Nothing Less

by Reese Gabriel

  My cunt thrums in response, fresh juices bubbling to the surface as I tweak the tiny pink buds. Images flash in my mind of the penetrations I’ve endured. The things done to me, the things I’ve been made to do. So many Handlers. So many times pressed down on the cold, wet stone or chained to the rack. Man after man on you and in you till you lose track and become one giant aching moan, a gaping chasm, seemingly unfillable.

  I’m very close to coming, but I mustn’t be caught playing with myself. That’s a sin, too, unless they tell you to, so they can watch. I’ve a few seconds left before I must put myself on all fours to greet the men, and I indulge it with a vain attempt to fix my hair. My once proud tresses of silky gold are matted and filthy now. The daily hosings I receive do little to remove the stench and filth. One of the handlers in particular loves to abuse my hair and at least once a day he masturbates himself in it, wrapping the fine fibers round his thick cock, stroking till he explodes.

  Another does the same over my tits, making me hold them up to him for better reception.

  One day I saw a girl being pissed on, though this has yet to happen to me. She was lying on her back, knees raised and spread, arms over her head. She was nineteen, maybe, with long, straight black hair and a thin body. She’d been anticipating a fuck, but when the Handler opened his fly, his was still soft. There was a wicked grin on his face as he put himself in position, aiming the thing directly at her belly. She screamed when the spray hit her.

  “Rub it in,” he ordered, making her touch her tits and cunt as he doused her thoroughly. For a finale, he urinated on her face. Scrunching her eyes and mouth shut, she did her best to keep the warm, salty water from invading her body.

  I cringe as I hear the sound of keys in the heavy lock to the dungeon door. It is time. The Handlers have come down from the upper floors of the auction house to begin another day’s training. Using my fingers as a comb, I tear desperately through my hair to make myself look presentable.

  Prettier girls, I have discovered, are treated better, more as favored pets than mere nameless animals. Rina, a little red headed suck-up whom I despise, sometimes gets little treats late at night. Sometimes they’re shoved through the mesh of her cage, and other times she gets to eat right out of the hand of one of the men. I’m so jealous as I see them stroke her long hair. How, I wonder, does she keep it looking so good?

  Boot heels are already clicking on the floor as I assume the expected position. Head down, facing the door, on hands and knees. Thus will I come out crawling. Women do not walk upright in the dungeon. The only time they are allowed on their feet is to be beaten or fucked. My senses were on highest alert. You never knew whom they would come for first. Black boots strode up and down the row of identical cages. Inside each one knelt a girl, like me, head down, utterly submissive. Whatever our backgrounds, whatever we thought we were, we have learned otherwise.

  There is a rattling at the cage three places to my left. I hear her name called and I want to be sick to my stomach. Rina. Brown-nosing, servile, nauseating Rina with her big brown eyes and her tight little contortionist’s body, is being let out first. It had gotten to be a joke as far as I was concerned. The girl would twist herself into pretzels, taking all manner of things inside her: broom handles, nightsticks, dildos the size of a prize-winning zucchini. It was like watching one of those skinny little snakes swallow a rabbit whole. Sometimes they’d have her out on all fours, something in her mouth and backside at once. She looked like she was on a skewer.

  The worst thing was to watch her grovel, like her only reason for living was to be at a man’s feet. There was this mark on her arse, a tattoo of a caged bird, tiny and black. Every time her upturned cheeks wiggled, the bird would hop up and down. It was disgusting. Then again, like I said, I’m just jealous. Playing the part of the blonde bitch is second nature to me, after all.

  Rina pokes her head out of the cage, the metal leash in her teeth as she begs silently to be walked. The Handler takes it from her, running his fingers around the roof of her mouth. Rina inclines her head, allowing full access. He pulls her leash now and she glides gracefully, like a sleek cat to the center of the room.

  Eyes closed, a sweet expression on her face, she puts her lips to the boots of the man who is waiting by her food dish. He accepts only a handful of the butterfly kisses before tapping the whip on the small of her smooth, lightly browned back. There’s not an ounce of fat on the girl, nor would there be no matter what she ate.

