“Shall we make this real?” he asks.
“No, Sir,” I quickly divert my gaze.
Closing my eyes is my next best option. I center in my body, breathe deep and await what happens next, while the excitement in me builds with each second that escapes. I’m already out of my mind—the voices around me are no more than a blur of sound. I don’t bother with the substance of their conversation, but lose myself to everything excerpt the ticklish hairs on my backside.
There is a telling swish of air behind me before I feel the strike of a many-taloned lash of cords. Its brilliant splash of sensation covers my shoulders and mid back, then descends as the blows continue to thrash about my ass and thighs. Sir changes directions and intensity. I’m overloaded with feeling, knowing that with each strike my pussy is gathering juice to release at the moment of climax—which won’t be happening soon. He carefully adjusts his strike both to punish and to excite—something he’s done many times before. As a perfect craftsman with any whip or lash, he’s eager to put on a show for his curious guests.
He gives me enough so that I have to scream from pain, while my body thrashes crazily in efforts to get away. Once he’s made his point, the blows begin to soften, to center on my ass, which can take a furious beating and be happy. I writhe now gently as the arousal blankets me and I descend into that other world of sexual bliss.
“Will she cum?” the man asks.
“If I order her to. Otherwise she is required to contain her orgasm.”
“Make her wait,” the woman jumps in. “Please.”
“And why is that?”
Sir is at my back now, the lash quiet and his hand on my flaming behind.
“I’d like to make her cum myself,” she says.
I know how he’ll respond. Sir loves me with women almost as much as I love it myself.
“Only after you’ve evened the playing field, Cherise,” her husband says.
This is too much conversation and my bliss departs.
“Shall I?” Sir asks.
“Please,” the man replies.
As Sir moves from me, the sensuous warmth of his body quickly disappears—though the delightful burn on my bottom remains. I watch now unimpeded, turning my head to see the scene with the woman unfold. I still clutch the ring because I haven’t been ordered not to; but from where I stand, I can plainly see my owner and this quaking female. She’s already on her feet, though she’s trembling so much I worry that she’ll suddenly collapse.
“Take off your clothes,” Sir orders. “All of them.”
I see her hesitate, though it doesn’t last long. Her fingers fly to the buttons of her fancy suit, and soon her outer garments fall away, leaving her in a silver slip, bra and panties. Her nervousness increases once she’s nearly naked. But she doesn’t stop. Lifting the silver straps off her shoulders, she lets the silky thing fall to her feet. Then, with furtive glances at both of the men and me, she carefully unhooks her bra so that her full bosom slips silently into the air, nipples drawing into small knots inside her dark moon aureoles. I imagine my face now pressed between those luscious mounds of milky flesh, my lips skirting the skin, tasting her sweat, smelling the cologne and feeling the womanly softness I’d find there.
She wears only a thong panty at her crotch, which harbors a tiny triangle of clipped black hair. I envy her. I am still hairless like a child, forever dispossessed of my natural womanliness. Her pubic hairs are glistening from the new wet dew. She looks embarrassed but composed as both men admire the look of her thick, muscled thighs and the beautiful ‘V’ at their apex.
“Silk, stand back,” Sir orders.
I detach myself from the ring, and draw away so that the woman can take the punishment position herself.
My master nods as she gingerly moves forward, grabbing for the metal to steady herself. I find her backside is as appealing as the lovely front. There is not one blemish on the surface of her flesh. As she raises her arms, her shoulder blades define a beautiful back. Her waist is trim beneath, and then flowers into two great pillows of softness, which make up her ass. Her design is more voluptuous than mine is, and I can see that Sir is pleased with her. Instead of complimenting her, however, he proceeds in another direction.
“She is not a natural submissive,” he informs her husband. “In the outside world she’s just a player. I think Silk would be the same if she hadn’t been purchased by me. Your wife will enjoy the sensation, but the desire for submission will only last briefly.”
