Moe did not answer her directly. He had his hand on her wrist, taking her pulse. He looked at the professor. “Still alive. It appears that she fainted from the pain.”
Carl’s eyes gleamed. “That’s new. We’ve never managed to cause a woman so much pain that she lost consciousness.”
The professor nodded. “We can’t do better than that, so our entertainment is concluded for the day.”
The other men thanked him and took their leave. Moe and Al looked satisfied, but Carl looked disappointed that the entertainment had only lasted for half the afternoon.
The professor undertook the laborious process of plucking all the electrodes out of Irene’s genitals.
She wept silently, more from relief that her ordeal was over than because of the pain of the needles being removed, which was significant.
The professor said nothing, except “I look forward to reading your essay about this experience,” after her released her straps.
* * *
Irene handed the essay to the professor in the study. He was reading something in German.
He set his book aside and scanned her essay. “Sit down, my dear.”
She sat while he began again from the beginning, this time studying her writing sentence by sentence. He made notations in the margins as he read.
When he was finished, he said, “You say nothing about how your genitals feel today. Which is not a problem. I understand that your pain is not the subject of your essay. However, I would like to know how they feel.”
“They hurt. You stuck two hundred needles into them yesterday. The needle electrodes are thin and a single pair doesn’t cause much damage, but the accumulation of two hundred of them adds up. My clit, especially, is sensitive to the touch. It would be painful to be used sexually today.”
He smiled. “I assume that means that you won’t be masturbating this evening.”
“No.”
He cocked his head. “Do you masturbate?”
“Sometimes. Not now. I’d rather have sex with a man.”
“Have you masturbated since you came here?”
“No. In fact, I haven’t masturbated since I sold myself into slavery. I used to do it every few weeks when I was married to Lord Fortson. After I sold myself into slavery, I had more than enough sex from my first owner. I had a long period of celibacy when I was owned by Lord Snow, but I had no inclination to masturbate in his kennels. I was always hopeful that I would have sex with him.” Irene was shocked that she was able to admit to a man that she had ever masturbated. When she had been a lady, she would rather have had her tongue ripped out of her head with red-hot pincers than let the word pass her lips.
Slavery changed everything. This conversation, more than any other thing that had happened to her in the past eight months, proved that.
Now, not only could she speak about masturbation, if her owner told her to do it, she would throw her clothes off and bring herself to a climax right on the spot without hesitation.
Sadly, he was more likely to order her to torture herself than pleasure herself. She would obey that order, too. She would cause herself pain with the same alacrity that she would cause herself pleasure.
“You certainly may, if you wish,” he said.
She did not wish. She had Mr. A and Mr. B already attending to her needs with joyful youthful vigor. But the professor didn’t know that.
“I’ll masturbate if you wish me to do so,” she said, “but I have little interest in doing so otherwise.”
“It doesn’t matter to me if you choose to pleasure yourself in your spare time. I would prefer not to know about it, one way or the other.”
She wondered why he had asked, then, but said nothing.
“Let’s talk, instead about your essay. You really have two different theses in one essay. Normally, I wouldn’t approve of that, but you do make a reasonable case that your two theses are related so I will accept it, with the caveat that the relationship is tenuous at best. You should find some way to make the relationship between your two theses sound less forced
“So, let’s consider your two theses in order.
“First, you talk about the torture of your vulva as being a form of sexual torture and assert that this is the first time that you have been tortured sexually. You do note that the Spanish horse was also a torture directed at your vulva but you dismiss that as not being intimate enough. Okay. Fair enough. Plunking you on the Spanish horse was certainly less intimate than inserting a hundred pairs of electrodes into your clitoris and inner labia one pair at a time and then watching your vulva quiver and twitch in response to the electric current.
“I would argue the opposite, though. I can make a case that neither torture was sexually motivated. I stimulated your genitals with electric current only because that is the most sensitive part of your body. If, by some freak of nature, your right shoulder were more densely enervated than your clitoris and vaginal opening, then I would have inserted all of the electrodes in your shoulder.”
He paused and waited to hear her reaction.
She had no intention of letting him derail her with a bit of verbal slight of hand. “That’s the essay that you would write if you were describing your experience as my torturer. My essay describes my own experience being tortured, which was quite different. Lying on my back, naked, with my legs spread wide felt completely sexual to me from the outset. And, when the entire purpose of your manipulation was to cause extreme sensations in my sexual organs … Well, that’s pretty much the definition of a sexual experience, is it not?”
The professor loved to argue and went straight for the low-hanging fruit. “But, again, that was the same as the effect of the Spanish horse, which you dismissed. As far as the presentation of your sexual organs, what about the pillory? It bent you double so that you spent half the afternoon with your ass sticking up in the air, practically inviting violation. And my bed of nails? Isn’t that a simulacrum of being naked in a man’s bed? One might easily argue that the only torture that you’ve experienced that has little or no sexual component was the spiked chair. And, if I cared to torture logic far enough, I might find a way to include that, too.”