  We’re all trained to kneel up when we’re touched that way. Her eyes are moist and doe-like as she looks up at him. Her knees are widely spaced and it is clear what she is offering.

  “How about a treat?” the burly, bearded man chuckles, patting her head. His delight in her is more than obvious and more than a little sickening. I blink in disbelief as he pulls a banana from one of the many pockets of his black fatigues. A banana! An honest to God piece of fruit! Personally, I’ve seen nothing but pasty gruel for the last three days.

  “Would Rina like a treat?” he teased, dangling the greenish yellow fruit in her face.

  Rina nodded, slow and seductive.

  “Let Rina show how much she wants it,” he winked, holding the thing suggestively in front of his crotch.

  Without using her hands, the girl leaned forward taking the object into her mouth. For the next several minutes she fellated it, showing such art and charm that I doubt there was a man in the room who wouldn’t want to gather her up and take her home for his very own.

  “On your back, Rina.”

  The girl complied, displaying herself as prettily on the rough stone floor as if it were a silk covered bed of feathers.

  Slowly, seductively, the Handler began to peel back the banana skin. One by one, he let the long strips fall onto Rina’s small but quivering breasts. Then he got down on one knee and very carefully placed the naked banana between her legs.

  “Relax,” he warned. “Don’t let it break.”

  Rina went into some sort of trance, no doubt concentrating on making her pussy muscles as open as possible. Inch by inch, the soft fruit disappeared, just as if it were a man’s cock. When it was sunk to the tips of his fingers he put a hand on her belly and began to retract it, just like it was some tiny, fragile sword. Sure enough, he got it back out, undamaged.

  “How about that?” he boasted, holding it up so everyone could see how it glistened with Rina’s natural juices. Murmurs of approval came from the usually staid group of Handlers.

  “Good girl,” he crooned, leaning over to feed Rina. With a little sigh, she licked her lips and then happily devoured the banana, covered as it was in her own sex fluids.

  “Take her to Training Room One,” said the Handler, who happened to be in charge today.

  I grit my teeth. Room One was the easiest one there was, where you learned sensual ways to please men, with feathers and oils. With my luck, I’d get Room Two, where the rods and whips were kept.

  “This one next,” he barked abruptly, his meaty finger pointing right at me. “Let’s see if our little female executive has learned anything yet.”

  I cringed at his mocking reference to my former position as Vice President of Operations for a fortune 1000 company. I’d be there still, were it not for my own insatiable greed.

  My cage door was unlocked. As it swung open, panic gripped me. The world out there was so big and the men were so demanding. I’d never in a million years be able to please them. Not like Rina, who, it seemed had been a slave for a thousand years. What was her story, anyway?

  “Let’s go, cunt.” The Handler had to tug at my leash to get me moving. This would count as a strike against me. Scurrying as fast as I could, I covered the twenty or so feet to the Chief Handler. The stone bit at my knees and soft palms, but I dared not delay today. Better a bruise or tiny cut than another whipping. Yesterday’s lashing still stung, and though I couldn’t see my own back and buttocks, I was sure there were welts, deep and red.

  I didn’t have to be
told to lick the man’s boots. This is what slaves do. There was moisture on them still, from Rina’s mouth. Using the flat of my tongue, I bathed the surface of one, then the other. The fact that he hadn’t stopped me yet told me I was doing right to appease him this way. For some unknown reason, he didn’t like me, which meant I had to work twice as hard where he was concerned.

  Leather has a dry and sexy taste, and there’s a smell with it that for some reason has always turned me on. Once in college, when I was quite drunk, I kissed a cowboy’s boot on a dare. It was in a bar and I let him take me home. I gave him one night of passion then dumped him, so he’d know who was in charge.

  Sometimes the Handlers make us squat while they shove the toes of their boots in our wet holes and masturbate us. Mostly, though, we just have to drop our heads and lick and kiss, giving it our all like it was Brad Pitt’s pecs. If we were lucky, like Rina was, a little tap of the crop on our back would tell us to sit up before too long.

