by Sasha White
“Please, Sir, my Master wishes this worthless slave to offer herself to a stranger for his amusement.”
I stirred my drink. Ice clinked against the glass, barely audible above the pounding music. “His amusement?” I asked. “Your Master’s amusement? Or mine?”
She didn’t move and she didn’t look at me. “For your pleasure, Sir, and his amusement. This worthless slave—”
“I don’t like worthless slaves,” I said, just to fuck with her. “I prefer slaves who are worth something.”
She finally met my gaze. Her eyes were large and expressive, but I couldn’t tell their color in the dim room. Across the chamber, a whip cracked and a woman shrieked. She’d been bleeding for half an hour now. Fucking Chicago. If it wasn’t fucked up, they weren’t into it. Although Berlin was worse, much worse.
“How long?” I asked. “How long do I get to play with your Master’s worthless slave?”
Her arms curved delicately at her sides. She really was lovely. Beautiful. I dealt in art. I recognized beauty when I saw it.
“My Master didn’t say how long. I suppose it’s up to you,” she said. “Afterward, I have to tell him all about it, what you did to me and how it made me feel.”
“How kinky and dangerous. Where’s this Master of yours?”
If my hands weren’t clenched into fists, I would have put air quotes around the “Master.” The collared slave girl looked over her shoulder and I knew immediately who her Master was. Lip piercings, leather pants, goatee, theatrical sneer. He was trying hard to be the kinkiest dude in the room. The girl in front of me was doing it too, pushing the kinky envelope as some form of self-identity.
By contrast, I wore a suit and was clean shaven. No piercings. I couldn’t be bothered with the expected kink uniform. I wore what I liked, and did what I liked. Hit on women I liked. This was a new thing, being hit on by someone else’s slave.
Her “Master” was in his mid-twenties, like her, and I didn’t need the leather pants or scruffy goatee to tell me the guy was a dick. I only needed to look at the girl in front of me. She’d started to tremble. I noticed it because I was staring at her breasts. Ah, those breasts.
What to do now? I wanted to lecture her like the old, wise, unpierced Dominant I was. I wanted to scold her about sanity and self-preservation. I did neither of those things.
“Why did you choose me?” I asked instead.
I knew why she’d chosen me. Everyone else in this place looked terrifying. Silly, reckless slave, putting herself at risk to titillate her Master. It didn’t even occur to her that I might be terrifying too.
“I didn’t choose you,” she answered. “My Master did. If you refuse this worthless slave, he’ll tell me to ask someone else.”
The worthless-slave thing set my teeth on edge, but the idea of her leering, prick Master sending her over here to involve me in their sick sex life just about sent me into a rage. Not at her. She was too earnest to hate. But Jesus, I hated him.
“Let’s go do a scene then,” I said, standing up. “Get your things.”
“Where are we going?”
I arched a brow. “Wherever I want, worthless slave.”
“I think...well. There are private rooms right here at the club.”
“I have a private room in a hotel uptown,” I said smoothly. “I’m here on a business trip.”
“Oh. Yes, Sir.” She still hung back.
“You did offer yourself to me,” I pointed out. “And I prefer not to scene at clubs. I’ll bring you back here when we’re finished.”
I took her arm and led her toward the exit. She glanced at her Master as we passed, but I didn’t deign to look at him. Prick.
While she pulled on a form-fitting dress, I checked her bag like a TSA agent, searching for weapons or drugs. I went through everything in there, because people often weren’t what they seemed. Lipstick, tissues, condoms, a phone.
She watched me paw through her belongings without a word, standing there with an inert look on her face. I was going to make that look go away before the end of the night. I studied her Illinois license. Bettina Catherine Silver. I was relieved to know she had a name besides Worthless Slave. Don’t get me wrong. I loved slaves. I lived for slaves and the services they offered, but I hated worthlessness.
“Are you ready?” I asked.
She slid a look back at her Master. While she was off fucking a stranger at his request, he’d probably hook up with some other woman at the club.
“Do you want to say goodbye to him?” I couldn’t keep the disdain from my voice.
