I pressed that little button once, twice more. The vibrating was at its full pitch; I could barely keep my balance, so frenzied were the sensations that were being directed into my clitty. I began to fuck, in and out of that asshole, all the while feeling my own excitement racing towards its crisis point, growing ever less aware of the poor body into which I was pounding.
Suddenly, chaos. I’m not sure what
happened – maybe her arms had not been tied down well; maybe, in her panic, she had broken the bonds herself. But she flung herself up, one arm whipping around my head, the other around my shoulders, her fingernails driving themselves sharp into my flesh, and my shaft still deeply impaled inside her ass.
I toppled over; she fell with me, screaming, pummeling me, her teeth tearing at
whatever flesh they could reach. I rolled, she slipped beneath me. I was so close to cumming already; her attack pushed me over the edge. I was screaming with her now, ramming my loins against her butt cheeks, feeling the convulsive jerking of the dildo as it pumped its juices into her, and when I pulled out of her, it was with a deep liquid plop that seemed to drown out even the cheers of the crowd.
I remained on the floor, exhausted. Chloe, clasped in the arms of both attendants, while a third grabbed her still-flailing feet, thrashed opposite me, her mouth working furiously. “I thought you were different,” she spat. A tirade of Danish tumbled out behind it, then another fragment of English. “I thought you understood. But you…” – again the foreign tongue failed her, but I got her meaning anyway. “You are just like the rest.”
I looked her in the eye. “No I am not,” I said slowly, but I knew words would not convince her. For the second time that day, I realized that I had to up the ante even further.
Four ejaculations, I was told. One in the mouth, one in the pussy, one in the ass, and one to go wherever I chose. I made my decision.
I stood, scanned the seats that made up the front rows of the audience. My eye settled on a young man seated a little down from where I’d eaten my meal. His expression told me all about him.
Blonde, young, frighteningly Aryan, he had that self-righteous air about him that one normally only sees in old newsreels about the Hitler Youth. He stared back at me, his face a mask of disgust, and I could read it like a book.
He had not enjoyed my display, not the tenderness of the love-making, nor the passion of the oral, nor even the unscripted violence of the sodomy.
He could not understand why a woman had been permitted to do a man’s job; and he could not understand why that man had not been him to begin with. He would show these bitches how to behave, he would teach them to be fucked and to suck and to accept every kick, every punch, every brutal penetration for what it was, a gift from the Gods, the manna of their Master. Their lot in life. I read all of that in his stare, and I despised him for it.
I stepped towards him, came to a standstill just inches away. The dildo, slicked with Chloe’s shit, danced in his face. He brushed it aside, like he would an annoying insect.
“Suck it,” I commanded. Once again I was spat at, and this time his aim was unerring, catching me hard on the cheek. I did not flinch.
“Suck it,” I repeated. He gathered himself in his chair. Any moment now he was going to rise up and hit me. The room knew that, too. Any moment now.
“You heard her. Suck it!” Magdalene’s voice rang out. The man turned to face her. “I refuse.” Now he did stand, a hand pushing me to the ground as he stormed past me, across the center of the room, past the table to which Chloe had once again been secured; and smack into the line of attendants who suddenly blocked his way.
For a moment, there was an impasse. He stood there smoldering furiously; they stood there staring back impassively. Then, as one, they swarmed upon him, grasping his arms; pulling his jacket down behind him to lock his wrists together. His trousers were dragged down, pulled off and discarded. His briefs came with them. His waistcoat and his shirt.
Naked, he was dragged to one of the tables; its occupants swarmed from their seats to form a loose semi-circle around him. Forced to his knees, his still imprisoned arms were tightly bound to the table leg. His captors stepped aside; the man tried to rise but was quite unable. Again I stepped in front of him, angled the shaft to his lips.
His teeth were clenched, his jaw immovable. “Here, this’ll open his mouth!” Somebody hurled a lit cigar across the room. I glanced at it; an attendant bent to retrieve it, and then very slowly, very deliberately, touched the glowing embers to the man’s hand. He opened his mouth to scream; I plunged inside.
