Here the panic starts. My eyes must grow big with alarm. He sees it.
“Yes, I’ve had you tailed for weeks, as soon as you were found. Coming off your experience of captivity, a wiser woman would have at least changed occupations, found a less public one, or buried herself in a city far from her original home. But not you.” He stares at me as if in admiration. “You tempt fate, put yourself on the front lines again. Why not just hop the Orient Express? You want it that bad, don’t you?”
I wish I could spit on him, but I’m not ready for the consequences.
“But rest assured, your service to me will be a good deal easier on you than your captivity in the slave compound. Just when I’m in town. Only when I want a female. The rest of the time you’ll be on your own. The best of both worlds, I think. No?”
“You mean you’re not going to keep me here?”
“Only when I want you. And then I’ll want all of you…” he sniggers, “you understand?”
“But, I am still your slave?”
“Of course. The only thing I don’t have is a deed of sale.”
“And how do you know I won’t just split, or give you up to the police?”
He laughs big and hearty now. “You doubt my methods? If I already know intimate details about your life, don’t you suppose I’ve included your intimate associates in my dossier?” His face turns especially grim as his dark eyes harden cruelly. “You don’t want to test me.”
I feel my life draining away from me… Steven just when we’re starting to find each other out and the career I’ve built, and friends. Aman is not going to stop with a few nights of sex. I know this man, not by what he says, or what I remember of him from three years ago, but what I sense of his nature, the habits, the well-worn patterns of thought he’s grown up with and nurtured throughout his life. Maybe he’ll start with me as his submissive call girl, or maybe I’ve just been restored to my status as slave, White Silk. I won’t bet on any outcome.
I think this must be punishment for my bad behavior.
I’d prefer to think of those incidents of infidelity as precognitions of this event—my psyche driving to this end, my being unable to survive without being owned. These tortured thoughts crowd my brain but offer no answer. I don’t even know how to think of myself or my life. I am so confused!
Aman leaves and two other men appear who release me from the bed. They fit me with leather cuffs and a collar then lead me into the living room of a large apartment. I make this assumption having one small glimpse of the world outside. It is still daylight and we’re many floors above ground level.
I’m tied in the center of a lavish living room fit with Persian rugs, and walls lined with tapestries. There are antiques on several sideboards, fine art everywhere, and Moroccan lounging sofas surrounding me. Apparently, I’m the newest piece of art in Aman’s collection.
There is a finely crafted suspension apparatus dangling from the ceiling where I’m bound, hands strung up high overhead. I’m also standing in what seems to be a marble fountain, the circular shape about five feet in circumference, the walls about eighteen inches high. There’s a small jet in the center, aimed directly at my cunt, but for the moment, the fountain is dry. I find the smooth marble cold as ice on my bare feet.
Already there are several men in Western dress and others in robes mingling about the room, a few reclining on couches. For the most part, I’m ignored. To be used later.
“Give her some beer to calm her down. She’s shivering,” one of the men orders the two who attend me.
I’m not particularly thirsty, but that doesn’t seem to matter. A bottle of cold beer hits my lips and I wisely open my mouth, allowing the liquid to slide down my throat. I’m not used to guzzling beer, but I manage to take most of it without spilling.
“Another,” the man calls to one of the attending female servants. These women are dressed like American maids, in black uniforms with crisp white aprons. They are plain-faced and virtually invisible unless their services are required. The second beer bottle is upended over my mouth and I take in as much as I can, though this time some splashes out of my mouth when my throat refuses to open; I can’t keep up with the fast-moving stream of liquid. I probably consume half the bottle and am tempted to refuse the third that’s offered, but I’m told, “Do better this time, or I’ll have to whip you before the party gets underway.”
I’m beginning to understand the point. He’s not just quenching my thirst; there’s obviously some other motive for making me drink so much—one that I can easily guess and fear.
For the next half hour, I’m left alone, while the men continue their conversations. I twist, not at all uncomfortably. I’ve been in this position before and my training serves me well. I return to my submission with the ease, knowing that this will be the only way I can survive these hours. As much as the hate rises in me, so does the remembrance of what saved me from the horror—that essence of surrender, the acceptance of the arousal my surrender spawned. As the minutes tick by I can feel the sensations of arousal slowly blanket me, carrying me down into the place of nothingness, of abject servitude and objectification. I am property, a vessel to be used and humiliated and nothing more. As always, this state of debasement has my crotch ablaze.
The minutes tick by and this passion for such shameful behavior augments the arousal I’ve already been holding back these last weeks. I don’t try to fight the torrent of feeling now, but let the obsession and the heat in me grow. Even my mind cooperates. I can feel the independent woman I’ve become sliding away—although she still stands watch and I suspect she will not leave me altogether.
To my great distress, however, my bladder is filling with liquid. The pressure mounts as the beer works quickly through my body. I beg silently for someone’s attention, but it can’t just be anyone. Only Aman or one of the attendants will do. I see the small man first, the fellow who cuffed and collared me. I tell him my problem hoping to gain his sympathy.
“You will be punished if you release without permission,” he confirms what I suspect.
“Then you’ll give me permission, kind one?” I ask politely.
