Miss America - a BDSM Vampire Tale

by Chrissie Bentley

  My asshole was slick now, still tight but malleable, and he was moving freely, faster and harder, his hands on my shoulders, his nails digging into my flesh as he approached his climax… oh God, his climax. I tried to writhe away from him, my mouth working hard against the gag. Please don’t cum inside of me, please don’t cum that deep, please… please… I’ll do anything. Anything you like.

  But then I understood that it didn’t matter whether he heard me or not. I had already done it.

  He came, withdrew slowly and moved away. The hands at my breasts had departed some time earlier, the cock had left my face. I exhaled heavily through my nose, let the pillar beneath me take my weight as I felt the tension and terror flood out of my body, to be replaced by relief. It was over. I had come through it. I had survived.

  I waited for the chains to be unshackled, for someone, anyone, to lead me away, back to my dungeon, back to my apartment. Maybe I’d have to suck them, maybe I wouldn’t. I didn’t care. I didn’t even hear the footsteps that came up behind me, that slapped Vaseline across another greedy shaft… I didn’t know anything until I felt hands grip my ass, and a cock slip right in.

  This one wasn’t as big, wasn’t as thick – or, maybe, my ass was so well lubricated now that it didn’t matter. He certainly didn’t take as long; mere minutes instead of what felt like hours, before that same sick sensation of my ass hole flooding, my innards drowning, my guts rebelling at the alien mess that was choking them.

  A third one took me, and a fourth. Then, instead of being unchained, I heard a deafening rattle, a sudden lurch, and it was as if the world had collapsed. It hadn’t, but the pillar below me had, as the chains that suspended me were suddenly released, and I collapsed to the floor, breathless, gasping. I rolled, and felt the chains roll with me, tangling around my flailing limbs.

  My hair caught in a link and tugged painfully. A foot caught me beneath the chin; another kicked me in the stomach. My ass was leaking cum, I could feel it thick and sticky on my thighs. A hand grabbed me by the hair, hauled me up, ripped off the blindfold, unfastened the gag.

  “You have something to say?” The Magician stood before me.

  “No, Sir.” Keep the answers short. Don’t try to be clever. “Are you sure?” He inclined his head slightly, the ghost of a smile playing around his lips.

  “Yes, Sir.”

  The smile broadened, then flickered off, to be replaced by a frown. Even before he spoke, I knew I had given the wrong response. The completely wrong response. “A shame, I thought you might like to thank these gentlemen for their hospitality this day. But I see they have yet to satisfy all of your appetites. They will have to keep trying.”

  And before I could answer, or even try to explain… beg to be permitted to explain… the chains had been reattached to the pulley, and I was rising into the air again, face-up this time, and without the benefit of the cushion.

  Two feet, three feet, four feet. I hung, I swung. A man I could not see stepped between my legs, tugged out the sodden tampon, tossed it onto my arched belly. Then he stepped away, raised one arm, and brought down a lash on my pussy. Five times and, as the liquid fire of each blow finally began to subside, each time I had to say “Thank you, Sir. Thank you for using your servant. Thank you for filling her needs. Thank you for being a man.” And, by the time I was finally cut free and carried back to my apartments, to have my wounds salved by the Doctor, and my pain eased with a sedative, I believed that. I even said it to the Doctor, as he sat beside the bed, gazing down on me with tender brown eyes. “Thank you for being a man.”

  “That’s perfectly alright,” he replied. “Thank you for noticing.”

  I wondered quite what he meant by that. We sat silently. He rose just once, to open the door to a light knocking – I was

  surprised to see a young woman, mid-thirties maybe, with her blonde hair styled in unfashionably sixties style bangs, enter, carrying a tray. Her clothes, too, looked like something out of a Swinging London movie, a polka-dot PVC mini dress, a jaunty white cap, white heels. She was the first female I’d seen since I’d been here. I wondered on which side of the cage she spent her nights?

  “It’s only light,” the Doctor explained as I looked at the chicken soup, crackers and water that she placed on the bed-table before me. “After what you’ve been through

  – at both ends – this will go down a lot easier.”

