But she had no appetite for teasing him. Or herself. She wanted action. She pulled her mouth away, released him from her clutch and slid to her knees.
He stared down in wonderment as she unbuckled his belt and unsnapped his jeans.
The frenzied banging of bureau drawers echoing from Mr. A’s bedroom masked the sound of Mr. B’s zipper sliding down.
He wore underwear. A wise man does not risk his manhood getting caught in the zipper teeth.
She slid his jeans and underwear down his thighs and freed his cock, swollen to a satisfactory size and as stiff as a chunk of oak log.
She put her tongue to the purple head and began licking with sloppy enthusiasm. She knew how to bring a man to the edge of ecstasy and then keep him teetering there for a long time with her talented lips and tongue. But that was not her intention this afternoon. She pumped his richly-veined shaft with both hands while she bobbed over the swollen purple head.
She loved the feeling of thick, strong meat filling her mouth.
In less than two minutes, he was groaning with mindless pleasure and spurting copious amounts of hot cum into her mouth.
She swallowed and milked him and swallowed some more, taking every drop that he had to offer and then licking him clean.
When she rose to clutch him again, she did not try to kiss him – a young man can be squeamish about that – but put her lips to his ear and whispered, “You are delicious. But that was just an introduction. I want to feel that strong cock buried in my cunt right to the hilt. In a little while, when you are ready again, I’m going to take you into bed and make you give me as much pleasure as I just gave to you.”
She squeezed him tight and then crossed the hallway and burst into Mr. A’s room.
He was on his knees, shoving dirty clothes underneath his bed. Most of the floor was clear, now.
She stepped into the room and slammed the door shut. “I’m not going to wait any longer.” She dragged the blankets off the bed and dropped them on the floor. “Get your clothes off and join me.” She kicked her shoes off and then slipped the housedress off in a single motion.
Mr. A stared up at her nude form with naked lust.
“Come on, get those clothes off.” She threw herself on her back on the bed and spread her legs in casual invitation.
Mr. A rose to his feet in a sinuous, gravity-defying flex of his legs, and began stripping as fast as the could unbutton, unbuckle, and unzip himself. He undressed by feel; his eyes never left her bald, naked cunt. Her wide-spread legs pulled her plump, outer lips apart to expose her moist, glistening inner lips to his inspection. Her vulva was bright pink, flushed by her arousal.
She loved to see the lust in his eyes.
Like the other boy, Mr. A’s cock was swollen and erect when it was released from his pants.
She also loved to see a man who was ready for action.
She was quivering with her need. When he lay down on top of her, she grabbed his face and kissed him. She didn’t care if her mouth still tasted like Mr. B’s cum.
He paid no attention to her kiss and didn’t notice how she tasted. His cock was already poking at her crotch, trying to find entrance.
She tilted her pelvis upward and positioned herself to be penetrated. There was no need for her to guide him with her hand – she had been fucked by enough different cocks that she knew how to get a man inside her.
Once he had slipped in, he began thrusting frantically.
She didn’t bother with subtle or sophisticated techniques. She hung on for dear life and banged against him, matching his frantic rhythm, her cunt hungry for as much stimulation as it could get.
Each urged the other on, his arousal arousing her and her arousal arousing him, reaching a mutual climax in record time. He gasped and she moaned when her pulsing cunt received his joyful ejaculations.
Afterward, they rolled apart and lay separately on the bed, not touching, each lost in their own heavenly cloud.
She had often taken pleasure from a man, but she had never before felt so complete. “I needed that so badly, you’ll never know.”
“Any time you want more, just let me know.”
“You’ll know. And the more you know, the better. A little carnal knowledge is a dangerous thing.” She smiled at him.
“Then to be safe, we better have a lot of it.”
“I can give you as much as you want, any time I can get away.”
“I want it a lot.”
“Then I’ll better get away as much as I can.”
“Yeah. Way, way often.”
They lay side by side for a few minutes, listening to each other breathe deeply – slow, contented post-coital inhalations and exhalations.
Mr. A moved first. He reached out and fingered the gold collar around Irene’s neck. “I though that slaves got fucked all the time. Isn’t that what men buy them for?”
“I thought so, too. But it depends on the owner. My first owner fucked me every day. He liked to bend me over and take me from behind when I was handcuffed. He also hosted orgies every week or two. Me and other slaves would be fucked by a dozen men in an evening. My second owner liked to fuck his slaves two at a time and hosted even bigger orgies. But he didn’t fuck me or let me participate in the orgies because we had a special history. My current owner never wants to fuck me and doesn’t give me to anyone else. He’s a sadist. He likes to torture me. Every few days he brings me down to his studio and makes me suffer in some interesting way all afternoon.”
“How?”
“Did you see my ass today?”
“That wasn’t where I was looking.”
She rolled over to present her black and blue backside to him.
He whistled. “Wow. How did he do that?”