She shook her head and I led her out the door in her slutty black dress, with her wide black collar. I wasn’t sure if I liked her, but I was very sure I wanted to fuck her. In fact, I intended to scene with her all night, rile her up so much that she’d spontaneously orgasm when she related the details to her partner later. That was my plan.
Once we were settled in the back of a cab, I sheathed my cock and used the ring in her collar to tug her head down to my lap. “Service me,” I said. “Blow my mind.”
She didn’t hesitate. Like any slave worth her salt, she knew how to handle an erection shoved in her face. Lick, tease, stroke. I pushed her down on my length as I told the driver the address, and she took me deep in her throat, gagging quietly before going deep again. She was both elegant and avid, a thrilling combination. Oh, this was going to be fun.
“Hey.” The cabbie knocked sharply on the glass divider. “None of that. Not in my car.”
I dug in my wallet for a fifty and held it up. He pursed his lips, then slid open the divider to take the money. “I’ll listen then,” he said, leaving it open. “If you do it in my car, I listen.”
“Good man.”
My loaner slave was making beautiful, sexy noises, slurping and sucking, moaning against my shaft. Her fingers crept down to tease my balls. I gripped her hair, wound it around my fist as I thrust into her mouth.
“Make it last until we get there,” I told her, sinking back in the seat. “Make it last for Master, and for the driver too. He’s listening to you suck me. God, that feels really good.”
Bettina
I don’t know what I expected. Something different. He had looked so conservative in his dark suit, stirring his conservative cocktail. I think my Master sent me over to ruffle him, but as soon as the stranger met my gaze, I knew my Master had miscalculated. This man wasn’t the type to get ruffled.
Now I was tied up, naked, lying face down on the floor of his posh hotel room, and I didn’t feel safe.
“Let’s see what I can learn about this worthless slave,” he said, standing over me.
He didn’t like the “worthless” thing. He said it in a mean, sarcastic tone. I mean, whatever. It was part of my dynamic with my Master, that I had no worth, no value, no free will. Slavery, right? But people approached BDSM in different ways. With my Master, it was a lot of protocols, a lot of rules and mental manipulation.
With this man, it seemed to be a lot of bondage and force.
The hotel carpet scratched against my breasts. I was uncomfortable, in more ways than one. He’d circled my wrists and ankles with bondage tape, then connected them behind me so I couldn’t get up, couldn’t lurch to my feet and hop away like some hysterical bunny. A hogtie, I guess, but a loose one, and I allowed him to do it, even though I was scared, freaking out. If I didn’t let him do it, then the game was over and it was all stupid.
But...what kind of person carried bondage tape in his suitcase when he traveled? A pervert, or a serial killer. I knew he was probably the first one. I prayed he wasn’t the second.
He turned me on my side so he could slap and pinch my nipples, then he ran a palm along the line of my body to my hips. It felt good, if a little scary. I noted clean, well-manicured hands and straight white teeth when he smiled. Serial killers didn’t have teeth like that, did they? They didn’t have great cheekbones and artfully tousled reddish-blond hair.
He’d taken off
his jacket, shirt, and tie. He still wore his pants, but I already knew what was inside those pants. An impressively thick cock, what we used to call perfect size when I was a high school girl slutting around with the boys. Big enough to hurt a little, but not too big to survive. No one wanted a cock too big to survive.
I shuddered as he turned me on my back. My fists pressed into the base of my spine.
“Spread your legs for me,” he said.
His voice was as cool and manicured as the rest of him. He was so different from my Master. His eyes looked at me in a different way, not glossing over me as my Master’s did, but studying me with deep interest. Perhaps he was thinking how he would fit the pieces of my corpse in his suitcase later. His eyes were so blue. Crazy blue.
I tried to remember everything he did to me so I could tell my Master about it. I had to make the story good for him. He wouldn’t care how this man’s eyes looked, how blue they were. He’d rather hear how he bound me and molested me. That’s what Master was interested in, the raunchy details. When he thrust his fingers into my pussy, jacking them in and out, I lay still and let him do it.