I had switched off the vibrator. I wanted this to be slow, ugly, the most humiliating moment of this repulsive man’s life. I did not even fuck. Rather, I thrust the full length into his throat, and then merely pantomimed movement, so that he might choke on the cock, and choke on his fear of what would eventually happen… of what was happening… to him, in a room crammed with the very same people before whom he had once preened and posed and pontificated.
A thick accent called out from the circle around us. “Hey, Jurgens!” I was right, he was German. “Remember that whore in Dusseldorf ? Maybe her ghost has caught up with you at last!”
A bustle of whispers. Still barely moving, just a light swaying motion so he’d know I was there, I strained my ears to catch what people were saying. “Street girl.” Yes, I got that. “Dusseldorf.” I know that as well. “Police. Murder. Choked. Prick.” Put them altogether. “Never caught.” Well, Jurgens, you’ve been caught now.
I looked down. The dildo was in his mouth to its root. I pulled back a little, saw his eyes… not so proud now, rather pitiful in fact… register a moment’s relief, thankful that the ordeal was ending.
Wrong. It’s just beginning. I pushed forward again, and now I did begin fucking him, riding his face like I’d ridden Chloe’s ass, but there was not even a hint of gentleness now, not the merest glimmer of mercy.
That’s for my first night in the dungeon. That’s for the cocks up my ass. That’s for all the cum that I’ve swallowed. That’s for Chloe. The list was endless. Every indignity, every humiliation, every whipping and slapping and pinching, every spasm of pain and suffering and terror, and that’s for every night I’ve wished I was dead, and that’s for every girl who is dead, that and that and that and that and…. And then I came, wishing that this thing was equipped with a reserve cylinder so that I could flood his throat and drown his stomach, and then pull out and soak his face, so that the entire room could see him on his knees choking and sobbing and begging and screaming, and blowing great bubbles of snotty white from his nostrils.
I kicked him hard in the balls; he tried to scream but I was too deep in his throat; he gurgled instead, then collapsed to one side, so I kicked him again.
I tore at the dildo, unfastened the clips, removed both the sensors and then, leaning over his prostrate, gagging form, coughing up cum and snot and bile, I lay the
contraption beside him, so that the first thing he saw when he opened his eyes would be its one wide eye staring back at him.
Then, turning on my heel, I walked across the floor, past the roars of applause, into the hallway and back to my apartment. I knew I would pay for this later, but right now, I didn’t care.
Right now, I was Miss America. CHAPTER NINE
The evening passed and nobody came. At some point, the girl I’d seen the previous evening tapped lightly on my door, unlocked it and slipped in quietly, laying a tray of food on the writing desk. She returned my journal as well, but so noiselessly that, if I’d been in the bathroom, I’d not even have known she was there.
I noticed she was dressed in a similar outfit to before. My fine clothing was probably still in the Big Room where I’d discarded it; I was naked once again and, somewhere, a sense of injustice bristled. What do you have to do to get some clothes around here? I tried to catch the girl’s eye, but missed. She left, and I sat alone with my salad, some juice, bread and jam.
I picke
d up my pen and doodled with a story that had been playing on my mind, a boy, his car and me.
My college boyfriend Victor was never one to mess with words. If he wanted something, he would ask for it and I... nineteen years old and head over heels in love... would do my best to make sure he got it. Especially in the bedroom. Or the football field. Or the restroom in an expensive restaurant. Or... or... or.
So when he picked me up one evening in the car he'd been talking about getting for months, a two year old Toyota that his folks had got tired of, it didn't take long for him to start talking about christening it.
I looked around. I wanted to tell him it would be a bit of a squeeze... it wasn't the biggest car in the world, after all. But I didn't want to disappoint him, or leave him thinking that I wasn't super-super impressed by his wheels. because I was. He was the first guy I dated who owned anything more than a bucket of rust, and we'd already spent countless nights planning the trips we were going to take in it. Tonight, though, we were simply driving through downtown, while I wondered how to make sure he remembered this evening forever.
