by Pam McKenna
Without warning, he jerked upward on her panties, jamming the lace into the cleft of her ass and stretching the leg openings to fully expose her buttocks, thonglike. Kay let out a little moan. She moaned louder when he shifted his attention to her pussy, compressing the crotch of her panties and roughly forcing it between her plump labia.
“As promised,” Wyatt said, “you will receive twice as many strokes for making us restrain you. Six from Lucas and six from me.” He sauntered back to the sofa and resumed his seat next to John. He gestured to the footballer. “Proceed.”
Lucas lifted the switch over his head and let it whistle through the air, the sound making Kay tense a nanosecond before it touched down. She screamed.
John spoke up. “Have you forgotten your instructions so soon?”
“Two.” Her voice was strained. “Th-thank you, Sir.”
Lucas delivered another stroke and they watched a third stripe blossom above the first two.
She cried out again. “Three. Thank you, Sir.”
He paused to let her catch her breath, which came in a series of whimpers punctuated by the occasional sharp gasp as he caressed her abused flesh. His long fingers trailed the white lace downward between her ass cheeks to her pussy, where the bunched fabric doubtless scraped her clit with every ragged breath. He fondled her there and shot his companions a triumphant grin. “Just as you said, John.” He displayed his fingers, slick with her juices. “A genuine pain slut—she can’t help herself.”
John’s swollen cock strained the fly of his jeans. Watching Kay’s body betray her so flagrantly was erotic torture of the first order. He didn’t know how much longer he could passively observe without leaping up, hauling those panties down and driving his cock hard and deep into her hot, tight cunt. But fucking her wasn’t an option. His dream self didn’t know precisely why, only that it was Forbidden. The closest he could come was watching these men do the things to her that he ached to do. And trying not to come in his pants like a raw kid.
The footballer delivered three more strokes, these aimed at the sides of her buttocks. Her cries became less shrill and John sensed her settling in to her punishment. Moisture glinted on her exposed labia. The compressed lace was soaked with it.
She flinched as Lucas ran his hand over her ass, admiring the results. “A perfect canvas. Look at those stripes.” He offered the switch to Wyatt, who rose to accept it.
“Thank you for warming her up for me.” The actor raked the fresh welts with his gloved fingers. The muscles in Kay’s bottom tensed. “Now we can get to some serious punishment.”
John wondered what he meant by “serious”. Lucas had obviously known how to produce maximum effect with minimal damage, as an experienced Dom should. Would Wyatt take as much care?
The Ripper reached into a pocket and brought out John’s pocketknife. He slid the blade under the tangled panties and with two neat slices reduced them to a rag. He yanked the shredded lace off her body in one swift tug, earning a harsh cry from Kay as the firmly tucked fabric pulled free of her most sensitive flesh.
She was now ruthlessly displayed, bound in an awkward, humiliating position that revealed everything, awaiting another round of painful discipline. Her cunt was engorged, dripping with a need she was helpless to control. Her stiff little clit glistened and John couldn’t help recalling the taste of that juicy pussy, the feel of that proud bud as he sucked it into his mouth, the heady music of her cries as he drove his tongue deep into her.
Wyatt held the switch vertically and pressed it to her drenched sex. She let out a long, frustrated groan as he stroked it up and down, very slowly, teasing her clit and both openings.
“Ohhh…” she moaned, squirming, “oh please…”
With lightning speed he smacked her with the switch, right there where he’d been stroking, turning the strip of wood from an instrument of pleasure back into an instrument of punishment. She yelped as if she’d sat on hot coals.
“Did I give you permission to speak?” he asked.
“No Sir.” She sounded breathless. “I’m sorry, Sir.”
“You will be.” Wyatt lifted the switch. “Loud and clear with the counting,” he commanded, and brought it down swiftly on the untouched lower slope of her ass.
This stroke was harder than the ones Lucas had delivered. Kay’s scream was shrill and startled. “Seven,” she panted. “Thank you, Sir.”