“I think she’d like to make it longer than that,” he husband says.
“Really?”
The two are diverted into another conversation while the woman and I wait for the action to begin.
“How so?” Sir asks.
“She finds the prospect of being a slave quite appealing.”
“I see.”
“To the extent that I would leave her here for you to train.”
“Ah!” Sir looks mystified. “I wouldn’t have guessed that her longing was so deep.”
“Perhaps it is, perhaps just fantasy,” the husband replies.
Sir smiles. “Perhaps the taste of leather will determine her true need. It would be most interesting to train a slave who has chosen the life…” he pauses questioning himself. “She is seeking a permanent arrangement?”
“With me, perhaps. Or possibly another owner.”
Sir’s expression is slightly disgruntled, as though he’s uncertain about any of this new information. Obviously, this pair surprised him. Turning to the woman, he appraises her again, then lifts the lash he’s been holding these long minutes. My entire body swoons as he draws back his arm and aims the thing at her generous ass.
“Ahhheesssssh!” Such a lovely and subdued whimper. Though it all looks like an act to me.
Sir continues, pelting her brusquely about the shoulders, back, ass and thighs, just as he did with me. The poor woman suffers quickly, her cries taking astounding turns, so much that Sir stops the beating. He moves to her back and caresses her bottom, squeezing it gently.
She shrieks a little more.
Once she’s settled, he backs up and starts again, with a varying cadence of strikes that pepper her soundly. Her body is turning red and blotched in spots. I see some strikes will last and find her beautiful as she twists in agony. She suffers, though there is a sexual energy arising from her that assaults my crotch. I wish to caress away the pain, to stroke her face and to soothe her ache.
She never seems to reach the point of bliss where pain ceases and the pleasure begins. She feels thrashed and abused. Yet, she’s not running away. Any moment she could let go of the ring, but she endures as if this is some challenge she must face.
When Sir stops, he pulls me to her, and together we caress her anxious body, bringing it to a more peaceful place. Her breathing eases and I can see that her desire is beginning to build.
“Silk, on the table,” Sir orders me. I didn’t expect this, but my response is immediate. He’s motioned me to a coffee table where I climb on, first on my hands and knees, then changing to my back when he orders me to turn over. The two men kneel on either side of me. Each grabs a bent knee and pulls my crotch apart, while raising my ass with their free hand. Cherise kneels between my parted thighs, and with a fiendishly languid gleam in her green eyes, she begins to work her fingers into my vagina. I’m panting hard, working with her, realizing as I do that she intends to fist my snatch with her whole hand. It’s surprisingly easy for her to enter me and shake the core of my body with her ravishing movements. My cum begins from deep. My head falls back; I push my breasts toward the ceiling and close my eyes to everything but the visions in my head. Other sensations soon grab at me. A pinched clit, a twisted nipple, then the penetration of my ass with something spike-like probing it deeply. Waves of fear and desire unearth me to the heavens. Then the woman’s hand withdraws from my cunt, leaving that anxious space empty, while she fills my ass with her slick cum-coated fist. This penetration is much mo
re difficult to obtain. My body rebukes her plans, all the while, inch by inch her fingers breach the doorway and move deeper. Once all of her hand is inside my ass, she starts the fuck in earnest—not like the gentler prodding of my vagina, but something extreme. This is what she’s wanted all along, what she’s paid for. I wonder what she’ll receive in return.
My legs are pinned, my behind impaled, my heart beating like a huge bass drum inside my chest. I scream. Thrash. Grab at the men who hold me down, then let a surge of brilliant satisfaction swim over me.
Accepting the rape of my ass, I’m at last at peace. I breathe again, while the final waves dance about my body. Then as she withdraws, and I’m left empty, the men move away. Alone on the coffee table, I sink into its surface as if I’m going to disappear.
