My beating her seemed like the least of two evils—if I did her ass, I could keep it simple, light, something she could take.
“And don’t go easy on her,” the man plucked the thoughts from my brain so quickly that he made it spin.
I love her, then I beat her? Seemed absurd, but that feeling only lasted an instant.
Why the hell not beat her? my wicked inner-self decided.
Taking the cane, I crawled forward, and took a position, still on my knees, to the left of her raised ass. I was scared, but in a funny way aroused by the idea and the weird sensation in my clenched fist. Rearing back, I snapped the cane against her ass. She jerked, but didn’t squeal. Another cut and another… the cane was soon snapping of its own accord, either that, or something beyond myself was powering my arm, my hand, and the cane gripped inside it. I was beating her and beating myself, suddenly in a frenzy, whipping her hard. Unexpected venom poured out of me to her, my hate, my fear, my pent-up rage all transferred to Chloe. I hated her for being here, the same away I hated myself for getting into this awful place. I hated her for not rebelling, and myself for having failed in the same way. The road down the sadist’s path was dark and frightening.
I tore at her, all the wrath in me unleashed… and more coming. Then I stopped. Abruptly. Without apparent reason. Control. I had to take control.
I dropped the cane, and fell into her wounded behind, caressing the mean welts I’d left on her cheeks. I was sure the trainer would be mad and force me to start again, but then, maybe he knew I’d respond this way and this was that he wanted.
“Play with her ass, Evie,” he ordered with a crisp chill in his voice. Did he hate me the way I hated Chloe? Were we all connected that way—by a long line of demented thinking that began long before any of us had such crazy notions in our minds?
Crazier still, I had no problem loving her again, even following my bewildering abuse of her. My hand glided easily between her cheeks, probing deeply. Forgetting my surroundings, I pushed my fingers into the tiny virgin hole, and then realizing that this was still to be sacred, untouched territory, I backed off to the available rear entrance.
“In her ass, Evie,” the plans were confirmed to me at this urging.
I greased the path with her abundant juices, slithering not one but two, then three, then four fingers. Her body widened, even though there were tense seconds of anxiousness before the taut barrier gave way, a little at a time. I didn’t have to be told what the end result would be, that my trainer wanted my whole hand inside the girl’s little ass. He may have ordered me, but by then, I was too inside myself, and inside Chloe to think about trainers, masters, or the dozen spectators who watched the scene, firing their crotches for a good fuck. My fist, breaching the back door, pounded hard, getting pulled in deeper with every thrust. She whimpered softly, sometimes humming, sometimes drifting, sometimes a little crazed, like it started to hurt.
“Easy, baby,” I whispered and she calmed. A half dozen times, I managed to keep her body from revolting. And then, when we least expected it, when my own crotch was humming on the way to a dynamite climax, and I was sure we could get ourselves off at the same time, my body and hand were jerked away. The big man I’d seen in her cell, her husband according to my trainer, plucked her slight form from the floor, and sitting his own ass in a chair, covered his lap with her gasping flesh, picking up where I’d left off, tunneling his way with his hand into her ass.
My entire being revolted—being pulled from a lover not the least of my protest. My stomach wretched, seeing the man’s big hand trying to force its way inside her, Chloe panting, breathless, sobbing, moaning from the terrific ache.
But I only had a few seconds to feel sorry for her. I was immediately jerked to my feet, placed in shackles that had dropped from the ceiling to put me in bondage, and drawn up tight, so I was on tiptoe, stretched from top to bottom. Two women knelt on either side of me, fondling my wet privates, recognizing the fact that I’d been about to come. The pink and white dress stretched with me, but only to a point. It hiked up high over my pussy mound and fanny, and was easily jerked off my tits. Before I felt anything sexual again, I realized that I was being ass raped, too. Not by the women, but by my trainer, who was behind me, sitting on a stool, prying my ass cheeks apart, to gain entrance to my backdoor. The sudden pain shooting through my flesh would have buckled me in two if I hadn’t been suspended.
“Ease off, Evie. If you can do this to her, I can do it to you,” he purred with steel in his voice. “Watch her, you might learn something.”