That didn’t matter to Irene. “All that I can say is that torturing my genitals with electric shocks until I fainted from the pain felt more like a sexual torture than the others.”
The professor had to give the point. “I certainly can’t tell you what you felt. But that brings us to the other, and in fact, the main thesis in your essay. You did not limit yourself to describing your experience, but spent most of these ten pages describing the spectator’s experiences. In fact, you took it upon yourself to provide psychological assessments of each of us, including me.”
Irene nodded. That was exactly what she had done.
“I won’t bother discussing the details of your essay, apart from saying that you have not been flattering to me or my friends, but I believe that you are basically correct.
“First, you say that Carl is a sociopath who has little empathy for other people. Exactly. I thought that your observation that you feel that he treats you like an object that he can manipulate rather than a person that he can relate to was accurate.
“Second, you are correct that Al is neither a sadist nor a sociopath. He pays attention to your physiological response to his machine, but if I would allow it, he would rather use you for sex than torture you. I found your conclusion about him interesting – that he strives to appear asexual only because he knows that you are unavailable to him for normal sexual use. I will have to watch him more carefully and see if I can catch the furtive glances at your body that you describe.
“Your discussion of Moe is even more interesting. You believe that, like Al, you have detected cracks in his professional demeanor; cracks that show that he has a sexual interest in you. But, unlike Al, you believe that Moe’s sexual interest is sadistic. You believe that, given a chance, he would prefer to force sex upon you, restrain you physically and violate you in ways that would be
painful and degrading. Rape you if it were possible to rape a slave.”
The professor pursed his lips and closed his eyes.
“I don’t see that, myself. In that matter, you are speculating far beyond the reach of any evidence. On the other hand, I must admit that I don’t have any evidence of the contrary, either. I’m hardly in a position to say that your instincts are wrong. Especially when, as a slave, you have considerable experience with men forcing painful and humiliating sex on you.”
He paused and looked to her for a response.
Irene turned her palm upward. “I’ve certainly had more than my share of sexual violations during the eight months that I have been enslaved. But that, alone, was not sufficient to reveal Moe’s nature. My thesis is that it was the sexual nature of yesterday’s torture that gave me an insight into the degree of sexual sadism experienced by the observers. My ordinary female intuition alone would have told me little about the feelings that you and your friends were concealing, even though you are all more interested in concealing your feelings each other than from me.”
“And I give you full credit for an interesting thesis. You say that when men torture a woman, they cannot help but reveal their most secret desires to her. That is an idea that is worth exploring. I would like you to think more about that in the context of the art exhibition that we will be staging in a couple of months.”
Irene grinned. “I can see where you’re going. If a lady allowed her husband to torture her, she would learn more about him in an hour than she had learned in all the years that she had been married to him.”
“Exactly.”
“But I don’t think that it would be feasible A lady would never allow herself to be tortured as though she were a slave. Not even in private, much less in a public exhibition.”
“Pity, isn’t it? But maybe she doesn’t have to be tortured herself. Maybe it would be enough for her to see her husband torturing a slave. She might learn something about him that she didn’t already know.”
“Maybe.” When she had been a lady, her husband’s best friend, Lord Snow, had often been a guest in their manor. Then, a few months later when she was a slave, she had been shocked to discover that he was a virtuoso with a leather strap. He could bruise a slave’s ass uniformly with astounding precision. It wasn’t his enjoyment that shocked her; it was his ability to be so meticulous. In other pursuits, he behaved so casually that he gave the impression of careless irresponsibility.
“Let’s think about this for a while and see if we can find some way to develop this as a theme for the exhibition. How the fine art of torture reveals more about the torturer than he might care to have known.”
“The men who see your exhibition might not like that,” she said.
“Good,” he replied. “Art should reveal something shocking about humanity.”
* * *
The professor was lecturing at the university so Irene was out on the street on the prowl again.
She was in luck. Both Mr. A and Mr. B were sitting on Mr. A’s front stoop.
“Yo, slave,” Mr. A said. “You coming around for a little action?”
“No.”
Their faces fell.
“I’m coming for a lot of action,” she said.
Their faces lit with delight.
“You got a place where you can do me?” Her cunt felt squishy between her legs as she walked. She wanted to get fucked so badly that she was overflowing.
It had been seven days since the professor had electrocuted her cunt. It had taken two days for the residual twinges and sudden shooting pains to cease. She was completely healed now, but the ordeal had a persistent psychological effect. Now she was more aware of her cunt than ever before. It seemed that, no matter what she was doing, not five minutes could pass without her thinking about her cunt. She had never felt so horny.
“House is empty.” Mr. A stood and opened his front door.
A minute later, in front of Mr. A’s bedroom door, she said, “One at a time or both together?”
The two young men looked at each other in shock. It hadn’t occurred to them that they could both be in the bedroom at the same time.
“How would together work?” Mr. B asked.