Dreamlike and uneasy, my eyes meet the man and his randy wife. She purrs like a kitten in his ear. I can see what’s happen, the little bitch. She’s not submissive, but every minute controlling everything that happens. Now she wants it for herself—something doubly rude and dangerous. I’m told to stand and strap on a dildo harness so I can fuck her ass.
It will be my pleasure to take this whore in fancy clothing. I despise her. When the scene is over, she has the freedom to walk away and never bother with submission again. She has freedom; I have nothing but surrender. I was once like her; as proud, haughty and manipulative. I see myself in her shadows.
The woman I was is no longer distinct, but merely a faded reflection. My soul remembers, murmuring the truth between my denials, delivering the picture in my mind’s eye—distinct and very real. Yet, it is only a fleeting glimpse, present for a second and then gone. Rarely do I engage in such silly musing, but today the vision comes naturally. I can’t prevent it. When it’s gone, I’ll be left feeling cold and lonely wondering why I can’t be happy anymore.
The woman’s on her knees. Her body quakes with excitement. I have her ass in focus as I kneel behind her and target her anus with the head of this prick. Aimed and ready, it presses her slippery sphincter (they’ve coated it heavily with grease), then slowly slides inside, inching its way deep.
“Ah, yessssssss,” she purrs contentedly.
Contented, my ass! I declare to myself. I begin to pump her vigorously. Grabbing for her cheeks, I hang on, feeling her until she screams for mercy. Looking to Sir and her happy husband, I can see that I’ve pleased them. Who cares what she’s feeling? The anger wells in me; which is the first I’ve felt in some time. Washing over me like a soothing bath, I relish its power to make me feel alive and in control. Fleeting though it will be, the satisfaction rushes through me in another wave of orgasmic joy.
The poor woman in my power has no choice but to let go. I could teach her a lot about submission. What being a slave really means. I’ll never have the chance because she’ll never go that far, but I can dream. In my one instant of glorious freedom, I can dream.
My fake prick takes her far, forcing her climax. She shudders, gasps, and then collapses with the rubber phallus sliding free. Her beautiful ass is still high in the air, swaying naughtily, while the rest of her body recuperates.
“You don’t think she’d make a good slave?” the husband asks Sir.
“No,” he says. “She’s better off contained in brief moments like this one. The rest of her hours are better spent in fantasy. The reality of true submission would be too difficult for her to handle.
The man looks despondent.
The woman, however, quite content with the scene. Though she’s exhausted, she rises from the floor as happy as ever. A little more peaceful, but hardly less haughty. Her bitch self is just waiting in the wings for the feelings to fade.
“I think he’s right, darling,” she purrs in her husband’s ear. “Will you come fuck me now?”
Of course, he will. It’s quite clear who is in charge here.
I watch them from my subservient pose, while the rubber dick bobs uselessly from my groin.
“Take it off, Silk,” Sir tells me as we watch the couple retreat upstairs to their room.
He has a knowing look on his face that I can appreciate, as though we are confidants in our crimes. Sir can pretend all he likes that I’m on his side. Truth is, I have only one side to defend, my own. I think I did a worthy job this afternoon.
Later in the day, Sir poses me in bondage postures. He ties my breasts, belly and thighs with ropes in strange ways that turn me into some weird creature, which I find horrible to look at. (There are too many mirrors in Sir’s house. I’d rather not see what he makes of me.) Sir’s guests love everything he does, however. The woman is almost giddy with delight as the strain of posturing finally becomes so unbearable that I’m punished again. This time, Sir allows his friend to administer a caning on my behind. The man is hardly adept with the biting implement, but he’s smart enough to stop at twelve cuts.
My insides scream. My outsides roar in agony. But I keep most of my anguish to myself.
When it’s over, I’m at Sir’s feet for another exposition of his talent for mastering slaves. I am subdued, though. Any of the haughty or rebellious thoughts that might have surfaced in the afternoon have been swept away. I sink into the comfort of my subservience; I can hardly remember now what brought them on. My ass aches from being caned—though it is a very good ache.
