No one stops her this time. She falls on her belly, hands still tied to the rail, finished.
“Evie,” she hears Jacob’s voice, sharply waking her. “Up, face your audience.” Her hands have been untied. She can kneel before them, looking up at them embarrassed. Perhaps she expects a round of cocks and cunts pushed into her mouth, but no zippers fly, or skirts get raised. They can mock her with their eyes and then leave her to herself, humbled, crushed by what they know about her.
Long after the last guest leaves, the house is quiet except for the occasional scurrying mouse, except for the natural creaks and groans, the sound of wind reeling through the trees outside. The master has dismissed his protégé, giving him a good report of the girl’s performance, sending him to the stables where he’ll find the new ones waiting for their first taste of training. The younger man understands the truth, understands that Evie will be violated before the night’s out. But not by him. This was supposed to be his duty, his right and his pleasure. But he’s been eclipsed by seniority he can’t dispute.
Interlude….
In Jacob’s place, the master slips down the cellar stairs to the girl’s cell. The room is black except for the burning candle he carries in his hand. She’s not awake, but not completely asleep. She is as he needs her, pliable, sensuous, adrift, willing to have him as he chooses. He massages her beauty with ardent hands running over immaculate flesh, grazing against her slightly erect nipples, fingers closing in over the buds to give them a squeeze and a jolt of pain. She moves out of her sleep, but not entirely. Her heart beats a little faster, though her mind remains still; she’d rather not know any more than what her lethargic consciousness is telling her. His hand runs deep into the cleft of her ass, so she turns, still bound to the rail above, raising her ass for him, as if she wants him there. It might be her pleasure, too, under other circumstances; but the day and night have made her weary, and her bones ache deep for one so young. She breathes in, immersing herself in what surrounds her, finding his scent among those inside the cellar, among the thick musk of dirt, amidst the candle smoke and vanilla perfumed wax. His fingers lodge against her anus, pressing hard, finding that the opening will give with just a gentle shove. He prepares his way, greasing it with cream until he’s knows his member will slip inside with hardly a wince from her.
Behind her now, his cock moves forcefully, lunging into her entrails, moving briskly. Two days of her have been enough to have him frantic for this climax. He holds back for a time, but then picks up speed because his body demands it. In his younger days, he might have fucked her for an hour before he came. But it’s just minutes now. The explosion floods him, exhilaration sweeping veins, fissures, nerves and body valleys, places where he hasn’t been for years now. He holds her hips within his hands, afraid of letting go, afraid for himself that he’ll never find another one like her. He has his regrets all wrapped up in this awesome moment of climax, filling him, relentlessly pressing on him, the way his cock pressed for its satisfaction seconds ago.
He relaxes, eases, withdraws and lets her go, backing off the bed. She slumps to the mattress. She seems even more helpless now and he can’t resist sitting beside her, stroking her back. “Look up at me,” he says—half to see if she’s awake or really sleeping.
She opens her eyes, rising slightly.
“Kiss me, girl,” he says.
Her innocence leads, brings her lips to his, and with them full and round and wet, she kisses his thin ones. She lingers there for several seconds and then falls back. It is difficult to maintain her position without the use of her hands.
In a fatherly gesture, he strokes her hair, runs his hand across her face and smiles.
“You will learn, I can see that now,” he offers what he thinks is encouragement.
She finds it unnecessary to reply. She’s too sleepy, too lost inside herself, too bewildered to say a thing. What point is it being nice to me now? her weary mind manages to wonder.
Having made quick work of the girls in the stable, Jacob returned to the ranch house, going directly to the viewing room where scenes from the cellar play like an old black and white movie on the wide-screen TV. There’s no mistake that his mentor purposely left the cameras on and the TV playing. He throws the facts in front of Jacob’s face, smiling all the while, reminding the young buck who he is and why he’ll always have the upper hand. He knows the rules of the game better than any of its players. Trainers have sole access to their trainees. The guidelines state that fact directly. And still, the old man will break the rules when it suits him, when the take is as extraordinary as this delicious creature.
