by Trent Evans
The young woman’s striking blue eyes met Ford’s, and for the first time since their arrival at the Council, he saw a glimmer of hope there. “You mean…?”
He couldn’t do it — not yet. She needed to know. All of it.
“I need you to understand what this means,” he said. “You would be entirely subject to me… in all things.”
“You mean even... sexually?” Her voice dropped to little more than a whisper.
He nodded. “Usually, yes, but a lot depends on you.”
“What? I don’t…”
“It all depends on what I think you need — and what you’re really prepared for.”
Falon stared at him for what seemed an eternity, then took a deep breath. “I can’t believe I’m even considering this.” She looked down at her bound hands.
At that moment, Ford wasn’t sure if agreeing to this wouldn’t doom her just as much as her refusal would.
Say yes, you silly, beautiful girl.
Finally, she looked up at Leigh. “So, I can either have to spend a month saying ‘yes, sir’ to Ford, and get a chance at my story… or I’m ruined personally and professionally for the rest of my life? Is that about right?”
“See, you’re a smart girl after all, aren’t you?” Leigh said.
Falon scowled at Ford. “Boy, I wonder what I should choose?”
Chapter 8
Of all the surreal sights Hunter had experienced since coming to visit White Valley, what he beheld at that moment vied for the top spot in his Whiskey Tango Foxtrot list.
Initially shaken by the fact that Von would leave Celina in Hunter’s care, he decided to shake it off, knowing Lacey was indeed in good hands with Troy. Though he wished he could change places with his friend… watching over Celina wasn’t exactly digging ditches either.
If anything, the buxom, dark-haired woman drew even more attention than Lacey had. Celina’s cruelly bound curves were on full, blatant display, and numerous bystanders took advantage of it.
Hunter leaned a shoulder against one of the wrought iron light poles that lined Columbia, his arms crossed over his chest, the crowd to either side of him discussing in hushed tones the goings on before them.
The slapping resumed, and he jerked, giving a sympathetic wince at the sound. Celina, held before a huge, barrel-chested man, groaned, turning her head as the man methodically smacked one of her breasts and then the other, a red blush already rising on both punished globes. When she staggered back slightly, her heartless guide submerged a hand in her black tresses, clenching a fist in them and drawing her up short, her hiss apparent even behind her stringent gag. The man working over her flesh did so slowly, his glittering eyes fixed upon her face as if to watch her expression as he slapped the big breasts back and forth, waiting until they’d stilled before landing yet another blow. Hunter was glad he’d never have to admit how hard watching the ordeal made him, how he felt a measure of guilt that he wasn’t trying to stop it — even though he knew what was happening was quite within the bounds of acceptable behavior on a Walk. By the time, the big man was done with Celina’s poor breasts, the bright tracks of tears shone on her face, her bosom glowing an angry pink. Yet, still the darkened nipples stood up like thick bullets. Was it possible this treatment aroused her as it so obviously had Lacey?
He didn’t have time to think on it any further, for Celina’s guide brought her stumbling after him, weaving her through the jumbled crush of restaurant tables, the blue-striped umbrella covers rippling in the breeze, sunlight catching wineglasses left lonely, forlorn, their erstwhile masters distracted by the passing displays of shamed female flesh.
Hunter turned then, rising up on tiptoe to peer down the street back toward Paglianos. He was torn between keeping his vigil over Celina and yet wanting, needing, to return to Lacey. To the woman who seemed to occupy his every waking thought now.
My Lacey.
It was no longer jarring to think of her in such terms. It was clear now that she was his, in every sense, just as she was — and always had been — Troy’s. That Troy accepted it as readily as his wife did filled Hunter anew with a profound sense of gratitude. He knew how lucky — and how undeserving — he was. He only hoped he could prove to both of them that they’d made the right decision. Show them, someday, that he was worthy of a love so freely — and selflessly — given.
First things first, Hunt. Lacey’s okay.
