Punish Me, Please Me

by Ashley Zacharias

  No. She was pulled to a sitting position and efficient fingers unbuckled the collar from her neck. The cuff on her left wrist was unlocked and then Paul’s voice said, “Clean yourself and get dressed. Go downstairs and stand in the center of the lobby at exactly five o’clock.”

  By the time she had removed the blindfold, he had already left the room. Familiar clothes from her suitcase – her navy blue skirt, pale blue blouse, pantyhose, and panties – were draped over the back of the chair.

  She showered, washed her hair, and brushed her teeth, but had no makeup in the room, not even lipstick, so looked pale and wan in the mirror.

  Only when she began to dress did she realize that no bra had been included with the clothes that had been left. And, worse, when she put the blouse on, she realized that all the buttons had been removed from the top half. The highest button that she could close was below the bottom of her unrestrained breasts. Every time she moved, the top half of the blouse gaped open and flashed glimpses of the inner curves of her breasts, all the way down to the crease at the bottom. She experimented a little in front of the mirror and found that, if she leaned forward far enough to let her breasts hang, the front of the blouse would gape wide and someone could look inside and see her nipples clearly; if she then twisted to the side, her breast would fall into the gap and more than half would be exposed, including her entire nipple. She would have to move carefully to maintain her modesty. She wouldn’t be riding any mechanical bulls in this outfit. She hoped.

  When she stepped into the hallway and let the door close behind her, she was aware that she was locked out of her room. She had no key card, no money, and no identification. Though now fully clothed, but for the lack of bra and buttons on the top half of her blouse, she felt more vulnerable than when she had been when she had been locked inside her room, naked with no access to clothing.

  Celine was a naturally shy person. For her, being put on display in public was far more difficult than making herself available for anonymous sex in private.

  * * *

  This time she was not surprised to be kept standing in the middle of the lobby for ten minutes – she had no watch to time herself, but there was a clock behind the reception counter.

  Even without makeup, she was conscious that men were looking at her with naked interest. She agreed with Paul’s assessment: it wasn’t the clothes. The white blouse and navy skirt looked modest and professional. She could not resist glancing down at her chest frequently to ensure that the front of the blouse remained closed. Even lacking a bra and buttons on the top half, the blouse looked normal. As long as she did not move much, it stayed closed over her cleavage just as well as if she were able to button it up to the penultimate hole. The fabric was reasonably opaque and her nipples and aureoles were light pink in color so there was no way for anyone to see them through the fabric. Yet men still stared at her. She could only conclude that, despite her conservative clothing, she looked available. Did men have some instinct that told them that she had let herself be used by unknown strangers twice already this afternoon and would submit again on command? Was there something in her posture or did she reek of some mysterious pheromone that told men that, of all the women in the lobby, she was the one most easily available for their use?

  As she stood there, she looked at all the men walking past. Surely one of them was the mysterious Exeter, watching her, appraising her from a distance, signaling to Paul how she should be prepared for further use. Was it the distinguished gentleman with the salt and pepper goatee standing in the line waiting to check in? He had no luggage. Maybe he would step out of line as soon as she left. Maybe Paul would take her away before he reached the front and had to expose his deception.

  Or maybe Exeter was the large, athletic man who looked like a linebacker. That one already had two young women standing beside him, fawning over him, but that meant nothing. When he traveled, Master Exeter would likely bring other sex slaves along to keep him amused. Or maybe those young women were slaves-in-training just like her and tomorrow, she would be standing at his side with them, prepared to obey any command, to satisfy his slightest whim.

  Or maybe Exeter was one of the two middle-aged businessmen in gray suits who were lounging by the door. Maybe the second man was another slave master. Maybe slavery was their business and they were comparing techniques, devising more efficient ways to degrade and dominate their women. For the third time in the last few minutes, one of those men glanced at her, examining her from toe to head as though she were a product on a shelf, waiting to be purchased. She met his eyes and smiled tentatively. He smiled back, confidently, then turned to his partner and made some comment that elicited an enthusiastic nod. Maybe Paul had not been the second man who had penetrated her this afternoon. Maybe these two masters were comparing their experiences and judging the quality of her flesh.