  I smiled wanly. It was strange; I knew the Doctor demanded as much respect and submission as his colleagues, but there was also a humanity about him, a gentle generosity that I knew I could rely upon when I most needed it. Good cop-bad cop, all in one? Maybe.

  Or perhaps there was something more to it. Even after his display the other morning, the kicking, the beating, the oral rape to which he’d forced me to submit, I considered him the closest thing I had to a friend in this place… not to mention the last tenuous hold I had on anything approaching sanity. Without his calm answers the last time we’d talked, I still wouldn’t have a clue what was happening here. Maybe if I could start him talking again….

  In fact, I didn’t need to. He started himself. “You’re not the first, you know….maybe not even the thousandth-and first. This has been happening for decades, and not just here. All over the world. Right now, in England, in America, in France, in

  Argentina, in any country you can name, another girl is lying on another bed, while another doctor bathes her wounds, and tries to convince her that things will improve.”

  “How?” I asked. “Will the beatings stop? The rapes?” “Yes they will. The moment you stop thinking about them as beatings and rapes, they will end. For they will no longer be beatings and rapes. They will simply be your life, as much a part of your daily routine as cleaning your teeth, or using the bathroom.”

  “That girl, who brought me my meal. Who is she?”

  “Her? Just a girl.”

  “Is she one of you?” He laughed. “Everyone is one of us in some way. Masters, servants, slaves, owners – without one, how could there be the other? But to answer your question, I’d say her position has more in common with yours than with mine.”

  “Is that it, then? All men are free, all women are slaves?”

  The Doctor sighed. “Oh dear, you’re not going to go all women’s lib on me, are you? I thought you had a little more intelligence than that. I told you before, male or female, it doesn’t matter to us. There are men who are as deep in bondage as you will ever be. And their Masters, some are men but some are women.” Then he paused thoughtfully. “But I think you may soon be discovering that for yourself.” He stood. “I must be going, now. Sleep well.”

  He left, and I lay there, lost in thought, feeding myself automatically, without even being aware of the action. “You may soon be discovering that for yourself.” I wondered what he meant by that? Or what I was meant to believe he meant?

  I slept heavily; awoke comfortably. Again, I had the impression that I’d been allowed to rest longer than was usual, and once more enjoyed the unaccustomed luxury of a reasonably civilized start to the day, a long soak in a hot tub. At least they didn’t skimp on the water here.

  I emerged from the bathroom and found someone had brought me breakfast – vaguely, I wondered how they knew I was up, if there was maybe a secret camera trained upon me. But I put the thought out of my mind; it didn’t really matter if there was or there wasn’t. Besides, if the pipes were as old as rest of the building seemed to be, they probably heard me drawing the water from the other end of the hall.

  I ate; was surprised to find a carafe of coffee and even a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. I stared at them long and hard. There’d been times when I’d have killed for a smoke, but now that the opportunity was actually in front of me, I baulked. For all I knew, I might well have kicked the habit by now. It would only be inviting more torment if I were to start up again, and then have the privilege revoked once more.

  Just one? No. At last, I found a use for the closet. I placed the pack
in there, closed the door and resolved to forget about it. Later in the day, the Magician congratulated me on my forbearance – “That’s one display of will that we always welcome,” he said as he inspected the unopened packet. “Besides, you’d only have been disappointed if you had succumbed to the temptation.” He flicked the lighter. It sparked uselessly. “Empty you see. We wouldn’t want you catching fire to anything. Because we wouldn’t have rescued you if you had.”

  I sat at the writing desk, pulled my journal towards me. It felt strange… no, worse than strange, positively depraved… to sit and write about sex after all I had been through yesterday. But it was comforting, as well, a reminder that sex – if you could call what was done to me ‘sex’ – doesn’t have to be pain and submission and ugliness and brutality. It can be beautiful… it is beautiful, tender and loving, even in the grips of passion. I doubted whether one of the men who’d used me actually understood the meaning of any of those words. Not even the Doctor, the one soul in the entire crew who appeared to possess any sense of what they were doing, to me… to any of the poor souls who entered this dreadful place.