Jacob should have known, should have realized the unwritten laws before he began. It wouldn’t matter so much now if it weren’t for Evie herself. Any other girl is just a girl, just a hand to play, winning, losing doesn’t matter. But the stakes are higher with this one. He may have the encouragement and support of his mentor, but he’ll never have his trust, and never have the power he wields. Both men know that. The old man laughs at him though the wide screen TV set, as Jacob watches the climax, and hears the groaning of perfect bliss. The way his mentor strokes her hair, the kiss that’s made for him to see, the fatherly pronouncement at the end, beautifully staged.
The lights inside the house are out, except for the lonely one in the viewing room where the TV plays a dark newsreel of the girl downstairs, sleeping. Jacob’s gone to bed, the man presumes—unless he’s still in the stable. The view outside the window—the stables are as dark as the rest of his ranch. All bedded down for the night… he pours a brandy, sits in his leather easy chair and sips the liquor slowly. He has all the time in the world to play back the last sweet hour, to savor the sensuousness of his newest property. The girls in the stable don’t count; this one counts for everything.
***
Her days at the ranch are filled with endless, meaningless training rituals, designed to make her think robotically, do exactly as she’s told, quickly, without question or hesitation. Some days she toes the line like a gung-ho soldier; on other days, she’s as lazy as an old dog on a hot afternoon. She’s perfectly ‘Evie’ every hour, infinite in her choice of behavior, in mood, in charm, in sass. The way she holds her head at a saucy angle, smiles from the corner of her mouth; the way her plump lips pout coyly, sensuously, the way she tosses her head and the blonde curls go flying. She has them mesmerized.
The girls that languished for inattention in the stable don’t count; this one counts for everything. And yet… there have already been bids cast for Evie. Jacob went rabidly sexual after with her, once he saw the big screen TV version of his mentor with the girl. And still, he is trumped every night the old man wants her… “Hands off, I’m taking the brat to bed,” he’ll say, wearing his carnal urges on his sleeve. As if he’s in a drug-induced stupor, unable to stop himself, he moves decisively to the cellar and the girl’s cell. Jacob is conspicuously mocked each time, although after that first occasion, the camera is turned off in the cellar before his mentor makes his trip, so that no ones sees what’s happening in the bowels of the house. Evie will never tell him, and Jacob hasn’t the guts to ask her. In a particularly perverse and twisted play for control, the master tapes all of Jacob’s scenes with the girl, and later plays them before the younger man, watching the expression on his face, looking for even a hint of pain. It’s there, he knows it’s there, and that is satisfaction enough to put a smile on his face. Regardless, he sees this girl as an eventual liability, with Jacob’s attention to her dangerous. Just three weeks after her arrival, he posts her pictures in appropriate places. The interest in her is just as he expects.
20 December – I will be sending the foreign blonde tart on this week. Premature? Yes. A measure some here will despise me for? Yes. But advisable, without a doubt. I’m sure a permanent position will suit her much better than what I can afford here.
The Girl
I ran away from home when I was sixteen, though there wasn’t much to run
away from. Slums, screaming mothers, big-fisted uncles with leering eyes, and a heap of trouble everywhere I turned—my world was coming apart, not that I was ‘altogether’ in the first place. was in the business of war and hate most of my childhood. And I, being a silly, penniless waif on the streets, landed in the detention home every time I turned around—pretty common for runaways like me. They hauled us in at mid-night, only to release us at , because they didn’t want to feed us. The kitchen wasn’t much of a kitchen, and they had the hardcores to feed—the ones they wouldn’t let go. Prostitutes and runaways could fend for themselves.