  She turned to look at the man with the goatee and saw that he was looking back at her, too.

  A voice, Paul’s voice, whispered in her ear, “Clasp your hands behind your back.”

  She obeyed without looking around. As soon as her shoulders were pulled back, the blouse that she had been so carefully managing gaped wide, each side pulling half-way to the edge of her aureoles, exposing the center of her chest half-way to her navel. The goatee man’s eyes widened with interest when presented with indisputable evidence that she could not possibly be wearing a bra.

  She dropped her gaze to the floor in front of her.

  “You can let your hands fall back to your sides, but do not touch your blouse again for the rest of the evening.”

  She unclasped her hands and let them dangle by her sides. Glancing down, she saw that her blouse continued to gape open – the soft polyester did not have enough body to drape back together when her shoulders relaxed.

  She resisted the urge to reach up and pull the front closed again. If Paul wanted her to look like this for the rest of the night, then she would do it. Just call her “Miss Ready Tits.” She should get business cards printed with her new slogan: “Come play with my mounds. All oglers welcome.”

  She was starving, not having eaten since breakfast, but Paul did not take her directly to a restaurant. Rather, he escorted her over a pedestrian overpass to a Victoria’s Secret store at the Caesar's Forum Shops. Caesar’s Casino is directly across the Strip from the Flamingo, but Celine found it to be a long walk. Everything is big in Las Vegas. It is one of the few places on earth where stretch Hummers fit the scale of the city.

  Paul put her credit card in her hand along with a shopping list: “corset, seamed stockings, garter belt, boots with high heels, shoes with higher heels.” There were no bras or panties on the list; not even a thong. There was a notation at the bottom: “Choose sexy. Return with anything that is not sexy enough and you’ll have go back and buy it again. Really high heels are sexy. Imagine the costume that a street walker would wear on a television program and then look for something sluttier.”

  Celine understood exactly what Paul had in mind. What the hell? This was Vegas. No one knew her from Eve. She could force herself to do this. But she was at a loss to know what clothing would look the sluttiest. She handed the note directly to the nearest clerk, a pretty girl in her mid-twenties, and said, “This is what my boyfriend wants me to buy. I’m sure you have a better idea about what he’s looking for than I do.”

  The young woman looked at the front of Celine's blouse gaping open to reveal half her naked chest and raised an eyebrow.

  Celine laughed. “I mean because you know what you stock in this store.”

  The girl smiled. It was not a friendly smile. “I know exactly what your boyfriend would like to see you wearing.”

  She fitted Celine to an open-side black patent anklestrap pump with a three and three-quarter inch heel that put her up on her toes. Then she added a black leather knee-high boot with a four and a quarter inch heel. Contrary to the instructions on the shopping list, the boot had a higher heel than the shoe, but Celine hoped th
at Paul would forgive that technicality. They were the highest heels that the store stocked in both shoes and boots and both were equally uncomfortable.

  The garter belt and stockings were easy. Paul had not specified a color so Celine decided to get two sets, one black and the other red. He could decide which was sluttier. That was his area of expertise.

  The corset was another matter. “We don’t really have a corset,” the clerk explained. “We stock bustiers. They look something like corsets and have some support, but they don’t have the kind of boning that would be needed to give you a waist.” She looked at Celine's midriff with a sneer. “You’ll need to go to a specialty shop for something that could accomplish that.”

  Celine was stung by the insult. Maybe she was a few pounds overweight, but she still had a waist. She looked good enough naked for two men to want to fuck her this afternoon. “Show me the bustiers.”

  Again she bought two – one in red satin and one in black lace – not so much to please Paul but to show the clerk that bustiers were just fine for her. She didn’t need a corset to look good for her man.