He shakes his head. “I cannot. But I’ll inform Aman.”
He takes his time getting to my captor. I think he’ll never cross the room to where Aman converses with several men in Western dress. Their faces are close, the discussions seemingly intimate, although this is just the custom of these people.
When my attendant finally wins the man’s attention, both stare my way.
Then I shudder with fear as I see Aman abruptly leave his companions and make up the distance between us, bringing with him the attention of half the room. He grabs for a weapon as he proceeds, plucking a thin bamboo stick from a basket of punishment toys that sits like an everyday ornament beside one of the sofas. Now directly in front of me, he swings his arm back and lands a searing blow across my thighs.
I can’t muffle my instantaneous scream.
Another blow lands and he circles to the back delivering at least three more terrifying cuts to my ass.
My howl draws the attention of the whole room. I know this only because I feel the eyes and their approach. My eyes are closed as I lose myself in the pain.
“Silk!” He barks my slave name and my eyes flutter open.
“You ask favors already, slave? How unwise of you.”
“I can hardly hold myself, sir.”
“Oh, you have to pee?”
“Yes.” I bow my head submissively.
“Just how much?”
“Very badly, sir.”
“Well, then if you must, you must,” he laughs, while turning to the small crowd gathered around the marble fountain.
The reason for the fountain, my bondage and the three beers is all too clear now.
“Pee for us.” He pokes my side and then at my bladder. “Just let yourself flood my fountain. Huh?”
Oddly, I can’t go now. The humiliation of their eyes makes me hot and my body
won’t let down.
Aman begins to rap my thighs, taunting me. He jeers and snickers with contempt. The men surrounding him do the same as he struts like a gamecock around the fountain delivering solid blows in erratic cadence. He strikes my thighs, my belly, my ass and my body jerks. The pressure in my bladder increases, but it’s difficult to concentrate on my urgent need with the searing pain again and again interrupting my concentration.
“You have to pee, girl? Do it!” he orders angrily.
This time, he gives me a few seconds of peace and I finally relax the muscles in my lower body. The hot piss starts as a trickle, then becomes a long stream of steamy liquid. The urine runs down my legs and pools at my feet where it slowly drains away.
“Look at me!” Aman orders me to open my eyes.
I must. But the shame that registers on my face is evident to all who watch. That is the purpose of this exercise in humiliation. Lest a streak of Western independence rise up to supplant my submission, I am being reminded of how lowly I am in the company of this master. My face grows as hot with embarrassment as my ass is hot from the blows of Aman’s cane, and my thighs are hot from both the punishment and the piss that makes the rough wounds sting.
“Yes, our little reclaimed slave thought the rest of her life would be like a fresh breeze. But she really didn’t want that, did she? She has a fine boyfriend but is out screwing around with any man she can seduce. Such an unrepentant slut! Such a natural slave to a life of degradation! Why not bring her back into the fold? Remind her of her true calling, and her training. She’s ours gentlemen, this smelly little piss-slut is ours.” His scowl of satisfaction makes me wince. “Wash her off!”
Before I realize what is happening, a jet of pressurized water shoots up from below, blasting my cunt and ass. I thrash about like a puppet until it stops. Then Aman reaches in with his hand and fondles my privates, taking pleasure in the fact that I’m practically orgasmic once his middle finger finds the blood-engorged skin about my slit. He roves with a gentle touch, until he brings a cum crashing through my body. I don’t know his protocol, and if cumming without permission would be a breach of his etiquette. I wisely ask permission.
“Sir, may I cum?” I plead with him waiting for his consent to bless me.
“Humm. Shall I?” he continues his play while denying me what I want. “Or shall I make her sweat this out?” He removes his hand, and I squirm even harder as my body fights to have its climax. “What do you think?” his hand returns and he look at me.
“Please, sir!” I boldly groan.
My desperate plea is a crucial mistake. His hand immediately withdraws again and he takes up the cane, making the rounds of my body with more cruel cuts. My heart despairs. My body despairs. I think he’ll never let me feel the pleasure. And yet, this time, my arousal is strong enough to get beyond the pain and make it work in my favor. The endorphins engage, the climax builds, a full body one that I can feel with each strike of the man’s brutal weapon.
“Ah, ah, sir…” I whimper softly. Surely he can see the state I’m in.
“That’s it, slave. You just keep that subspace high. A good reminder for you.”
He continues the abuse by making an example of me to these men, while making his point with me.
“You going to obey me, slave?” he asks.
“Yes, sir!” He lands a swift blow to my ass and I’m just one more strike from cumming. I writhe in anticipation.
“And you’ll behave like the lowly female you are?”
“Yes, sir.”
Twack! “Tell me how lowly that is…”
My body tenses, and I don’t know what to say.
“Tell me!” he insists.
“I am nothing, sir,” I spit out.
“That’s good. What else?”
“A lowly piece of flesh, sir.”
“That you are. And more?”
“I am good for nothing but to serve my masters, sir.”
“To serve cock.”
“To serve your cock, sir, which I worship with my body.”