Then he finally spotted her, and he smiled. Her white teeth clenched around the thick, saliva-wetted leather of her gag, she was practically surrounded by tall men, Troy, her guide, and a strange figure with a thick beard as black as midnight, his cold glare every bit as dark. Hunter had never seen the man before. All three of them looked down upon Lacey’s diminutive, helpless form, the bearded man and Troy appearing to exchange words.
In good hands.
Hunter returned his attention to Celina — and his jaw dropped at what he saw.
No longer was she standing. Instead, she’d been pushed to her knees, her guide holding her by the upper arm and a fistful of her thick locks.
A man in a slim Armani suit, the black single breast cut emphasizing the width of his shoulders and the narrowness of his hips, stood before her. His brown hair was slicked back with pomade, reminding him of the menacing main character from American Psycho. Thankfully, instead of homicide, this man appeared to have something quite different in mind.
Lowering his zipper, he reached in, retrieving a thick cock, still hardening as he drew it fully into view. The veins snaking up the length of the shaft pulsed as he stroked himself, right there in full view of dozens of people — including a now visibly paling Celina.
The rule was no penetration, nor exchange of bodily fluids, but Hunter understood that left much that still was allowed. He took a step toward the scene, for the first time since Von left, feeling truly unsure of how to handle the situation. It was different with Lacey. Instinctively, he knew which lines couldn’t be crossed, which limits she needed to have pushed — and when it was his job to step in and protect both his woman and his property.
With Celina there wasn’t that same certitude, and it left Hunter on shaky ground. Would Von allow this? Was it even his job to make that call? Surely the guides themselves would step in if lines were crossed?
Man up, dickhead.
There was no way he was letting Celina’s fate fall to the judgment of complete strangers — even if he wasn’t far removed from one himself.
If Von wasn’t there to step up and protect her, then Hunter would just have to do it for him.
Celina threw back her head then — as much as her thick collar allowed — stopping Hunter in his tracks just as he reached the three of them. Was she complicit in this? Or was she just surrendering to something she knew she could never resist on her own?
Where the fuck is Von?
The man in the suit glanced at Hunter, a cool contempt in his gaze. He said nothing though, returning his attention to the woman kneeling before him like a sacrificial offering.
Though Hunter knew he should stop it, he decided not to, closely watching Celina and her reactions. Troy had warned him not to intervene at all unless something clearly prohibited was happening. No matter how hard it was — and Troy said at times it would be — this was one of the central tenets of the Walk. There was to be no undue interference from anyone when it came to each Applicant’s experience.
There was a high likelihood at least some of that was complete bullshit, but he was willing to go along with it.
For now.
The man in the Armani suit stared intently at Celina as he continued stroking his cock. His jaw was clenched tight, the plane of it strong and clean, his eyes like twin points of ice the color of a glacial crevasse. Then he groaned low and long, shuffling closer, his fist pistoning up and down his length. Thick arcs of semen shot out, ropes of it draped across the curves of Celina’s tightly bound breasts. She colored darkly, her gaze dropping to survey the mess he’d made up
on her skin. One last grunt accompanied a final spurt, leaving pearly liquid hanging from her hard nipple, the scene both lurid and degrading at once.
“If it wasn’t for the fucking tightasses who make the rules around here, I’d be making you lick that off for me,” Armani suit said, tucking his spent cock back behind his zipper. He took a deep breath, clearing his throat as Celina’s guide ran a cloth perfunctorily across her breasts, wiping up the man’s essence in seconds. The swiftness and efficiency of the guide bespoke long practice, something Hunter wasn’t sure how to feel about. How many times had this bizarre ritual been played out?
Then, in a heartbeat, Armani man stood before Hunter. “She’s yours, right? Damn, those big fucking tits all tied up like that? I could eat her up.” He had the temerity to actually produce a crisp bill, the fleeting image of Benjamin Franklin flashing across his field of vision before the man stuffed it in Hunter’s shirt pocket. “For the use of your toy.”