  The clerk disagreed. After ringing up her purchases, she told Celine, “You can get corsets at Fredrick’s of Hollywood another mile down the street but they don’t have anything serious. If your boyfriend wants you to do something about that tummy, you should go to the Bad Attitude Boutique downtown. They know how to bone you properly.”

  Celine did not reply. As far as she was concerned, she’d already been boned pretty damn well today, twice, and thought it likely that she’d get boned at least once more after dinner.

  Paul disagreed. When Celine explained that she had had to buy bustiers instead of corsets, he instructed her to go back and ask the clerk for the address of the boutique that she had recommended.

  The clerk smirked something awful as she scrawled an address on a piece of paper. “You’ll like them. They have plus sizes in stock. Make sure that you tell them that you need serious waist training.” She laughed as she gave the paper to Celine.

  Great, Celine thought as she walked back out of the store. A total stranger thinks that even my waist needs slave training. Slutty little bitch. Then she looked down at her gaping braless cleavage and thought about the contents of her bag and laughed at herself. Who was she to talk when Victoria’s Secret wasn’t slutty enough for her shopping needs? Still, she was annoyed at the gratuitous slam about plus sizes just because she wasn’t anorexic. She was a normal-sized twenty-eight-year old. She’d never needed a plus size in her life.

  She was hardly surprised when Paul sent her up to her room to change into her new shoes, garter belt and stockings with seams up the back. He told her to put her panties and pantyhose into the bag and bring it back down to the lobby. She spent another ten minutes standing there displaying herself before Paul returned carrying his own bag with her purse inside. “You’ll drive us down to Bad Attitude.”

  She obeyed.

  It took almost an hour and three hundred dollars to fit her in a black leather “Maiden” style corset. The clerk there made no snarky comments and didn’t blink an eye when Celine removed her blouse, leaving herself naked from the waist up for the fitting. The corset fit under her breasts, leaving them free, and reduced her waist noticeably. She had to breathe by expanding her chest more and her diaphragm less. Paul had come into the shop with her and instructed her to wear it under her blouse. A glimpse of black leather was visible at the bottom of the gap created by the missing buttons. With the corset in place, the waistband of her skirt was noticeably looser. She could feel her nipples rubbing lightly against the fabric of the blouse every time she took a breath.

  It was slightly uncomfortable but Celine expected that she would get used to it soon enough. It was not as uncomfortable as the high-heeled shoes that thrust her feet up onto her toes.

  It made her voice more breathy.

  As they walked back to her car, Paul commented, “If any men proposition you, neither accept nor refuse them. Tell them that they have to make arrangements through me.”

  His tone was casual, but serious. Celine’s stomach knotted at his words. If she followed his orders then she was allowed to refuse no one; Paul could make her available to anyone in any way that he wished. She wondered if his ‘arrangements’ would include cash payments for her services or simply an appointment for a specific time and place when she would be available to them.

  Not for the first time, she wondered if the two men who had fucked her this afternoon were simply random men who had paid Paul for her services. For all she knew, she was not a slave at all, merely a common prostitute. Not only a common hooker but the most pathetic of prostitutes, a woman who was deluding herself that she was something else entirely.

  She felt her nipples rubbing against the fabric of her blouse as she walked along a Las Vegas street, felt the warm desert air blowing up her skirt against her naked cunt, still filled with strange men’s semen, felt her toes crushed into her brand new fuck-me shoes, and felt utterly degraded. In less than twenty-four hours she had been reduced from a middle-school English teacher to a sin city hooker.

  She could not understand why she felt so happy about it.

  Maybe it was because every man who walked past her on the sidewalk, young, old, handsome or ugly, looked like he would do almost anything to have her.

  Maybe it was because she knew that all these men had to do was ask and her body was available for their pleasure.