And while I was tied, he turned me on my back, and then he jacked his fingers in and out of my pussy...
“What do you like?” he asked. “You’re a masochist, I assume. You like pain? Fear? Objectification?”
I nodded. No use denying it in my current state. He laughed, like he got the joke.
“What about sex? Let me guess—you prefer anal.” He slid his fingers out of my pussy, which was so, so wet. I’d been wet since he started binding my wrists. Actually, I’d been wet since he took my elbow in the club and led me out. That kind of authority made my pussy go liquid, and he used that wetness to lube a finger and slide it in and out of my asshole.
“You’re a dirty slave girl,” he murmured as my lips parted. “You love this.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Yes, Master,” he corrected me. “I’m your Master for now, and I get to do whatever I want to you. Isn’t that how this works? And then you get to go back to your other Master and tell him how hot and sexed-up I made you feel.”
I nodded, because he sounded angry and I couldn’t find my voice. I mean, the words were there in my mind. This worthless slave is sorry if she’s annoyed you... I just couldn’t say them. I didn’t know this man at all, couldn’t figure out his moods or his needs. He wasn’t acting like the others. He wasn’t treating this like some kinky game.
It was just a game, wasn’t it?
I didn’t know. I’d been doing this BDSM thing for a few years now. I didn’t really think I was a worthless slave, but I was good at playing one, just like this man was good at playing a Master. He got up and went to the bathroom to wash his hands. He came back with a washcloth, which he balled up and stuck in my mouth, not fully, just part of it wadded up and shoved against my tongue.
“Can you breathe?” he asked, staring down at me.
I nodded.
He turned me back onto my front, undid the hogtie, and positioned me so my shoulders were pressed against the carpet, and my ass stuck up in the air. My hands were still bound behind my back, and my feet were still cinched together at the ankles. He was going to hurt me now. Okay.
“No noise,” he warned. “If you feel like screaming, bite down on the washcloth instead. You can moan all you want, but no loud sounds.”
I moaned for him. I’d already learned in the cab that he liked that. He undid his buckle and pulled his belt from his pants. I waited to see how it would feel when he struck me. I knew how it felt when my Master hit me with a belt, but everyone did it differently. This man started with a wonderful hard stroke. Wonderful because it was hard enough to hurt, but not too hard to survive. Perfect. He gave me two more of those, and I realized from the hesitation in between that he was only testing me.
He stopped and waited. My toes curled together. I sensed this scene would get much more awful and much more wonderful before he finished. I gave another moan, not even meaning to. He knelt beside me and tipped up my chin. Crazy blue eyes.
“I’m giving you a safe word in case you need me to stop,” he said. “I’m sure a worthless slave like you doesn’t want one, but you’re getting it anyway. If you need me to stop, spit out the washcloth and say Harry Potter. That word will work until you go back to your other Master. Do you understand?”
I nodded, gazing back at him, and then promptly tried to forget my safe word, which was really fucking hard, because Harry Potter. I hated safe words. I hated feeling safe. I loved seeing how far someone could push me before I started to break.
He stood again and used the belt the way I knew he would after he gave me the safe word. The blows were fast, sharp, painful. Merciless. I jerked and cried, and bit down on the washcloth when he caught me just under my cheeks. So sensitive there. My ass burned, the pain flaming and spreading in waves. He striped the backs of my thighs too, with wide, belt-shaped welts. I could practically feel them rise.
It was so hard to stay in position as the punishment went on...ten strokes...fifteen strokes... I cowered and whined and tried to crawl away, only to see what he would do about it.
“Had enough?” he asked in his cool, manicured voice.
I shook my head emphatically.
He gripped my hips and hauled me back into position. “Then get your ass back in the air and stay where I put you.” He gave each of my sore cheeks a slap for emphasis. My pussy responded with a throb and a clench. I wanted him to put his hands on me again. I was already addicted to the rough way he touched me.