"Definitely we need to christen it," I said. And, at the back of my mind, I knew precisely what kind of ceremony we should have.
He'd pulled up at a stop light as I turned, reached down, and unbuckled his pants; he laughed as he raised his ass off the seat, and I laughed when I saw he already had a stiffie. "Looks like you were starting without me," I said, and he grinned. "You'd better get caught up then, hadn't you." And just as the light began to change, his hand left the wheel and clamped around my scalp, pulling me down to his cock.
First I closed my lips around him.
Then I closed my teeth. I stopped writing; then, without even reading back over my labors, I etched a dark and deliberate X across each of the pages. It was no use. The words were coming, but the emotion was dry. I closed my journal, lay on the bed. Finally, I went to sleep.
The following day passed in much the same way. I wrote for a while, but my words seemed stilted and ungainly; my mind still burning with the events in the Big Room, my heart still pounding at the thought of what lay before me. Of course they could not let me get away with my mutiny – for that, I was certain, was how they regarded it, even before I brought the German to his knees. I could only guess at what my punishment might be, but I’d already suffered enough to know that there were very few limits to my ‘tutor’s’ depraved imaginations.
Still I wrote on, measuring the passage of time in paragraphs. I’d written a dozen when the door opened, and the girl
returned, this time bearing breakfast. When I heard the key in the lock, I started; a man’s voice outside set my heart pounding wildly. But I never saw him; the girl came in alone, and scooped up last night’s dishes. I reached out a hand and touched her arm lightly.
“Hi.” For the first time, her eyes met mine, then lowered hurriedly. “They instructed to me to ask if there was anything you needed.” Her accent was English but, beyond that, her voice was featureless.
“Someone to talk to would be nice.” “I’ll tell them.” She left, and the door was locked once again.
I sipped my coffee, gnawed a croissant, toyed with the grapefruit, then realized that I was ravenous. At least they didn’t skimp with the food here. I thought about the girl, as curious about her own story as I was grateful to have something new to think about. Over and over in my mind, I had replayed the disaster that had happened with Chloe, but try as I might, I couldn’t think of anything I could have done to alter its conclusion.
The business with the German bothered me, too. Not because I regretted what I’d done; if the whispers I heard were even half true, he deserved everything he got. But to lose my temper like that, to explode into a kicking, vengeful, angry harpy when he was already bound, helpless and gagging, that was wrong. That was vicious. That was bullying. That was their territory.
I was alone with my thoughts and my journal for the next three days, with only the girl’s occasional visits… deliver a meal, remove the empty dishes… to break the monotony. I found myself feeling positively nostalgic for the days when I could rely on the Magician, the Doctor, the Weasel and the Executioner to drop by to see me, and go through their own individual pantomimes. But, somehow, I didn’t think those particular days would ever return. My “education” had patently moved to another level. Perhaps they were simply trying to decide what form my next lessons should take.
Finally, a few paragraphs after she’d brought me my breakfast one morning, the girl returned, hovered at the foot of the bed for a moment, and then curtseyed. “Please, Ma’am. If it pleases you, they said you could talk to me.” As she spoke, I heard the unseen guard at the door turn the key.
She looked terrified at the prospect. I was simply elated. “Oh thank God for that. I was sure, after you left, that they were going to send some dirty old man who would just stare at my tits, and make lewd suggestions.”
Her eyes widened, but it was shock that I read in them, as though such a thought would never have occurred to her. I wondered how long she’d been here. “What’s your name?” I asked. I was sitting on the bed; I gestured her to the chair. She sat.
“They used to call me Penelope.” Her voice remained quiet. “Penny, sometimes.”
“They used to?” I asked. “What do they call you now?” “They have no need to. I am aware of when I am being addressed, and that is all that matters.”
Dear God, what has happened to her? “How long have you been here?”
She looked at me blankly. “But I am here.” “No… that’s not what I meant.” I thought for a moment. “When did you last leave here – when did you last go somewhere else?”