Five strokes followed. Wyatt varied the intensity and the placement, painting a pattern of livid stripes on her buttocks and thighs. Her screams became fainter and more guttural as the punishment progressed, as unbidden pleasure began to eclipse the pain and fear. Obediently she counted aloud, thanking her tormentor, until the twelfth and final stroke had been administered. A sheen of sweat adorned her trembling body. Her breathing was harsh as she struggled to hold back her tears.
He pressed the switch against the welts. “Do you want more?”
She hesitated. “If it pleases you, Sir.”
He chuckled. “Not so hopeless after all.”
Lucas rose from the sofa and joined him. “We haven’t properly inspected this slave.”
“She’s in the appropriate position,” the actor noted. “Normally I would make her hold still for the examination, but I like the way the ropes press into her flesh.” He pinched her thigh above the knot securing her knee to the chair.
“Very well,” Lucas said, “but she must learn.”
“She will.” Wyatt offered his trademark silky smile. “I’m a devoted teacher.”
John found himself standing next to the other men, with no memory of having risen from the sofa. He was close enough to touch Kay, but even that was denied him. He wished he could see her expressive face as her new masters enjoyed her body, but her long skirt had fallen over her like a tent. He could hear her, though, could hear trepidation mingled with excitement in her breathless exhalations.
Lucas took up position directly behind her. “As I said, a treasure.” He spread her pussy wide and she let out a little gasp. “Is she tight?” he asked John.
“Very,” John said, and watched the Brazilian push two long fingers deep into her sodden opening, which grasped them like a starving mouth.
Lucas emitted a growl of pleasure. “You did not lie, my friend.” Kay groaned long and low as he finger-fucked her. She managed to squirm against his driving fingers, meeting each rough plunge with a tilt of her hips. “I am going to enjoy filling this hungry little hole with my come.”
“You can’t use her cunt,” John said. “Fuck her anywhere else.” Her pussy was his, even if he couldn’t have her himself.
Lucas sent a knowing look to Wyatt, who said, “A tad attached, are we?”
“Not a problem.” Lucas slid his fingers out of her pussy and swirled her juices onto the puckered hole above. “I think we can make do.” He stiffened his slick fingers and forced them past the constricted opening, stretching it and wringing a startled cry from her. “Have you fucked her ass?” he asked John.
“Just once. It was her first time.”
“Practically a virgin.” Lucas gave a feral smile as he twisted his fingers inside her. “She’s almost too tight here, but I’ll work on that. Was she willing?”
“Not at first, but I stretched her with a dildo and fucked her mouth and her cunt. By the time I got around to her ass, she was eager for her cherry to be popped, practically begging for it.”
Wyatt laughed in appreciation. As Lucas continued to test and stretch Kay’s ass, the actor grasped her clit between his leather-clad fingers. She jerked and emitted a string of shrill little gasps as he inspected the erect bud, tugging and pinching it, rolling it this way and that. The sight of black leather against her most intimate flesh was unbearably erotic and nearly sent John over the edge.
Apparently satisfied with this part of the examination, Wyatt brought his gloved hand to his face and admired the slippery sheen she’d left on it, rubbing his fingers together and licking them to taste her. He produce
d the knife again and slid the razor-sharp steel under the rope binding one knee, slicing cleanly through it. He released her ankle and wrist on that side and passed the knife to Lucas, who cut through the remaining ropes. “Rise, slave,” Lucas ordered.
Kay rose shakily. Her hair was disheveled, her face and chest suffused with color.
Wyatt indicated her skirt. “Take that off.”
She unbuttoned the garment and let it fall to the grass, leaving her utterly naked. Automatically she assumed Standing Position.
Lucas admired the display. “She is trying.”
Wyatt removed his cape and tossed it over a nearby tree limb. He settled on the recliner and unfastened his frock coat, opening his legs wide. He snapped his fingers. “On your knees.”
She obeyed, dropping to the grass directly in front of him, fingers still linked behind her neck.
The actor appeared supremely relaxed as he drawled, “Take it out.”
Kay fumbled with the button fly of Wyatt’s Victorian trousers, the black wool stretched tight as a drumhead over his erection. Finally his thick purple cock sprang into her hands. He moved her fingers up and down the shaft, wordlessly commanding her to stroke him.