  Or maybe it was because, unlike real hookers, she could say “red light” and walk away any time she wanted. Or maybe not. She had promised herself when she first checked into the hotel that she would not call “red light” unless she felt like she was in real, immediate danger or suffering intolerable pain. She had decided to give the sex slave lifestyle her best effort and now intended to pursue the adventure to the end because, as a helpless sex slave, she was feeling more free and more powerful than she had ever imagined anyone could. If that meant allowing herself to be sold to half the men in Las Vegas for the next two weeks, then so be it.

  She had not yet seen Master Exeter but he was fulfilling his contract with her to her complete satisfaction.

  * * *

  Paul told her to drive back to the Flamingo Hotel. After she parked, he took her car keys and purse and put them in a plastic bag. She laughed at the bag because she realized that he was embarrassed to be seen walking around carrying her purse. He ignored her chuckles and said, “Wait for me in the lobby,” with a note of annoyance.

  She spent another ten minutes on display in the center of the lobby. Every time she did this, she felt like more men were noticing her than the last time. Having seams running up the backs of her legs practically shouted, “This woman is wearing kinky underwear!” and men stared at her tits and ass as though they thought that looking hard enough would give them X-ray vision. At this rate, by the end of next week, all activity in the lobby would come to a screeching halt every time she got off the elevator. Because, the way the trend was going, Paul would be ordering her to wait for him in the nude. Then every man in the hotel really would stop and stare.

  Once again, she wondered if one of the men watching her was the elusive Master Exeter. Was he watching her every time she was forced to stand on display in the lobby? Though she looked carefully at each male face in the crowd, none looked more familiar than any other.

  Paul again spoke to her from behind. “Follow me.” How did he manage to always approach her from behind, no matter which way she was looking?

  She obeyed and, within a few minutes, was being seated across from him in one of the hotel restaurants. The name, “Steakhouse46”, implied the she would find steak on the menu. She guessed that the “46” was appended because that was the year that Bugsy Siegel built the Flamingo, the first hotel on the Strip. She did not see steak or anything else on the menu because the waiter brought only one and gave it to Paul. As well he set a basket of rolls on the table between them.

  Paul moved the b
asket next to his plate, out of her reach, and then ordered for both of them. Apparently she was going to get a strip loin steak and house salad with no dressing whether she wanted it or not. It was good that she was not a vegetarian because she was too hungry to eat only salad. Paul ordered a rib eye steak for himself with a baked potato on the side.

  While they were waiting for the food, Paul asked, “How many women in this room do you think are sexual slaves?”

  Celine was taken aback. She thought that she was unique. Maybe it was a trick question. “All of them?” she asked tentatively.

  “Are you stupid?” Paul asked.

  “No,” she replied with a note of defiance in her voice.

  “Were you a sexual slave yesterday?”

  “No,” she admitted more contritely. Her answer had been stupid. Of course most women were not sexual slaves.

  “So it they are not all sexual slaves then what percentage of them are?”

  “I don’t know,” seemed to be the safest answer.

  “Correct. You do not know. Most women are not sexual slaves, but more are than you realize. Hookers under the control of their pimps, motorcycle chicks with ‘Property of the Hell’s Angels’ tattooed across their rumps, wives of immigrants from some foreign cultures, women raised in some fundamentalist religious cults all spring to mind as examples of women who could be sexual slaves. And then there are the bondage enthusiasts who get so far into their fetish that they give themselves over to their tops. And there are women without education or resources who are simply beaten into submission by their husbands and have no way to leave or fight back. There’s what? Maybe thirty or forty women in this room? Let’s define a sexual slave as a woman who is obligated to service a man sexually at any time in any way he wishes whether she wants to or not. Furthermore, let us say that a woman is only a sexual slave if she knows that she is obligated to service a man regardless of her own desires and has accepted it, even if reluctantly. By that definition, a trophy wife who has signed a prenuptial agreement and is willing to accommodate her husband’s every desire in order to maintain access to his credit cards may be considered a sexual slave. It is reasonable to expect that at least ten percent of the women in this room are sexual slaves. It could be as high as twenty-five percent. Look around. Make an educated guess about which women are sexual slaves and then see if they look unhappy compared to the others.”