Instead I got the belt, ouch, ouch, owww. The repetitive thwacks could be explained to hotel security as something innocuous, but my screams would be more problematic, so I was careful to muffle them. My whole body resonated with excited fear and arousal. I loved that he was hurting me, and that he knew what he was doing. I suppose in some slavey sense I loved him for beating me down into subspace, but not giving me more than I could take.
Like his cock, he was perfect.
I shook and sniveled until he stopped and threw the belt on the bed. The buckle clinked, a gentle metallic sound after so much agony. I thought I should tell my Master about that sound, but he probably wouldn’t appreciate it. I didn’t want to think about my other Master right now, even though I was supposed to. I wanted to be in the moment with this new Master. He walked across the room and took off his pants. There was his perfect cock, thick and hard. He dug a condom out of his luggage, and a bottle of lubricant.
Which, of course, meant only one thing.
He put on the condom and slathered himself up, and I watched and thought, he’s really very big. Perfect, but big when you’re talking about anal sex. I had a safe word to use, but I’d forgotten it.
Not really. I still remembered it (Harry Potter!) but I pretended in my mind that I’d forgotten it as he knelt behind me and grabbed my tender welted cheeks in his hands, and stuck the thick head of his cock against my asshole. I relaxed as well as I could. I was a horny, worthless slave, and I loved being assfucked, but it still hurt. I bit down on the washcloth and groaned as he pressed his way in.
Oh, so big. He grabbed my hands as he pushed deeper. He drove into me inch by slow inch, the lubricant easing the way even as my hole ached and stretched to accommodate his girth. The slowness made it feel worse somehow, like pain in slow motion. I moaned, and it was a real moan, not a sexy, manufactured one. It was a moan because he was prying me open—and he didn’t care if it hurt.
Once he was seated balls-deep, he set a steady, firm rhythm, sliding all the way in and all the way out every time, so I felt really fucked, really used. His fingers tightened on my wrists, and he made a sound like it felt as freaking good to him as it felt scary to me. It didn’t exactly hurt now that he was inside me, but he was drilling me, taking my ass like he owned it.
Meanwhile, my pussy sulked, craving pleasure, wanting to be filled. Nope. So twisted, his wanton disregard for my pleasure. No whispers, no cares
ses or clitoral attention, just a good mouth-fucking in the taxi, and now this industrious invasion of my ass. The backs of my thighs still stung from his belt. I was so gone, so blissfully spacey.
I arched my back and he fucked me harder, using the bondage tape as a handle to corral me when I tried to shrink away from his pounding strokes. His balls smacked against my clit, and his knees pressed in on either side of me. I think if you’re not a submissive person, you can’t understand how heavenly it feels to be trapped and taken this way, and held down, and used. My clit buzzed every time he banged into me, and my nipples chafed against the carpet. My whole body shook. I was seconds from orgasm, just from the pain and bondage.
My Master never allowed me to come without asking first. This man didn’t say anything and so I let the orgasm bloom as he fucked me. My hands curled into fists and I wailed into the cottony gag in my mouth.
He laughed, a wild, rough laugh. He was wild and rough, and he had beautiful blue eyes, and he knew just how to hurt me. Better than your Master knows, I thought. It was a terrible, disloyal truth. Tears formed in my eyes, from pleasure or guilt or some other emotion I couldn’t name in my current overstimulated state.
He pressed me down on the carpet, leaning hard on my shoulders, and then he came in my ass with a series of aggressive thrusts. His palm moved up my spine as I writhed beneath him. He wrapped his fingers in my hair and pulled. At the same time, he leaned down over me, enveloping me in his warmth. He could have killed me then and I wouldn’t have minded. I would have watched the blood flow out and thought, For you. He could have done anything, and I would have laid there and let him do it.
He pressed his cheek against mine, pulled out the washcloth and teased the corner of my mouth with his lips. That was when he noticed I was crying.
“What’s wrong?” he asked. “Too much?”
“No. It was perfect.”
“Tears that it’s over, then?”
“Maybe.”
“But I’m not done with you yet.” He nudged me onto my side, checked my wrists and ankles in the bondage tape, then leaned down and looked into my weepy eyes. “You remember the safe word I gave you?”