What was she? Some example of a perfect slut? I doubted that. He just wanted to throw any failing in my face. I wouldn’t give him the pleasure. A second later, my body slackened. I let his probing had do what it wanted, and the pain backed off, hovering on the sidelines, but not grabbing hold of me again.
I was steadied by him, with a sure and constant feeling flooding me everywhere as I allowed him to widen that tiny place within me and accept the inevitable impalement. He fucked me hard—but probably no harder or more cruel than Chloe was fucked by her farce of a husband. Of the two of us, I was the luckiest.
My body seemed to swell beyond my skin, my nerves stood on end advancing in the air around me, and a beautiful sweetness whisked me away so that I wasn’t anywhere near that room.
I was there in their midst, and then I was far far off… one moment an extension of my trainer’s hand, the next flying out the window. I saw all the horror Chloe went through, but I didn’t hear her… like she was mouthing words, gasps of pain, or maybe it was pleasure. Tears streamed down her eyes, like the tears streaming from mine, but mine were for joy as I began to come. Hers remain a mystery to me. She was a slut with contradictions, filled with love and hate, a wisp of a thing who endured brutality for reasons I can’t figure, because I’m not so sure she liked it. I know she looked content after she’d been abused, but this time, of the several times I saw her worked, I knew she wasn’t happy. Maybe she needed a woman the way she needed me that first hour… but what she got was the brute they called her husband, his fat fist pummeling her insides, forcing her to accept, accept without objection. Yes, she made her objections known, but the man in the chair with his fist in her ass wouldn’t let up until she gave in.
I was pretty out of it by that time, but I noticed how the room changed, how it was suddenly quiet, deafly quiet, spooky. I think there had been music playing, and there were certainly voices of awe speaking in hushed whispers, and coughs and grunts, because someone else was getting fucked. But when it got quiet, I could hear myself breathe, even my heart pounding and the sound of Chloe straining, growling in a low monotone, ugh, ugh, ugh…
My trainer was standing behind me. I’d come, and all of the spasms had washed free of me. He held me so that I wouldn’t faint in the shackles. He kissed my neck. I wanted to turn around and kiss him back, a big full-throated kiss, but that was only because I’d forgotten where I was, and what was happening to me.
There were masters and buyers in the room, I learned later. Chloe and I were just the entertainment, being auditioned for later. Chloe would be prostituted by her husband until she was used up. She’d probably say afterwards…a few years down the road… that this was what she wanted. But I still think of her as a displaced angel, a fallen angel, maybe, who lost her way and did the bidding of a god that couldn’t know who she was because he didn’t have it in him to see the innocence that was there. My trainer told me that her virginity was taken from her in a twenty-four hour gangbang her husband arranged for her first assignment off the ranch. But facts are facts. She’d been spoiled weeks before that ever happened.
***
I fucked the old man as often as I did my trainer. It was easy after a while, going through the motions, seeing him sneak downstairs as if he didn’t really belong there, carefully open my cell so no one would hear, and then immediately dismantle the camera. The third time he came for me, he didn’t try to hide what
he was doing. Didn’t matter to me one way or the other what he did, or who saw. What did I have to hide from these people?
He liked my ass, but took my pussy almost as often. The affairs were short since he didn’t have the firepower of youth for more than a ten-minute fuck. Yet, his dick was always rock hard and felt pretty good fucking inside me. I let it happen because I had no choice. Afterwards, we lived with an awkward ending, when he tried to make up for being the loathsome creature that he was. That was hard to do. I think he believed that grooming women into sex dolls was his right, maybe his duty. Some how he’d set the matter right with whatever god he worshipped, but I’ve never figured exactly how he did that.
My trainer was more pure, but maybe even more complicated. He was sadist enough for the two of them. His eyes burned bright when he was whipping me, beating me, fisting me—if I happened to see his face while he was in the act. His body trembled while he tortured me—the old man’s did, too. But I always thought the old man was scared he’d get caught—by whom, I don’t know.