He asked John, “Does she know how to deep-throat?”
“Not really,” he said. “She’s still learning to relax the muscles.”
“You’d better learn fast,” the actor told Kay. “And be prepared to swallow my come. If you let even one drop escape, or if you fail to please me in any way, you’re getting the switch again, and this time it will be those pretty tits that get striped.”
“Yes Sir.”
“Well, don’t leave me in suspense.” Wyatt gave her a mocking half smile. “Show me what you can do.”
Kay leaned forward and the bulging head of his cock disappeared into her mouth. He stroked her hair almost gently as she sucked his rod, drawing him in deeper, making an obvious effort to open her throat as John had instructed her. Wyatt threaded his fingers through her hair and tugged, ordering her to lick his cock and his balls, which she obediently did. He orchestrated her actions, telling her when to pump him with her fist, when to swirl her tongue over the crown and along the little opening. He bared his teeth and pushed into her mouth again. “Suck it. Hard.”
Lucas observed for a while, then knelt behind Kay and pulled her hips back, forcing her onto all fours. He spread her abused ass cheeks, exposing the puckered hole. She tensed and Wyatt gave her face a light slap, barking, “Concentrate, slave.”
A bottle of lube appeared next to John. “Lucas,” he called. The footballer caught it one-handed and lost no time tipping some onto his fingers and massaging it onto Kay’s vulnerable anus. He pushed down his shorts and released his rigid shaft, which he slicked with lube before grasping her hips and positioning himself.
Kay mewled around Wyatt’s cock as Lucas began to press into her from behind.
“You’d better not let me feel those teeth,” Wyatt warned her. He held her head still, working himself deeper into her throat, forcing her to adjust to both invasions simultaneously as Lucas buried himself in one long, determined stroke.
Kay panted through her nose as the footballer’s big cock stretched and filled her ass. Wyatt appeared to enjoy the oral vibrations, judging by his half-closed eyes and the long, low groan he emitted. His fingers tightened on her scalp and his hips rocked in time to Lucas’ energetic thrusts.
Piano music drifted through the woods. John sensed it had been playing for some time, though he’d just now noticed it. One of Chopin’s mazurkas, if he wasn’t mistaken.
“Move, slave.” Lucas slapped her bottom. “Fuck your ass with my dick.” She tried to obey while deep-throating the actor, but her efforts apparently fell short. “You can do better than that.” He spanked her again, aiming for a cluster of pink welts. She squealed around Wyatt’s rod and picked up the pace of her movements, matching the rhythm of Lucas’ pistoning hips.
John’s own cock felt ready to explode as he watched his submissive get fucked in her mouth and her ass at the same time. He didn’t dare move lest the friction of his clothing set him off.
“How’s that hot little pussy doing?” Wyatt asked.
The footballer slid a hand under her. John watched her stiffen, heard her moan as Lucas assessed her state of arousal. He grinned. “Wet as a monsoon, my friend.” She moaned again as he added, “She’s squeezing my fingers like they’re the real thing.”
“Should we let her come?” Wyatt’s tone was conversational even as he fucked Kay’s mouth with increasing urgency.
“I say no,” Lucas said, “because this slave needs to learn self-discipline. But my dick…” He thrust roughly into her, with another grin. “It says yes.”
Wyatt tossed his hand, magnanimously ceding the decision to his friend. They coordinated their thrusts as Lucas worked her pussy with his fingers. John watched Kay’s features contort in ecstasy even as she sucked the actor’s cock as if her life depended on it. He watched her back arch like a cat in heat, watched her slam her ass against the footballer’s churning hips.
The piano music had become louder, more intrusive. John peered into the trees, searching in vain for the source. Kay’s muted cries matched the cadence of the music, blending with it, as her orgasm gathered. She fell apart in the next instant, her body jerking from the force of it. Lucas growled as her muscles contracted around him. Wyatt let himself go with a shout of raw animal pleasure, his fingers tangled in her pale hair. The men came at the same time, pumping their hips, emptying themselves into her mouth and her ass as the aftershocks of her climax rocked her.