Armani man turned, striding toward the crowd, buttoning his suit coat as he went.
“Hey, asshole.” Hunter held up the bill, then let it go, fluttering in the wind down to the pavement. “She’s not mine. But that won’t stop me from planting your ass if I ever see you treat a girl like that again.”
The man in the suit stopped, the crowd hushing instantly, the buzz of impending confrontation growing. He strode back to Hunter, tugging fastidiously on the end of one arm of his white dress shirt, making sure it showed just a fraction of an inch below the cuff of the coat.
Fucking yuppie prick.
“Tell you what, tough guy.” He met Hunter’s gaze, a light flashing in the man’s blue eyes that screamed either extreme self-confidence — or batshit crazy. “I’ll be back in town the next time they throw another one of these little parties. Maybe we can sort it out then?”
Hunter stepped close, nose-to-nose with the slightly shorter man. “Or we could do this right now.”
The man smiled but didn’t back down an inch. “We could — but then who gets to play guard dog for the girl?” He patted Hunter on the shoulder. “I’ll be back — and you’ll get your shot at the title.”
“Nobody’s taking a shot at any fucking title,” Von’s voice snarled from behind, the towering man stepping out of the throng. His big arm separated Hunter and the stranger. Von however, wasn’t in the mood to play referee. “You had your fun, Miles. That doesn’t include fucking with my friend.”
Miles grinned, looking from Hunter over to Von. “So, the guard dog’s yours then? I should’ve known.” He winked. “Need to put him on a shorter leash next time. Almost prevented me from enjoying that big-titted whore wife of yours.”
“Fuck off, Miles.” Von took a step toward him, his voice humming with anger now. “You’re done here, aren’t you?”
Spinning on his heel, but not before giving Hunter one last shit-eating grin, Miles shouldered his way into the crowd, Hunter practicing serious self-restraint in not clocking him in the temple before he slipped out of range.
“Another time, Armani.”
The man merely raised a hand, then melted finally into the press of bystanders.
“Who the hell was that?” Hunter said, helping the guide get Celina back to her feet. Her eyes met Hunter’s for a split second, and he was relieved to see gratitude in their dark brown depths.
Von let out a long breath. He nodded at the guide, who immediately led Celina away, most of the onlookers drifting along behind them.
“That was Miles Corddray.”
“And I give a fuck… why?” Hunter let himself watch the roll and bounce of Celina’s tanned, round buttocks as she stumbled further down the street.
“Because he’s got more money than Keenan and me put together — and he’s the last person in this town you want to be fucking with.”
“Prick was about to get a proctological exam courtesy of my size fourteen US Army issue.” Hunter inhaled deeply, calming himself. Something about the man had instantly gotten under his skin.
But Von wasn’t even listening, staring back down the street toward the crowd following Celina.
“We’ve got bigger problems than Miles.” Von tipped his head toward his receding wife, a weary smile upon his lips. “Come on. Let’s get this over with — the really fun part’s coming up. Then I need to talk to Troy.”
Chapter 9
The procession of women up Promontory Hill was like something from a lurid erotic novel.
The stone stairway followed the gentle curve of the slope, snaking around its flanks from the left to the right as it ascended, the broad concrete landing at the top, and a huge, ornate stone gate marking the end of the Walk. Dozens of people had already gathered at the summit, more joining them by the minute. The crowd meandered up the same route, but gave each woman, flanked by a guide on either side, enough room to walk the weathered steps. That didn’t stop them from watching each woman intently — both from the front and the back.
Von walked right behind Celina as she began her ascent, the first of the exhausted Applicants just now wearily reaching the pinnacle of the hill. Looking back at Hunter one last time, Von gave him a subtle nod of thanks.
“It’s okay to watch — everybody else is,” Troy murmured, nodding toward the spectacle though, tellingly, his gaze didn’t leave Lacey as he’d said it.