  I was not so fortunate. A gloved hand was my signal, coiled in the back of my hair, yanking me painfully. Bending my head back as far as it would go, the Handler looked right down into my blue eyes.

  “Hungry?” he grinned, fidgeting with the opening of his trousers.

  I was hungry, as were all the girls. Our diets were carefully controlled to make us as svelte as possible. It was also a means of control. To be fed, in other words, we must perform sexually.

  Speaking is forbidden, so I simply nodded, acknowledging that I would suck him and swallow his cum in exchange for my breakfast. Whatever it was, I would take it from a bowl on the ground, using only my mouth. The only things our hands are supposed to touch during training are cocks or each other. On my first day I had to frig a chubby Latin girl who was hanging from a rack. The girl found it as disgusting as I did, and the whole time she cried out in Spanish, trying to wave her chained hands.

  I’d protested that I was not a lesbian and that’s when I was hit three times in the arse with a bamboo cane, imported all the way from Singapore. After that, I caressed the girl with more fervor than even a lesbian could manage. When she finally came, I got off myself, just from the shame of what we were both being forced to do.

  I knew from experience that this particular Handler was a big man, but at least he’d unzipped his own pants, thereby sparing me the ordeal of opening them with my teeth. Suppressing my gag reflexes, I applied myself well, hands behind my neck, mouth ovaled like a second cunt. Though I was exhausted and cramped from my long confinement, I knew I must satisfy the man, ultimately milking him of his load of sperm in exchange for a bowl of fresh water and a dish of food.

  He grunted, thrusting himself in and out with little visible passion. My own sex burned as I sucked and sucked and sucked. I felt so wicked and sexual, like a little animal, a she beast, reduced to nothing but a receptacle for sperm. A machine for sex. At last he rewarded me with an efficiently squeezed load, warm and copious. Obediently I took it, gulping several times to get it all.

  When he’d finished with me, the Chief Handler zipped up and bent down to check between my thighs. I moaned softly as he worked his fingers round the moist and sticky opening. I was nearly always wet now, even under the lash. Thrusting my aching breasts toward him, raising timid, captive eyes, hating myself for my weakness, I begged silently for release. As always, it was denied, the Handler leaving me on the brink as he wiped his fingers dry on my long tresses.

  Tears welled in my eyes. They were using my own feelings against me. Making me hate them, then need them, then hate them again. I should be filled with the urge to kill, but all I felt was a burning shame, and with it a completely exasperating and irrational need to please them, to try harder to be a good slave like Rina.

  A few minutes later, a bowl was slid over to me, coming to rest at my feet. Gratefully, I hid my reddened face in it. The smell was acrid, but I ate it nonetheless. It was a mixture of cooked red beans and some kind of green paste. Baby food, maybe. A few crackers had been crumbled over the top. The first twenty-four hours I’d refused to eat. Then my hunger got to me. To teach me a lesson, they made me crawl on my belly and eat scraps that had been thrown out directly onto the stone.

  There was a dog, which was allowed to compete with me for the shreds of meat and crusts of bread. It was a humbling lesson, though not nearly as great as the one imposed on the black-haired girl, the one who’d been pissed on.

  I didn’t leave a morsel of my breakfast behind. It would be hours until another meal, and who knew what would befall be before then. As you can see, I’ve learned much in this place.

  Blaine, my former boss and lover, the one who’d collared me and left me here, called this place my school, the place where I would learn the depths of my womanhood, in preparation for what he termed a ‘drastically needed career change.’

  I had only myself to blame, of course. Before he left me here, Blaine called me a treacherous slut, a deceitful cunt, and I can hardly argue with him. Perhaps it is my nature as a woman; certainly the Handlers teach us that. Women are born to grovel and crawl, they tell us. It is our place in nature. Nude at the feet of strong men. In ropes or chains. Collared, obedient and servile. Our cunts and arses and mouths ever ready to placate and satisfy. Our hands ready to serve. This is our fate, my fate.

  If only I had a chance to do it over again. Not to undo all my sins, but just enough to get me back with Blaine, back to when I was his. A blackmailed beauty. A billionaire’s plaything, a haughty bitch being taught a ribald, but humorous, lesson.