“Yes, you’ll worship my cock. You’ll crave it because I own you. Every square inch of you is mine now.” He whaps the back of my thighs at the base of my ass. I cry in anguish. “This place is mine.” He changes aim and strikes across my shoulders. “And this.” He moves to my front and lays a cruel blow against my breasts. I nearly faint. “Oh, and this,” he takes aim for my pussy with exceptional glee and delivers a stunning blow that yanks my entire system away from any pleasurable sensation.
When I settle again, I return to my pre-cum high and the rush of endorphins takes me rapidly toward my climax.
“Yes, sir, you own me, sir!” I fitfully manage to say because I know what he wants to hear.
“And this truth arouses you?”
“Yes, sir.” It does arouse me.
“You want your slave life back?”
“Yes, sir.” I’ll say almost anything to get the sexual result I want, and in this case, I believe I mean it. Behind my words, my fast-thinking mind consents. Is this not who I am? I’m a fool to think of myself otherwise.
“Because you’re nothing but a fucking cunt. Nothing more,” he declares.
“Yes, sir.” From Broc to ‘Sir’ to Broc again, then Kovac—my life was clearly outlined in those years and I’ve been foolish to stray. This man, Aman, will bring me back. He’ll give me order, make me sane.
“So tell me again, who do you belong to, slut?
“I belong to you, sir.”
“And you’ll come running to me when I demand, fall at my feet and serve me.”
“Yes, sir, I’ll fall at your feet.”
“You’ll lick my boots.”
“I’ll lick your boots, sir.”
“You’ll take my cock with your throat.”
“I will, sir.” He marks my body every time I speak, and brings my climax another painful step closer, although this all seems a blur right now. The pain and these words that arise from my memories; there is no stopping either one.
“Are you going to cum, cunt? Or are you going to tease me all day.”
“I’ll cum, sir, as you wish.”
“Then cum!”
I feel the jolt of climax instantly. The spasms tear through by body, though they are not as violent as I thought they might be. Some of the pent-up up steam bled away as Aman worked me over. He culled a rich harvest of sub-speak from me in the last several minutes, while clearly stating what he was about and what he expects of me. I can be no less than I was the day before Daniel Broc rescued me from my owner’s house and brought me back to civilization. It would seem I have returned, to a new owner, but to the same lowly state of surrender.
Once I’m removed from the ‘fountain of humiliation’, I’m given little time to recover from the intense scene before I’m thrown to the wolves who intend to use my body as it has been used in the past. I’m placed against the soft silk of a lounging couch where I’m pawed by the hands of several men. They begin to disrobe around me. One straddles my head, pointing his erection at my mouth. I give him what he wants…just as I give the rest exactly what I’m bound to do as Aman’s slave. This is the mindless work of my cunt and mouth…fulfilling my purpose as the good female does. I think nothing more of it as I’m passed from man to man to man until it’s finally done and I can catch my breath.
In the lazy warmth of the stifling apartment, I languish completely unaware of the time. Those who took their pleasure from me have left Aman’s lavish den of sexual sin. I am alone. Spent. Satisfied. Serene.
I feel a sudden stinging on my cheek. Someone’s slapped my face.
“Get up,” Aman shouts.
I rise, awkwardly, feeling raw and uncomfortable from the hard physical use. “Yes, sir.”
“So, you have the game plan clear? You understand what you’re life is about now, Michelle Monroe?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You belong to me.”
“Yes, sir.”
&nbs
p; “You are my slave and nothing more.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You are here to serve me and nothing more.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’d suggest you lose your boyfriend—carefully, so as not to raise his suspicions. But lose him.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And don’t get overly ambitious with your work. When I’m here I’ll want you.”
“Yes, sir.”
He nods, satisfied. “Good. Now that we understand each other, you’re free to go.” He smiles. “There’s a lavatory through that door. Your clothes are hanging there. You may wash and dress. I’ll have someone take you home.”
My mind awakens on the realization that Aman has suddenly changed the game from what he first described. This shouldn’t surprise me. It’s his game, not mine.
Chapter Four
I hibernate claiming I’m sick.
Steven calls me, intoning his fear in a frantic voice, “Where were you, Michelle? You just dropped out of sight.”
“I’m sorry. I came down with something. Got really sick to my stomach, been puking for the last two days. I feel horrible.” I try to sound as miserable as the picture I paint. I probably do given that my body aches from Aman’s bruising treatment. I’ve been hibernating for forty-eight hours and only accept this phone call from Steven because I’m afraid he’ll be knocking down my door if don’t answer.
“Why the hell didn’t you say something?” He’s upset. Still worried. I should be grateful. But I can’t want him anymore. I can’t want a boyfriend when I’m another man’s slave. A few days removed from my night at Aman’s, I’ve gained some useful perspective. How naïve I was to think I could alter fate. A real romantic life was too good to be true, at least the picket-fence version. I’m far beyond that now and should have known.
“I was just too sick, hon. And I don’t want you coming down with this.”
“I’m not coming down with anything. What can I bring you to make you better?”
“Nothing, Steven, I have everything I need here. And rest is probably the best thing. Besides, this will give you plenty of time to finish your paper.”
White Silk & I Belong to You Page 19