“Seeing how this slave of yours performs, I’m amazed by her spirit. So many slaves have little left—at least from what I’ve seen.”
“That is why I’m so fond of Silk,” Sir says. “She was an unusual study… most slaves with her feisty nature require more extreme measures to make them submit. In her case, the terrorist who kidnapped her played a curious mind game. He made her believe he cared about her. He appeared to favor her; showed her some kindness; allowed her to vent her thoughts—thoughts that no slave is allowed under normal conditions. He treated her humanely—all of which made her an easy mark for me. At the time, she was still romantic enough to believe his lies. Quite astute of him, I thought.”
He rambles on, while I fix on his last remarks as he talks about Colonel Broc. I still nurture the remembrance of him in the faraway corners of my mind, but at the mention of my training, my nerves burn hearing what he says. Was our friendship just a game for Broc in order to make me more easily subdued?
My stomach sours, my head aches. I lose track of what’s going on around me. Thank heavens I’m not needed to obey orders now. The bitch in the pretty clothes is as over the edge as I am. For another half-hour, Sir and his friend discuss the finer points of S&M while we zone out. When they’ve retired for the night, I get bold enough to speak.
“Sir?”
“Yes, Silk?” Any more, my questions are greeted without annoyance.
“Is it true what you said about Colonel Broc? That he treated me well only to gain my submission?”
“I’m afraid so. It’s a regular tactic of his to win the heart of his new slaves. Not always recommended, but I must admit, it works with hard-nosed cases like you.”
“I was considered hard-nosed?”
“Yes. Also, devious and cagey.”
“Broc lied to me,” I say softly.
“Of course he did. In this world, the ends justify the means.”
I knew that. After this long time, I’m surprised that I wasn’t smart enough to figure it out myself.
For several days, I lie awake at night thinking of my months in slavery. The forgotten memories drift in and out, without my seeking them. I play the conversations with Broc over in my head remembering them word for word, as if there was a tape recorder in my head taking down every syllable and sound.
I should have guessed. Why would a man in his position allow sentiment to rule him? It would serve no purpose. He said so himself, that he was without morals. He was as hollow as the others were, something I knew in my heart, even as I tried to believe that he might have truly cared for me. With this confirmed, my hope for rescue disappears.
Life remains easy. I’m taken care of. Sir makes
love to me as often as he abuses me for show or sport. Sometimes we talk about safe subjects—though nothing about my current condition or the place where we live. He’ll wax poetic about the ancients. Ask my opinion on architecture, or improvements he wants to make on the house. He values my intellect, though I use it so rarely I think it will eventually disappear.
Sometimes I take his orders as a challenge. I’ll work hard to see how perfectly submissive I can be. Other days I fight and I’m punished, but those days are rare. Just enough to keep me calm, I suppose. Sometimes there is nothing better than being beaten to take away the anxious monsters that rob me of my contentment. This is the life I lead. I don’t question it anymore. Chapter Eleven
Six months later…
The winds outside are stirring, the air ripe. Sir is anxious, which makes me anxious, too. In fact, the whole house seems on edge. I catch pieces of stray conversations, which suggest there is some civil turmoil close by. Terrorists. Heathens. Nightriders.
These are all menacing images.
Sir brings me into his study where I stand before him submissively waiting for him to speak. When he looks up from his work, he peers beyond his glasses, studying me.
“We may be separated for a few weeks.”
This makes me instantly afraid. “Why is that?”
“I may have to send you to a retreat where you will be safe.”
“Safe from the terrorists?”
“You guess well.”
“What if they find me?”
His expression is serious. “They will assume a good deal about who you are when they strip off your clothes and see the brand. Knowing you’re a slave, they’ll use you. You’ll be at their mercy, and I’ll have no way to protect you.”
“Perhaps, they’ll free me?”
He laughs. “You still think that?”
“Not really.” Truly, the thought just jumped into my mind.
White Silk & I Belong to You Page 12