“With a cane. He didn’t hit me hard enough to break the skin or even raise serious welts. Instead, he spent half an hour hitting me over and over again with strokes just hard enough to hurt. The longer he worked on me, the worse the pain. By the end of the half hour, I was screaming myself hoarse. It didn’t help that I was bent over in a pillory so that my ass was stretched taut as a drumhead. My thighs and back were aching something awful before he started with the cane.”
He caressed her bruised ass gently. “I don’t think that I’d want to torture you.”
“Good thing. If you did, I wouldn’t want to come back. I get all the torture that I need at home. I’ll only come here for the sex.”
“Are you going to come back?”
“As soon as I get horny again. And as soon as my owner is out for the day.”
“Does he know that you go out for sex?”
“No. This is the first time that I’ve done it. It would be bad for both of us if he found out.”
“Then we better make sure that he doesn’t find out.”
“That would be an excellent idea.”
They were silent for a few more minutes. Then she said. “Your friend has been waiting outside for a long time. I think you better let him in.”
“Fuck him.”
“I will.”
“I don’t want you to.”
“It doesn’t matter. I’m a slave. Nobody gets me exclusively. That’s the deal.”
He stared at her.
“That’s the deal,” she repeated. “Send him in.”
He obeyed, but he dressed first, slowly with studied reluctance.
In contrast, Mr. B hurried in, slammed the door, and stripped down without waiting for an invitation.
He was hard again, his young and eager cock already recovered from his recent blowjob.
Irene was eight years older than he, but after some weeks of sexual drought, she was equally ready for more action. She held her arms out to him, spread her legs, and said, “Come and fill me up, stud.”
He was happy to oblige.
Both she and he, having come recently, took longer to reach their climax. Mr. B worked more smoothly and rhythmically than Mr. A had. Irene took the opportunity to exercise muscles in he
r cunt that had lain dormant since she had come into the professor’s possession. The extra stimulation benefitted both of them. Her climax was wonderful.
After he rolled off her, apparently equally satisfied, she lay on her back as limp as a slug, boneless and mindless.
After a few minutes, she lolled her head in his direction and said, “You were awesome. Thank you.”
He blushed and beamed. His red hair and pale, freckled face intensified the blush and made him look young and fresh.
She forced herself off the mattress and slipped the housedress over her head. “I’ve got to get home before I’m missed.”
He watched her every movement. “Are you going to come back?”
“Who knows what the future will bring? I’d like to do this again soon but it will have to be some time when my owner is out for the day.”
“It you let me know when you want me around, I’ll be here.”
“There’s no way for to make specific plans. We’re going to have to trust to luck.”
“This is Avery’s house. I live two doors down. Number Seventeen.”
“I’ll look for you there, then.”
“My mom works nights. She sleeps during the day.”
“Don’t worry. I won’t knock on the door.”
She found Mr. A sitting on the worn sofa in the living room.
“You leaving?”
“I have to get back home before my owner returns.”
“So he can torture you some more.”
“That’s my life.”
“It’s a hell of a life.”
“It’s not as bad as it sounds. He doesn’t torture me all the time. Every few days. Sometimes more than a week passes between sessions.”
“It must be bad when he is hurting you.”
“Those hours are hell. But I’m a slave. Slaves endure whatever they must. It’s not like I have a choice.”
“You got a choice. Don’t go back. Stay here.”
She smiled. “What would your mother say when she found a pleasure slave living in your bedroom?”
He grinned back. “She’d shit a brick. Sideways.”
“She’d throw both of us out on the street.”
“Probably.” He frowned. “We ever going to see you again?”
“As soon as I get horny again. Which won’t be long. I got needs.”
“Me, too.”
“I bet you do.” She glanced at his crotch. It was bulging with his needs. “I can’t leave you like that. I’m going to leave you with something to remember me by.” She parted his knees and knelt between them. As soon as she freed his cock from his pants, she began working on it with hands and mouth.
He tasted of their recent sex, but she didn’t care. She’d used her mouth to clean a lot of gentlemen of their post-coital juices. It was just part of a pleasure slave’s service.
As she pumped his shaft and sucked the head of his cock, she rolled her eyes up to look at his face.
His expression could only be described as shocked delight.
It took a few minutes to relieve him of his load.
When she’d sucked him dry, swallowed his load, and returned his royal limpness to his pants, she rose in a graceful movement and said. “Delicious, delicious.”
He smiled in contentment but said nothing.
She glanced back at the stairs and was not surprised to see Mr. B standing on the bottom step, watching. She had given a fuck and a blowjob to each of them. That was fair. She waved cheerily and left the house.
It felt great to have taken a couple of new lovers.
* * *
Unlike the bed of nails, the chair was covered in thousands of carpet tacks. Only a quarter inch was sticking out of the wood, but they were much sharper than nails and spaced more closely together. In fact, the points were three-sixteenths of an inch apart. There were more than twenty-five points pressing into every square inch of skin that was in contact with the chair.
Before sitting down, she had asked and the professor had given her the technical details. Knowing had not made her feel better about easing herself down in the chair.
Irene couldn’t tell which part of her body hurt the worst. The weight of her torso pressed her ass hard against the spikes on the seat of the chair. She didn’t know if they had penetrated her skin or not.