My trainer never gave off those vibes. His lust was boundless, and genuine even when it wasn’t sadistic. He could easily live with his desires—not like his mentor—the perverted ones and the tender, sacred ones. Like the first time he fisted my ass in front of the audience, he let himself be swept up with me, be one with me from the start to the remarkable finish. It happened repeatedly afterwards. He’d begin a scene as just a scene, a way to exercise his sadistic bent and train me for the terrors I’d face later. He’d begin a scene with the master looking on to see if I was a willing slut or a fighting bitch. And then everything would change, subtly at first, then becoming more than either of us bargained for.
The cowboy had both sides of me—the slutty chick and the frightened innocent. But always, after that first remarkable touch of his hand, when I’d feel the terror within me, the terror would give way and I’d surrender, melt like clay in his hands. He had the power to shape me.
One night, I was tied to the rafters—truly suspended—dangling by my shoulders, my hands and wrists in heavy cuffs to hold me in place. A zipper of clothes pins was locked on to slips of skin in a semi-circle around my belly. Another was fixed in place across my ass. A third connected my breasts, pinching the most tender places on my body with brutal, biting teeth. My chest heaved in fear, my breath was short, my mind flooded with the messages of pain I couldn’t tolerate. I cried for him to stop. But he refused. And then, as the master took over, circling me with a riding crop, flicking stray clothespins off my body, I was overwhelmed with sensation, panicked to my core.
Horrible words were flung from my lips. I called them every four-letter curse I could think of. I shifted into my native language and tongue-lashed them to hell and worse. In a crazy state, I twisted uselessly, as the agony took away all logic. Because I couldn’t calm myself, the master ordered the cowboy to bolt me to the earth, tie my ankles with rope and attach them to heavy stakes anchored deep in the ground. Then I couldn’t move. “You fat, farting, m’fucking bastards! That was me screaming.
Yes, a muscle or two could twitch, and I could manage to twist an inch, but no more. I was otherwise immobile and forced to the take the terror inside me and make something of it. As the last of the zippers was ripped from my body, I nearly fainted. Perhaps I did faint, my thoughts seemed to disappear for a short time until I realized that I was being lowered to the floor and released.
I don’t think the old man cared what I did with the pain he caused, transform, endure it, or let it hurt me. In his eyes, he was training me for battle. I was a job to him by day, then in the middle of the night, a slut to hope for. Maybe he thought he was my savior, come to soothe my wounds. Like he was doing me favors stroking my cheek and smiling. Like I should welcome his sexual advances?
One advantage a girl like me has… the pain and my endurance made me clear-headed when it was finally over. I knew his black heart, his cold soullessness. He only wanted me because the trainer wanted me, because he hoped I might, in some bizarre universe, chose him over the younger man. But even he knew it was useless, that I didn’t want what he offered, that his best hope for a good lay was the upstairs woman who cooked his meals. Maybe some young girl would want him for money, or power. But if she had half a mind, she’d know that his kindness stopped in bed, and she’d be no more to him than Chloe was to her husband.
The cowboy did care about me. At first, I thought he was just trying to manipulate me—no different than his mentor. But that feeling quickly changed. It was more than torture, more than inflicting pain, more than a job. His hands were warm, his eyes genuinely tender, his caress as compassionate as it could be devastating. I shuddered long and hard when I was given permission to come, when his hands were on me, and his touch turned pain to pleasure. He called me anonymous Evie—because, he said, I belonged to no one but myself at times like this. I’m not sure that’s true, but I never disagreed with him.
One of the few times were we truly alone—and the very last we were together—the master was off the ranch, on business elsewhere. I was led to believe he was finding more women, to buy, train and send on to their fate.
The cowboy came to the cellar after working two sluts in the pony pen, teaching them to take bridles and bits and prance like human horses. In my six weeks, I’d been trained in the house alone; the pens and stables and paddocks were for other sluts, not me. The reason why escapes me still. Shirtless, with a fine layer of sweat across his tanned, muscled chest, the smell of fresh dirt like perfume on his skin, he approached my cell and leaned forward, one raised, sinewy arm against the bars. His eyes were locked on me, and wreaked with sexual plans, his face earthy and dispassionate, like a sulking James Dean. My crotch got heavy and sensitive in seconds, feeling as if it was ten times bigger than it really was. The urgent demand drew my hand to my mound, furtively.