  By now, of course, you are wanting to know the full story. And I shall tell it to you as I crawl to my next appointment. The Handler has signaled for me to go to Room Two, just as I suspected. The timing is good, as I will need to retreat somewhere in my mind, fighting the overwhelming sensations that will soon come. Pleasure, pain, and the terrible excruciating abyss that lies between.

  To begin with, let’s go back a year. Just three hundred and sixty five measly days ago when I was at the top of the world, the quintessential blonde bitch on the fast track to the top slot in one of the largest companies in North America. My IQ tops 160, if you’re wondering how I was already a vice president at age 24. Plus there was my uncanny ability to survive on just two hours of sleep a night. I’d finished my MBA by age nineteen and was a top assistant to a CEO by twenty-one.

  And then there’s my body. If I’d wanted, I could have been a model. But that would have bored me. Torturing business colleagues with my sex one on one was far more fun. To get his walking papers, a date need only neglect to bring me the right flowers or choose the wrong wine at dinner. God forbid if he forgot to open a door for me. As for my rivals, my ex-commando father had taught me to be ruthless. When the lithe and willowy Miss Vivian Leeds dared to turn the eye of a board member I was sporting with, I promptly lured the girl into a game of racquetball after which I tied her naked in the locker room gagging her with the very ball I’d used to trounce her on the court.

  I wrote ‘slut’ on her bare arse with her own lipstick and left her to stew, face down over a bench, her hands and feet duct-taped to the legs. The rumor was I’d done something more to the girl, but she refused to press charges, opting instead to take a job out of state. The fact is, I never had to touch her. Words demolish a girl far more effectively than fists.

  If more men knew that, we’d all be in trouble.

  I bedded the board member the following night, and then promptly threw him over for a concert pianist. Score that one for Rhiannon Kiley; score them all for Rhiannon, all of them, that is, until Blaine’s arrival. It was this new man who was to change my life forever, stealing my heart and ultimately spoiling me for freedom.

  Billionaire Blaine Forrester was fair-haired, like myself. Usually this was a turnoff, but his combination of lean muscles and sharp features had caught my eye from the moment he’d waltzed into my office to introduce himself. The fact that he’d just acquired the company in a hostile takeover didn’t hurt either.

&n
bsp; I promptly turned on all my charm, flashing him glimpses of perfect, silk-encased leg, mouth-watering cleavage and hypnotically swaying hips. He’d seemed oblivious, however, until the day he caught wind of one of my insider trading schemes. I’m not exactly proud of my use of secret information, but I’m not ashamed either. It’s done every day by men, so why shouldn’t I have a few million socked away in a Swiss bank account for a rainy day, too? Besides, I already told you I was smart, and half the fun of doing it was simply because I could. Before Blaine came along, it was child’s play. Unfortunately, his IQ topped 160 as well.

  “Sit down, Miss Kiley,” he’d said smoothly, his smile thin and unreadable. “There’s something I’d like to talk to you about.”

  Painstakingly, his eyes burrowing into mine, he proceeded to pull the details from me, one by one. For some reason, I couldn’t lie. He made me squirm, like he was a human lie detector, and every time he spoke, his voice soft, yet powerful, it cut right through me. It was like he was taking me over, putting me in my place.

  When he was satisfied he’d gotten the full truth, having brought me to the point of

  dripping perspiration, not to mention soggy panties, he laid the bombshell on me.

  I could either agree to radical new terms of employment in his service, or else he would go to the police with the hard evidence he’d already accumulated. I accepted the offer, although I was pretty sure I’d end up swallowing more than my pride. Actually, I kind of hoped he would press me sexually.

  To my amazement, however, Blaine was a perfect gentleman, and not only that, he gave me a huge raise and promotion. I should never have embezzled from the man after that, but it was in my blood: let a man give me an inch, and I’d take him to the cleaners. I might have gotten that from my mother; when I was four she stole everything my father had, including his war medals, and ran off with his best friend.

  I probably wanted to be caught at this point, and sure enough, I was.