And I did—fend for myself. We ran in packs, enough to topple a local grocery store and run off laughing. But, I was drug screaming into the detention center one too many times, until some smart matron decided to label me ‘incorrigible’, ‘habitual offender’, ‘likely to be in the system for life’. You’d think that would have been enough to keep me behind their bars for good—and by then, I wasn’t sure if I really cared what they did with me since there was so little to live for on the outside. But the men in charge had other plans for me—selling me off from one guy to the next, until I was on a plane for , sitting beside this enormous, ugly bastard who smelled like onions and minty aftershave. If I even moved a muscle, he’d clutch my hand, reminding me that I belonged to him for those miserable hours and I’d better not try to get away. Forty-eight hours later, I was taken from a deserted landing field to a ranch somewhere in the middle of nowhere, run by an old man and a much younger hot-looking cowboy. It took my eyes days to adjust to the change—from the drab, war-weary streets of my sad country to the paradise blue skies, wide spaces and dusty roads of . Fact was, I wasn’t given much time to adjust. The old man and the cowboy had more plans for me, in which I had no say.
At first, I didn’t see much difference between the two of them—the old man always gave me chills, but after just a few days, the cowboy sort of grew on me.
In my first few days, I bowed, I scraped, I did what I was told… and for ‘getting myself off’ the only way I could—I was so damned pent-up I couldn’t sleep—I got flogged before some fancy dinner party—like I was part of the entertainment. That night, the old man fucked me for the first time. And after that, I got fucked when they wanted me, taken in the ass, the cunt and my mouth. I didn’t mean squat to them, except as a wind up sex doll. And then, they kept staring at me. I don’t understand why, but, like some silly school kid, I flirted back. And when I wasn’t in the mood for flirting, I bitched, did my usual game. It didn’t seem to matter how I acted, the treatment was the same, their raunchy hunger eventually made me hungry. The sex was raw and rugged.
After about two weeks, I figured out their game… the old man would come to screw me with a fat erection and a florid face—I guessed he was taking the funny pill, the one that turned his flabby member into something memorable. As long as my eyes were closed, I could imagine movies stars in my ass. Or I could pretend I had Gino, the soccer player of my dreams in bed with me, or if I was really horny, half the soccer team from my hometown, all sweating, having their rutting way with me.
I might have felt sorry for the old man if he were decent to me at all. But the only time he treated me human was after sex—and then, only sometimes. Sometimes, he’d stroke my hair or make me kiss him, when I really wanted to spit in his face. But by then, I hardly had the strength; my pussy or ass—particularly my ass—would be raw and feeling like he’d massaged it with sandpaper.
The younger man, the cowboy, trained me—a term they liked to use, which simply referred to a hundred ways of abusing my body. Being trained wasn’t all bad, though. If he was good, and I was in the mood, I sometimes enjoyed myself.
The old man and the young cowboy were like mixing oil and water. And though I tested their shaky alliance, all of us knew who had to win, who had the bucks in his pocket and all the power. If I’d wanted the master, I could have had him, but every time I thought of kissing up to his weather-beaten face, my stomach soured. Oh sure, he was probably the hot stud when he was in his twenties, but that was over thirty years ago, and I wasn’t around then to have that handsome brute turn my juices on. In the here and now, I was nineteen, thousands of miles from my home, scared to death of my future—and, occasionally, when the stars were right in heaven, stupidly smitten by the tight-assed cowboy, his sexy smile, his nasty eyes.
I’m afraid my lust became the source of all our grief. The boy hated the man for having me; the man hated me for wanting the boy, and I hated them both for their attitude toward women. What right had they to use me, to make me their toy, train me like a hound for sex and their sadistic whims? I could have fought back—the forced sex, the sadism, my humiliation—except that there was this weirdly glorious feeling at the bottom end of my sexual self. If I closed my eyes, and emptied my head of everything but what my body felt, I was okay, more than okay; I was a happy slut, and couldn’t hate either man. Strange paradox, huh?
I often wondered about the other girls—not the tough ones, or the ones like me, who made due, finding some sweet mystery inside the pain and humiliation. I wondered about the ones with soft faces, and innocence that looked these bastards in the eye with tears and sadness, and found nothing but sadistic pleasure coming back at them.