Celina, in her cruel bondage, began to slowly negotiate the risers, each one seemingly placed just high enough to make it more arduous than it needed to be. She stumbled on the second one, letting out a strangled yelp, her guides catching her by the arms before she could topple to the unforgiving stone.
Perhaps those mysterious men in black weren’t so cruel after all.
Hunter looked once more to Lacey, his need to go to her, to touch her, to comfort her — and yes, revel in her predicament — coming upon him so strongly, he had to whisper to himself not to give in to it. His cock was a never-ending ache between his legs, each blush of cheeks, each bounce of a breast, each lock of gorgeous hair streaming in the breeze only adding to his torture. It was like a parade of eroticism, both restrained and unbridled at the same time, and once more, Hunter wondered who indeed was more anguished — the Walkers, or the watchers.
Lacey’s breasts heaved as she was drawn to the base of the steps, Hunter and Troy following at a distance behind her, several bystanders, apparently taking quite an interest in Lacey’s public shame, crowding around, front and back, their enjoyment of the sight of her bounteous charms quite open, and unapologetic. Strangely, Hunter wasn’t bothered by it anymore — mostly because he knew this was something she had volunteered for.
“Fuck, I want to talk to her,” Hunter muttered under his breath. “At least… let her hear our voices.”
“Don’t do it, Hunt.” Troy flicked a glance at him. “She’s deep into it now. It’ll throw her out to hear either one of us. As hard as it is, we have to just let her experience this. On her own.”
But what if she fucking needs us!
It was stupid, he knew. They’d sat down early that morning, as soon as Lacey woke up, and discussed it. All of it. Maybe he hadn’t really understood the emotions he was told he’d feel — or perhaps he just didn’t really believe that what he’d been told would happen, could actually be a reality.
But a reality it had definitely become — and one far more difficult to bear than he’d ever imagined.
Maybe one day they could have a Walk with just the three of them? Perhaps not here, but somewhere else. Some place secluded. Their slave girl, all to themselves, on display, naked and helpless, subject to either man’s darkest whims, his most twisted fantasies?
Just a dream, yes. Someday though, he’d like to make that dream a reality too.
Lacey, flanked by her two silent guides as well, began climbing the stairs, her heel scraping on the stone, her round, bare buttocks wobbling as she took that first tall step. Her guides murmured to her as she did, presumably telling her when to pick her feet up, blindfolded as she was.
The prospect of her shamed tears shouldn’t have turned him on, but the surge of desire he felt at the thought told him that when it came to his lusts, his fantasies, it wasn’t always as simple as right and wrong.
Perverted prick in Pervert Town. Right at home here, aren’t you, Hunt?
He wanted to smooth a palm over her still well-marked thighs, trace each mark upon her flesh with his finger to let her know just what he was looking at, to make it clear to her what all eyes focused upon.
Like Celina, Lacey stumbled more than once, each time the guides saving her from skinned knees, and pride even more bruised that it already was.
Strangely, no more bystanders stopped to fondle or inspect each woman. Perhaps it was too dangerous on the stone steps. Hunter was relieved for it. Though it was undeniably a dark pleasure to see his woman handled and looked upon for the beautiful, sexual creature the ritual reduced her to, it was a sore trial for his possessiveness, his selfish need to keep her all to himself — or at least to he and Troy alone.
Though she was not his wife, she felt now, more than ever, like his possession. His property.
Was that the sly purpose of the Walk? To engender — or rekindle — that base, animalistic sense of possession, dominion over these gorgeous, vulnerable women? Maybe there was more to the lurid, perverse public display and debasement of helpless, bound females than mere voyeurism?
The view from behind her as she ascended was glorious indeed, the strap cruelly bisecting Lacey’s cunt now glistening with her fluids as it winked into view between her thighs. Her generous buttocks shook and shuddered as she negotiated the arduous stairs, her guides lending her no assistance unless she stumbled. Her calves bunched tight above the high heels, seemingly the only part of her body that had been left free.