John snapped awake, breathless and sweating, as his own orgasm began to crest. He barely registered the final chords of a Chopin mazurka drifting from the clock radio on his nightstand. He threw off the sheet and closed his fist around his cock, wishing those few seconds of blessed oblivion could last forever.
Chapter Five
It looked like an ordinary house, one of several nondescript old Victorians on this nondescript block of a nondescript town in eastern Long Island. No sign on the lawn, nothing to distinguish it from its neighbors, no indication at all that it housed victims of domestic abuse while they pulled their lives together.
The location of the shelter was, as Kay had mentioned, top secret, but John knew the right people to call. He sat in his Jag across the street from the house, staring at it, half hoping for a glimpse of Kay—she’d said she volunteered there. But it was late morning on a Thursday and no doubt she was in her classroom right now working with her special-ed students. He smiled, picturing her with them. He just knew she was a hell of a teacher, the kind of earnest and caring person who was born to improve kids’ minds and lives.
He hadn’t seen her since that night at his beach house five weeks earlier. What he’d told her had been the stripped-down truth. She’d gotten to him. There was no future for him and her because there was no future for him and anyone. The Halloran tragedy had taken something out of him, something he was never getting back. Better for her—for both of them—to nip it in the bud before she got too close. He didn’t want her pain on his conscience as well.
John’s dream last night about sharing Kay had left him drained and shaken. He was torn between the need to claim her and the need to exorcise her from his psyche. He couldn’t say which competing desire had driven him to make his way here to the South Shore Domestic Abuse Shelter. This worthy cause filled a place within Kay and she obviously believed it could do the same for him. Not to mention the fact that shelters like this couldn’t exist without generous donations of everything from baby powder to the time and skills of people like them.
Not that John intended to follow her suggestion and volunteer. The last thing he needed with his crushing caseload was a time-suck like that. That was what he’d told Kay and it wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t the whole truth either. In point of fact, the thought of working so closely with an abuse victim, with someone whose emotional pain was so raw
and exposed, left him in a cold sweat. He could have handled something like that a year ago. Not now.
As he watched, a taxi pulled up in front of the house. A young Hispanic-looking woman got out, along with a girl about six or seven years old. Their cheap, well-worn clothes branded them as lower middle-class at best. The girl carried a small pink backpack with a peeling cartoon logo. She looked frightened and confused. Her mother offered a smile and a reassuring hug, but John could tell it was an act. She was as jumpy as the girl, and her black eye and bruised arms said it all.
He thought immediately of Stephanie Halloran and her sons—murdered by the man whose primary role in life should have been to support and protect them. Not that there was a physical resemblance between the two women. This anxious young Latina looked nothing like his client’s dead wife, a tall redhead with Irish features and a designer wardrobe. What they had in common was deeper and more disturbing than surface similarities.
If Stephanie Halloran, a woman of means who knew “all the right people”, had been so grievously failed by the legal system, what hope did this woman and her daughter have?
John, they’re desperate for good legal help, but there’s no money for it. There’s barely enough to keep the lights on.
As the cabbie hauled a battered suitcase from the trunk, another woman descended the front porch steps to greet the newcomers. Clearly she was expecting them. She was black and fairly young herself, with an intricately braided hairstyle and gorgeous dark, liquid eyes. Those eyes homed in on him as she counted money from her wallet and paid the cabbie. As the taxi pulled away, she said something to the young mother, who peered at John and shook her head.
Shit. He averted his gaze, but it was too late. She had to be wondering what he was up to, a strange man parked directly across the street from a domestic-abuse shelter—in an eighty-thousand-dollar Jaguar that stood out in this working-class neighborhood like the proverbial turd in the punchbowl. The day was sweltering and he had the engine running for the air conditioner. In two seconds he could put the car in gear and be a distant blur, but that woman looked sharp—no doubt she’d already memorized his license plate. He extracted a map from the glove compartment, unfolded it and pretended to study it intently. With luck she’d think he was simply lost.