Her back was more sensitive than her butt and the straps across her belly, under her breasts and over her shoulders had been ratcheted tight to ensure that the spikes in the back of the chair were digging deep into the small, tender muscles that lined her spine and covered her ribs.
The skin on her forearms was thinner than on her back and more straps had been ratcheted hard to press them onto the spikes that covered the arms of the chair. It was a small area of skin, but it was burning like the fires of hell.
She was tempted to consider her calves the worst, however. For some reason, the professor had taken special care to force them so hard against the spikes on the front of the chair that she had screamed in pain.
After being forced to sit in the chair for nearly half an hour, the handsome Carl decided to sit on her lap.
She shrieked when more than two hundred more pounds jammed her thighs onto the myriad little spikes. The part of her body that had been hurting the least immediately became the worst.
He leaned back hard against her breasts to press spikes deeper into her back muscles. He rested his arms on hers and jammed her forearms further down.
“My, this is nice,” he said. “I could sit here all day.”
She whined in his ear and shuddered in pain.
“And the music is so soothing.”
Carl was more sadistic than the professor. Irene wondered what kind of experiments he conducted in his psychology lab. Undoubtedly something terrible.
She longed to be mounted on the Spanish horse instead of the chair. That tortured only one part of her body. The most sensitive part, to be sure, but only that part. This was a full body experience.
The straps across her chest and abdomen were tight enough to make breathing difficult. Now, with Carl pressing against her chest, she had to gasp for air.
Carl wriggled a little in her lap. “This is really comfy. Warm and soft.”
A groan quavered out of her.
The professor looked concerned. “Come on into the workshop for a minute and see what I’m building.”
The professor looked concerned. He hadn’t expected Carl to sit on her lap. His friend had done so without invitation or discussion. Irene was surprised. Concerned sadist seemed like an oxymoron.
Carl couldn’t refuse an invitation from his host, so he got up. In so doing, he put his weight on Irene’s forearms, pressing them into the spikes and eliciting a fresh scream from her.
When she looked down at them a minute later, she could see a bit of dark blood seeping out around the edges of her arms. The spikes had definitely pierced her skin.
After leaving the workshop, the three men went upstairs for a quarter of an hour.
When the professor came back, followed by his friends, he was carrying a folding backgammon board. He set it in Irene’s lap before Carl could sit there again.
“I’m going to give you a chance to get off that chair early.” He fetched a folding chair from beside the equipment cabinet and sat down in front of her. “We’ll play one game. You win and you’re free. You lose and you relax in the chair until suppertime.”
Irene knew the rules of backgammon but she never liked the game much. At best, she was an average player. She doubted that she could beat the professor. He was known as much for his skill at games as for his sadism.
He released the straps that held down her right arm.
She had to pull it off the spikes. It felt like pulling on Velcro and hurt like a fresh acre of hell. She gritted her teeth against the pain.
She won the opening roll. Six and one was lucky because let her make her bar point and helped trap the professor’s men in her home table.
The professor opened with a two and three. He used both dice to bring one man from his twelve point to safety on her eight point. As a first move, it was too cautious to be good strategy.
As the play progressed, Moe and Carl lost interest and wandered away to play with the professor’s other torture devices.
The professor had bad luck. The dice forced him to keep piling men onto her six and eight points. Then, when he got bad rolls, he had to leave blots on her inner table. She had no trouble hitting them.
At the end of the game, he had three blots on the bar when she started bearing off. She gammoned him.
She wasn’t fooled. His rolls weren’t that unlucky and he wasn’t that bad a strategist.
He had lost deliberately. He wanted her out of the chair. The game was a stratagem to keep his friends from knowing that he was deliberately rescuing her.
Moe wandered back when he was releasing the straps from her other arm. He helped release the remaining straps from her torso, thighs, and shins.
She had to pull her other arm off the spikes. The professor and Moe helped pull her thighs off the seat where Carl’s body weight had forced her down hard enough to pierce her flesh there, too.
Getting off the chair was as agonizing as sitting on it had been.
She glanced down and saw more of her blood on the seat. When she looked up, she saw that Carl had positioned himself slightly behind her and was staring down with fascination at the injuries that he had caused to her arms and thighs when he’d sat on her.
“Gentlemen,” the professor said, “if you will excuse us, I have to prepare a lecture for tomorrow.”
Carl and Moe bid him adieu but the professor laid a hand on Moe’s arm to restrain him from leaving.
When the door had closed on Carl, the professor said, “Would you mind staying for a few minutes and helping me dress Irene’s wounds. I don’t want any infection.”
She was grateful to be treated by a licensed physician.
The professor and Moe helped Irene lay facedown on the whipping bench in the studio. Then he went upstairs to fetch a bottle of antiseptic.
While the professor was out of the room, Moe examined her thighs and arms. “There are many wounds but they’re small. They won’t scar.”
The Fine Art of Torture (Slave of the Aristocracy Book 3) Page 7