I wondered about little Chloe most. She should have been in church, reciting a hundred Hail Marys to the glory of God. Her face was like that of an angel, her clear complexion flawless, her eyes without a hint of lust, her blonde hair the wispy, natural kind that floats about the air like spun gold. I wanted her. First time I saw her, some weird, maternal feeling made my heart jump. Me? Nineteen? Maternal? Hey, I was in a damned world where life was misshapen; why wouldn’t my own feelings be as unnatural as the setting?
I hoped the trainer would put Chloe and me in connecting cells; instead, she was across the corridor, usually curled in a ball. Late the first night, with the brutes upstairs, I called to her quietly, hoping the cameras and microphones wouldn’t see me or hear me talking. Yes, they thought I didn’t know about the spying devices, but girls in my position train ourselves to listen, to carefully watch, to know our habitat as if we’d built it ourselves. There’s hardly a thing that happens that we don’t know about, or rightly guess.
“Chloe…” I whispered softly, and repeated several times, before she finally turned to me, pulling out of fetal position and moving to the iron bars. “You’re going to be okay,” I tried to soothe her, at the same time wondering why I was risking myself to comfort the poor thing.
That was when she smiled. I thought I’d forged some bond with her, but once she heard a commotion from the far side of the corridor, she scampered back to her bed and closed her eyes.
I imagine the men thought Chloe was mousy, tiny boobs, hardly a curve to her little body. She looked like skin and bones; so drawn and wasted one would wonder if they got her at the morgue. But then, they didn’t see her smile. That one time, when she followed me with her eyes and finally smiled, giggling, I knew what a peach she could be. She didn’t belong at the ranch—as if any of us really did—but Chloe least of all. I knew where our lives were headed, we had all the clues. And I figured I could take it; the rest of the girls along with me. All of us seemed to be drug off the same mean streets—all but Chloe. She should have been in church, singing anthems, making the world a holier place.
If I thought my captors had twisted minds using me the way they did, I knew their schemes were beyond any decent imagination, when I watched what happened to my pale-faced friend.
The night was young enough. I’d been in my cell, ignored for nearly a day. I think I pissed off my trainer—or at least the old man did and I was paying the price. Two nights in a row, my cowboy’s plans for fucking me were frustrated, when the old man came to me first. I suppose my trainer, they call him Jacob, thought I had something to do with the old guy’s fascination for girls like me. He didn’t understand how much I wanted nothing to do with the ancient one. I wante
d the cowboy’s youth, his young muscles, his hard dick, his tight ass, his perverse and sexy smile. But by then, I knew I’d never have him, and I think he knew that, too. And instead of taking me when he could, he took his revenge on Chloe, making me watch the entire scene from my cell.
“Time to toughen you up, broad,” he told her as he clicked the lock on her cell and opened the metal grate. She shivered in the corner of her bed, tears again. I suppose from their point of view, her little act was getting old. I thought it was real, and they should have seen that she’d never be the kind of sex toy they really wanted. She’d never love it, never in a million years, never… of course, maybe that was the point. Maybe their pleasure came from seeing her forced, really forced without a hint of enjoyment.
The trainer showed up with another man—some big fellow with a lordly, judgmental look on his heavy face. My knees trembled as he swept the tiny cell with a power that put me in awe. I can’t imagine what poor Chloe was thinking, how her bones rattled and her blood turned cold, her nerves frayed at the ends.
“Show him your ass, honey,” the slicks sounds of the trainer’s sex-voice ran in waves through the cellar—to me, to the other girls along the corridor, up the stairs, out the windows, everywhere. Hearing that voice… if I closed my eyes, I could imagine it happening to me; my own sex juice gathered sticky between my thighs. I rubbed my pussy lightly against the side of the bed—my not-so-private sex crime—hopefully, not enough for anyone else to notice. I suppose the hidden camera captured everything on tape, but by then, I couldn’t care less what they saw—to toe their line or act like the lazy slut I was made no difference in how I was treated, so I went back to my old routine, doing exactly as I pleased.
The Seller, Buyer, Girl and Her Master Page 8