“However you want,” she said. “Maybe I bend over and give one of you head while the other takes me from behind. Or I could use my hands to keep one of you hard while the other one is doing me and then you switch places. Or maybe there’s some other arrangement that you’d like.” She deliberately avoided mentioning bisexual configurations because she wasn’t sure how they would react if she suggested that they all fuck each other in the ass. A lot of guys aren’t interested in that. And some of the ones who are don’t like to admit it. “Or we could all just do oral. One of you licks my cunt while I’m sucking on the other’s cock.” She hoped that they didn’t want that because she wanted real cock in her cunt, not just a tongue. Especially not an inexperienced tongue that was going to fumble around, lick in all the wrong places, and never get her off. “Or you can just take turns watching the other one do me.”
The two young men looked at her with wide eyes. For the first time, they were realizing that a slave was not a girlfriend. They could have any kind of sex with her that they could imagine. Nothing was out of bounds. No position denied. No orifice prohibited.
Mr. B shrugged. “I go first. He can watch if he wants. I don’t care.”
“I go first,” Mr. A said. “My bedroom.”
“My turn,” Mr. B said. “You went first last time.”
“You said that you had her alone, last time, so it’s my turn.” He was talking about when she had taken Mr. B to the professor’s studio. Mr. B had been bragging out of class.
“That doesn’t count,” Mr. B said. “You weren’t around so you didn’t have to go second.”
“I didn’t get to go at all. That’s my point.”
They were bickering because they were trying to delay the event. They were eager to fuck her, but she had thrown them off their game by suggesting a threesome and now they weren’t certain how to proceed.
She was.
“You got lube?” she asked.
“Lube?”
“You know. KY or something. Like you get in a drugstore.”
They looked at her blankly.
“How about baby oil? Mineral oil? Vaseline?”
They looked at her like she was speaking a foreign language.
“Butter? Margarine?”
“Sure we got butter,” Mr. A said.
“One of you want to take me in the ass instead of my cunt?” she asked.
“Why?” Mr. A asked.
“It’s different. Tighter. It’s something that your girlfriend probably won’t let you do.”
“I want to do it,” Mr. B said.
“How about you?” she asked Mr. A. “You want regular or rear end?”
“I’ll take regular.”
“Great,” she said. “Then you each get a fresh hole.” She looked at Mr. B. “You go find some butter or margarine while your friend is doing me.”
She opened the door and dragged Mr. A inside. He left the door open behind him.
His bedroom was spotless. The bed was made. There wasn’t a piece of clothing on the floor. She couldn’t see a speck of dust.
He was cleaning his room every morning in the hope that she would be coming around. She was a good influence on this boy.
“This is really nice,” she said. “Thank you.”
He blushed. He was more embarrassed about keeping his room clean than about his best friend watching him have sex.
She thought that was cute. It made her want to suck his cock.
“Take your clothes off,” she said as she stripped off her housedress and kicked off her shoes.
When he was naked, she sank to her knees and began licking his stiff cock.
She had sucked a lot of cock in the past eight months as a slave. Dozens. But she had not been satisfied with merely getting men off
with her mouth. She had conducted a private independent study of the art of cocksucking. She had learned about the effects of different kinds of stimulation on the different parts of the penis. She had studied the different sizes and shapes. She knew how to use her lips and tongue and fingers, not just to get a man off as quickly as possible, but how to bring him to the edge of ecstasy and then keep him there indefinitely, teasing him but never bringing him home. She could keep a man so excited for so long that his lust became an exquisite torture.
That’s what she did to Mr. A now.
She noticed when Mr. B returned with a stick of butter. He said nothing, just stood quietly in the doorway and watched her work on his friend.
Mr. A didn’t respond well to her prolonged teasing. He grabbed her head and tried to force himself deeper into her mouth to bring himself to climax. She responded by opening her mouth wide and stopping her stimulation with tongue and hands.
He quickly discovered that he couldn’t come without her assistance.
She pushed him away. “Don’t grab my head,” she said. “Let me work.”
He let go and she resumed her teasing.
“I want to come,” he whined.
“I want you to come in my cunt,” she said between sucks.
“When?”
“When you can’t stand it any more.”
“I already can’t stand it.”
She bestowed mercy on him. She rose to her feet and pulled him to his bed. “Then fuck me silly.” She flung herself on her back and spread her legs wide.
He pounced on her and fucked her hard. He came within seconds.
She held him by the hips so that he couldn’t withdraw and began squeezing his shrinking cock with her cunt muscles.
Within a couple of minutes, his cock began to revive in response to her CPR – Cunt Powers of Restoration. His youth bestowed upon him a miraculous ability to recuperate in record time.
When he began thrusting again, she continued massaging him with the muscles around her vagina . She was stimulating herself as much as him and she came. And then came again. And then when he finally came, she came a third time with him.
The Fine Art of Torture (Slave of the Aristocracy Book 3) Page 11