carol Milligan and Shara Tillings into her designated psychiatric health counselors. The next two were filled out notes o
f commitment with her name typed into the generic slot. Each were signed with flourishing confident signatures, one by Swampy, the other by Sharer, though the actual signatures read Carol H. Milligan and Shara Y. Tillings. Below each were blank lines with “designee” printed underneath.
Fishy well knew what these documents entailed. If she signed them it would put these two in charge of her and she would be agreeing to her own indefinite, possibly everlasting, commitment for incarceration in the institute. Once signed in she would never be able to gain release for herself on her own. She would be totally dependant on the mercy of these two, or their replacement representatives. Since they were slaves now, she would actually be in the utter and complete control of whoever bossed them around.
Now that the institute was fully privatized, apparently for the incarceration and use and abuse of slaves, submissives, and masochists like herself, there would be no government inspectors to appeal to. Fishy doubted she would ever be let go. They would always have some use for her. The horrors and awful pleasures signing such a document would bring down on her were far too intimidating to fully contemplate.
No way.
She’d come here to save them and failed because they did not want to be saved but she sure as hell was not going to join them.
No way in hell.
Swampy massaged her defensively stiffened shoulders, “You don’t have to sign those if you don’t want. But you could. “
“No way. “
Sharer got in on the action tugging on both of Fishy’s hard nipples at once and staring warm brown eyes into her soul, “You could join us. You’d do things you would never allow yourself to do on your own. And you’d love it all. You’d be used and abused every day. Not just like this. Often and much more so. “
“No way. Thanks. No way. “
“We’d have such fun and others would have such fun with us. Don’t you want that? “
“No. I’m not like you or her. I don’t want to be like that. I won’t be treated that way. “
Mastering Jacqueline Page 18