“Come here,” he said with head cocked. My eyes locked on his and I waltzed to the bars, taking two in my hands, on either side of my face. He reached in, pulled my head forward and went for my mouth with his lips. He’d been drinking… I don’t think much because he didn’t act drunk, but I could smell the liquor beyond the smell of dirt. The kiss went on, like kids making out. His other hand came through the bars and grabbed for my pulsing crotch. The massage was hard, gripping, his fingers burrowing toward my wet hole, impaling my cunt, searching for the “G” spot, just inside the doorway.
I thought he’d bring me off right there, but he’d suddenly had enough. He pushed me back, grabbed his key and drew me into the corridor. Hustling me upstairs, I detected the urgency through his hands, a wildness I’d never felt before appearing out of his normal self-control.
He led me to the sacred library. I’d only had brief glimpses inside the book-lined room. This was the master’s holy ground and no one went inside without permission. Like he was venting overdue rage, the cowboy whisked the desk clear, causing paperweights, the telephone, pens, a letter opener and a bronze statue to fly like remnants of a bomb blast. The clatter and thudding over, he pushed me forward over the end of the glossy desk, wrapped my wrists with rope above my head and tied it off on the far legs of the desk below. More rope bound my feet to the legs on either side, leaving my ass widely spread, and the tiny dress I wore hiked over my behind. He clamped my labia with heavy weights, causing an instantaneous scream, until I realized that I could endure the thick pain, and the worst of the throbbing stopped. Even so, when the weights swung—which was every time he laid his hand on my ass—I felt them tear a little, as if they were tearing my skin apart. That done, his hand dove for my asshole, the intent from the start pretty clear. Something I was used to, but this time, there was an unexpected twist. Instead of fucking me right off, he fed a bag of ginger-laced water into my entrails, and told me to, “Hold on tight.” With no desire to mess myself, I figured this made sense. But it was only a second, and I could feel a horrible gurgling sensation deep in my gut and a hot fire enflame the sensitive inn
er tissue.
The swiftness of the bondage and enema left me breathless. Obviously, he’d had it all planned out, with the equipment readily at hand, although the whole scene felt like a spontaneous act of war against the man who owned the library and named it sacred territory.
In one chance twist of my head, peering up to the ceiling in front and to the right, I was fascinated to see above us both was another of the many cameras installed around the house. I could see, even without a trained eye, that the camera was rolling, picking up every detail of the scene—and the cowboy didn’t care. I suspect—though I didn’t have this confirmed until later—this was deliberate; a form of revenge for whatever had pissed him off.
It wasn’t my war. Didn’t matter to me if the guy was crazed and pissed and wanted vengeance. I did what I was told, or rather what I was ‘bound’ to do. Submit, hang on to the hot water in my ass, and hope I wouldn’t be soiling the carpets when the cramps in me got too strong. Having me all trussed up and filled to the gills, I lay motionless, thinking that was the best thing to do, given my surrendered position. The cowboy was more sure of me, than I was of myself. Assuming I could take whatever he dished out, he was behind me, fiddling with my ass, then dropping his fingers to my cunt, opening the labia lips, making me ready. I heard the zipper on his blue jeans ripped down, and seconds later felt his aching erection steered toward my sopping hole. One quick thrust, I thought I’d lose it all and the dam would burst—wouldn’t that have been a hoot, soiling the master’s precious territory, while he watched?
“Oh, my, I don’t think I—” I gasped my worry, letting my trainer know I was in serious trouble. But he wasn’t hearing me, or if hearing, he didn’t care. He banged me hard, hanging on to my ass, letting the weights fly back and forth until the pain made me shriek. All my nerves, all my muscles strained, and the pressure was getting hard to take. Still, I hung on, as determined as the cowboy was to end it right.
The Seller, Buyer, Girl and Her Master Page 10