  I was still writing when the Doctor entered. Dropping my pen, I leaped to my feet, lowered my eyes and knelt on the floor. As he approached, my hands reached for the buckle of his trousers.

  He stepped back. “There’s really no need, Chrissie.”

  “But Master. I want to.” “No you don’t. You believe I want you to and that if you comply, you may get off with a lighter beating than usual.”

  He sat in the chair I’d recently vacated, and pulled my journal to face me. “Still writing, I see?

  “My Master… my other Master… he told me I was to write. So I have been. You can see.”

  The Doctor nodded. “And why do you think he told you to write?” I frowned. What was the point? I took a guess. “I don’t know… I suppose… perhaps so that I will learn from my past, realize for myself what a filthy, promiscuous whore I have been, pursuing pleasure in every pair of trousers I can find my way inside.”

  He sighed. “You really don’t get it, do you, Chrissie?” It always took me aback when he used my name. “This isn’t Bible camp, you know. This isn’t some kind of St Paul on the road to fucking Damascus, where you’ll wake up one morning and throw up your arms and say, ‘oh, what a wanton little slut I have been.‘

  “Besides, that isn’t true, is it? I’ve read what you’ve written. You are discerning. You chose men only with whom you had made some kind of contact. Not once… well, not often… did you, in the past, leap into bed with somebody, simply because they had a hard penis. So why would anybody want to convince you that you have?”

  I was silent. Why indeed?

  “Try again. Why do we need you to write these things?” Oh, I don’t know, Mr Clever Dick Doctor, why don’t you tell me? Because you’re a bunch of sick fucks who get off on reading dirty stories? Because it gives you some kind of perverted thrill to think about me sitting here stark naked, writing about all the cocks I’ve sucked and the pricks I’ve fucked and the number of times my pussy’s been licked….

  He laughed. “I’d love to know what you’re thinking right now,” he said. “But I wouldn’t mind betting that you’d rather die than tell me.”

  I smiled, despite myself. He really could be engaging when he wanted to be. “Okay.” I took a breath. “You want me to write these stories so that you can gauge what my own sexual frontiers are, and then transgress them, to prepare me for my future life. How’s that?”

  “Close. Not one-hundred percent accurate, but not one-hundred percent wrong, either. Look, you think about it, and let me know when you’ve come up with something. And, in the meantime, do keep writing.” He stood up and, to my amazement, performed a frenzied masturbatory mime. “Some of your stuff is so fucking hot!” I was still laughing when he left and, as I completed the story I’d been writing, did I really up the tempo in the last few paragraphs, in the knowledge that he’d been reading it? I do hope not.

  But, as I described the thrill of that final shimmering orgasm, the seed that flooded my throat while my lover clutched at my hair, twisting it between long fingers while he pumped come without end into my mouth, I doubted whether any moment could ever have been as perfect as the one that I was setting down on paper.

  I swallowed hard, while my fingers scooped overflow from my chin, and fed it back between my lips. He was gazing down at me, his eyes so full of tenderness and love; mine reflected back hunger and greed. I read once, in one of those tacky “the truth about…” movie books, that Marilyn Monroe preferred giving head to any other sex act there was; that that was why she and Joe DiMaggio split up, because he couldn’t understand her hunger for cock. I could and, as I stroked Gary’s balls, now so soft and downy, I had only one thought. How long before he hardened again?

  No less than the Doctor, the Magician, too, seemed in remarkably high spirits when he came to call. First there was the almost casual commentary on the cigarettes, veiled threat notwithstanding, then he, too, commented on my writing; not quite so enthusiastically as the Doctor, but at least with something of a smile. He also had a surprise for me, as he clapped his hands and, through the door behind him, two men wheeled in a long rack of clothes.

  “You should dress. We have company, and they can be quite formal about such matters.”

  I ran to the rack. Everything on hangers, and hangers full of everything. Knickers and bras, tops and bottoms, dresses and jeans, ball-gowns and cat suits, the lot. And none of your cheap muck. You could have broken into Barneys and made off with their entire inventory, and you still wouldn’t have had the choice that was laid out before me.