Her face brightened. “Oh, that was in July. I went to Live Aid.” Live Aid? That was in… what, 1985? It’s now 2012. Twenty-seven years. Yet she says “July,” as though it were just last month. “Was that the last time?”
“It was amazing! We saw all the bands, and we got backstage. We saw everyone.” She leaned forward, a schoolgirl whispering her greatest confidence. “I met.... she named a band, one of the stars of the day. And you’ll never guess what happened! One of them…” she was blushing now, but giggling around her embarrassment. “One of them asked me to suck his dick!”
“And did you?”
“Of course not! He was only joking, because when I laughed, so did he.”
“Then what happened?” “Well, he asked me for my phone number, so I gave him that, and then one of his friends offered to drive me home.”
“And did he?”
Her face clouded a little. “Of course. This is my home. I am here.” “How old are you, Penny?” “You called me Penny!” She giggled. “Nobody does that anymore. I’m nineteen.” And I realized that, in her mind, she still was. As far as she was concerned, it was just a few weeks… months at the most… since she went to that concert. Where she said “No” to the wrong man. Who just
happened to be a member of what was once one of the most recognizable pop groups in the world.
I shuddered. Somehow, I’d convinced myself that the only people involved in this… this ‘business’… were withered financiers, bored aristocrats, that secret strata of anonymous rich men with whom the average person might never come into contact. And maybe some of them were. But not all of them.
She was still talking. “He’s lovely. He sent me a signed LP for my birthday. I hung it over my bed. Sometimes, I think about what would have happened if I’d said yes.”
“What do you think would have happened?” She laughed loudly. “Don’t you know? He gets harder and harder, and he starts to make funny noises, and he starts moving fast, and then your mouth fills up, and you have to swallow really fast because it keeps on coming, and you have to hang on, so he can’t get away until it stops.”
I started to tell her that wasn’t what I meant, but her attention had already drifted away, as she spotted my journal and tilted it slightly, so she could read it. “You don’t mind?” she asked
.
“No, feel free.” I watched her as she read, and she did that like a child as well, one fingertip tracing each sentence in turn, while her lips worked silently over the words. She smiled; chuckled, then laughed out loud.
“You are funny!”
Really? “What do you mean?” “Well… you know. Just funny. The things you write. That’s not what happens. And the things your people say. No, you’ve got it all wrong.”
I was silent… dumb-founded, to be
truthful… and we might never have passed another word. Penny certainly didn’t seem in a hurry to speak; probably hadn’t even noticed that we were no longer speaking, if not for a light rap on the door, and the Doctor’s face peeping around as it opened. “Not disturbing anything, I hope?”
It was astonishing. As he walked in, Penny and I both leaped to our feet, fell to our knees and reached towards his waistband. He halted and smiled, then turned to face Penny. “Your Master wishes to speak with you. You can return later.”
Silently, she scrambled to her feet, and rushed from the room without a word.
“Interesting girl, don’t you think?”
I nodded. “Yes, Sir.” How easily those words came to my lips now.
“I’m glad you like her. You’ll be seeing a lot of one another in the future.” He gestured towards the end of the bed. “May I?”
“Yes, Sir. Of course.” He sat, leaned back against the wall. I watched his face, wondering what I was supposed to do. Unbuckle his trousers? I started towards him, but he sat up again.
“That was quite a display you put up the other day. Very impressive. Everybody thought so.” He was studying my face. “I’m not sure that your methods quite belong within our own curriculum. But I can see how some of them may be useful in certain circumstances.”
“I’m pleased that you think so, Sir.” “Which hits the nail bang on the head,” he replied. “Where we are concerned, it doesn’t matter whether or not you’re pleased. It doesn’t matter what you think. That’s your weakness. Look at Penelope. She has her own mind, she has her own opinions, and she expresses them freely. But she understands… no, ‘understands’ is the wrong word. She knows instinctively that there is a time when you should hold an opinion, and a time when you shouldn’t.”
Miss America - a BDSM Vampire Tale Page 10