  The men returned with shoes, boxes and boxes of shoes. And make-up. Oh my God, I couldn’t believe it. I can’t say I’ve ever been too clothes-conscious; the last time I got seriously dressed up was for my High School prom. And maybe a few weddings. A work party or two. Special occasions, anyway. But spend a few weeks without any clothes at all, and a pair of torn jeans would render you ecstatic. This was beyond words.

  I looked at the Magician, which is exactly what he was in my eyes, right then. “I just don’t know…” I babbled excitedly. “I mean, how formal? Business meeting formal? Mom and pop’s fiftieth wedding anniversary formal… I don’t know! What should I wear?”

  He shrugged. “That’s for you to decide. I merely instructed you to dress. I will not tell you how. But I would recommend that you make the correct decision.” And, with that, he turned and left.

  There was a mirror! While he was talking, the men had brought in a mirror, a

  grandiose, antique affair, its wooden frame ornately carved into songbirds and

  woodland scenes. At first I was afraid to approach it, fearful of what I would see. Despite my regular bathing, despite the doctor’s care, I was certain my body was a mass of ugly scars, unhealed welts, sores and stripes. But when I did finally look, immediately after I took a quick shower… nothing. I looked the same as ever. My hair was a little longer, and I’d put on a few pounds… lack of meaningful exercise. If you were asked whether this woman had spent the best part of the last month being raped, whipped and sodomized, though, the answer would have to be no.

  The only thing that was out of place was the hickey. It was still there, and still as red and angry as ever. Or maybe it was a new one. I don’t know. After all that the rest of my body had been through, a nibble on the neck would not even have registered.

  I must have tried on two dozen different outfits I was Katie-Couric-Reads-TheNews; I was Haile-Berry-Collects-An-Oscar. I went from the cover girl of People to a Senior VP at the bank. There was even an outfit that Lady Gaga would have blushed at, and I wondered just how that would go down at the forthcoming formal… and why it was even brought in, in the first place. Maybe they just kept all this stuff in a cupboard, wheeled it out when the occasion demanded… hey, maybe I would catch a glimpse of some of my fellow captives? I wondered what they might be wearing. Oh my God,
I was going to dinner with a bunch of white slavers, and I was worried whether my dress might clash with one of the other captives’.

  In the end, I opted for simple, smart, but stunning, and I did so just in time. I was making the final adjustments to my hair in the mirror when the door opened and the Magician appeared.

  He looked at me silently for a moment, and then nodded. “You’ve chosen well. How much easier it would be if you could always be so wise.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Outside in the corridor, I was startled to hear voices. The place was usually as silent as the grave, but from every direction, conversation, even laughter, floated down that long empty space. Neither was it empty any longer. Not once on my past journeys between my apartment and the dungeon had I noticed any break in the long dull vista of those foreboding dark walls.

  Now, every five or six yards, a door seemed to stand ajar; and, from behind every one, there emanated some sign of humanity. I wondered who occupied them; if they were, indeed, occupied all the time? And then I noticed something else. The very

  atmosphere of the place had changed, as though a dark pall of suffering and despair had been stripped away from the walls, to be replaced with excitement, anticipation… even joy.

  The closer we came to what I now thought of as the Big Room, the brighter everything became. The wooden walls had an extra sparkle, the tapestries glowed and glittered. Great glass chandeliers sent cascades of rainbows through the air and, at the end of the hall, the sound of glasses chinking, laughter, even music.

  We entered the room and all fell silent. I looked around. Where once had been a vast, open space now four sets of wooden bleachers forced row upon row of seated people halfway to the ceiling. Thin tables ran in front of the rows, themselves

  immaculately laid out for what was clearly to be a grand feast.

  A party was in full swing – or, at least, it had been. Now, however, nobody spoke, nobody moved. Even the attendants, waiters, whatever they were, resplendent in white jackets and dickie-bows, seemed to have frozen in mid-movement, whether they were replenishing people’s glasses, distributing snacks, or lighting cigars and cigarettes. A tableau could not have been fixed more firmly.