by Dan Bruce
Her Master Demands
(Dark BDSM Erotica)
By Dan Bruce
Copyright Dan Bruce, 2013
Published by Firm Hand Books at Smashwords
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each reader. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Please note: this is a work of fiction. Names, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
This ebook is for sale to adult audiences only. It contains sexually explicit scenes and graphic language which may be considered offensive by some readers. Please store the material where it cannot be accessed by minors.
All sexually active characters in this work are 18 years of age or older.
Please also note: this ebook is a modified version of Jack Brighton’s ‘His Nemesis Demands’ – with the author’s kind permission.
Chapter 1
Under a harsh fluorescent light that did her looks no favours, Emily Johnson lay naked on a piss drenched floor, an exhausted heap of fucked and fisted flesh. Her body was covered in the sweat of fornication - it glistened on her pale creamy skin. More fluid oozed from her gaping asshole – a cocktail of semen from the men who had buggered her and fired their mess into her welcoming body. Needless to say, it had been an eventful evening for the delightful Mrs. Johnson, P.A. to the boss of one of Britain’s largest companies, a piece of posh totty in most peoples’ eyes, and a right dirty slut for hard cock.
Dazed and fuck-crazed, screwed to a pulp yet still yearning for more, Emily was jolted to attention when she heard a door close. The young woman shuddered, the sound of departure firm and decisive, chilling her to the bone. A bead of sweat dripped from her chin as a ghostly echo lingered in the bleak grimy washroom that had proved eminently functional for what had recently occurred. The noise persisted, defying the physics of sound. It rang in Emily’s ears like a death knell: black; Catholic; certain and profound. That exit had been more painful than any actual hurt she’d endured. Once again Her Master had left her without a care for her state or a parting word. But words aplenty were present in Emily’s head: more ghostly echoes goading her psyche; memories of the rough and violent sex she’d embraced; verbal abuse that was still fresh in her troubled mind...
“Dirty, dirty, bitch!” Her Master had snarled as he had brutally fucked her.
“Cock loving slut!” Her Nemesis had accused, spitting out the words as he had ferociously banged into Emily’s already well ploughed ass.
“Cum guzzling whore! Piss drinking pig!” were some of the other choice phrases the man had used as he vocally assaulted Emily whilst he had slammed repeatedly at her aching butt, shunting her along the bench on which they rutted – savage and raw like a couple of animals, violent and all-consuming.
And it was all true. There could be no denying any of the vulgar accusations. During her time in the basement, Emily had gorged on depravity, debasing herself to a level she would never have thought possible. She had been collared like a dog and crawled on all fours, dragged by Her Master along the floor on a leash! She had licked Her Master’s boots like a faithful mutt, cleaning the leather with an adoring tongue! She had guzzled down cum having swilled it in her mouth! She had been splashed by ejaculate deep down her throat! She had drunk men’s piss and wallowed in the bliss! She had been sprayed from head to toe in hot stinking urine, rejoicing in the humiliation and her total subjugation. She had been bombarded by a blitzkrieg of verbal abuse – words of defamation that still resonated in her head...
“You’re my dirty slave bitch, aren’t you Blondie,” Her Nemesis Master had growled as he rode her. “And this spunk drenched ass belongs to me. It’s mine to fuck and give to other men.”
That last one had stung like a wasp with a grudge. Emily Johnson had become a whore to be pimped - that was the claim Her Nemesis had made. And Emily had agreed; she accepted it as true. How could she not, for the deed had already been acquiesced to by the time the awful truth was spat in her face. Unlike the first time when Her Master had taken her to the basement washroom to be used and humiliated for his malevolent pleasure, on this second occasion he had brought along another man – to observe... and then take part!
This guest of Her Master had been a scary looking Italian – a wealthy banker who looked more like a Mafia gangster. Hades, Emily had termed him, in her typical Classics scholar fashion - the harbinger of death seeming an appropriate title for this intimidating client. Hades from Milan was a very well built man, quiet and severe in a black suit, black tie and matching shades. Lethal in appearance, he naturally possessed a fearful weapon: an awesome fleshy spear sprouting from his groin; a massive cock to match the man’s prodigious size; an enormous engorged phallus that Emily was ordered to service.
At first Emily had been appalled – the shame of being prostituted too much to bear. But she forced the issue because of Her Master – it was something that apparently he ‘needed’ her to do. And not surprisingly, the whore in her soon prevailed in the presence of such virile finery and Emily overcame her prudish sentiments. Knowing her place, obeying Her Master, fearful but thrilled by the bulk of Italian meat that throbbed so invitingly before her, Emily had first gobbled the man in a jaw aching stretch then willingly offered up her cunt and her ass and embraced the deep and brutal pounding she had taken in both those succulent holes – so painful at first, but the ensuing pleasure equally great as she was stuffed, fucked and buggered like never before.
The Italian had screwed them both to an earth-shattering climax – the sex unprotected, the risk not objected. Ending with some anal, Emily’s guts were filled with a generous load of rich Latino spunk – a volume so great it overflowed to form a creamy pool of semen on the concrete floor beneath her. The next thing Emily had known, the man was leaving – his lusty Italian passion not fully sated, but sadly the man had a plane to catch, and a family back home that needed a little of his time. He departed with a promise to return quite soon, and enjoy some more of this very obliging whore, earning the privilege with the promise of more favours.
Having bid his ‘friend’ good-bye, the Nemesis Master had taken his turn, riding Emily’s cum drenched ass before raising the stakes with a brutal fisting! He had done it with Emily kneeling on the floor. It started slowly, Emily’s Master showing some rare consideration as he allowed his obedient toy to acclimatise to the mass of flesh inside her. But it didn’t take long before Emily was begging for more and the man was literally punching his balled up fist into Emily’s guts, making her come again in the process.
Thrown onto her back in the position she now lay, Emily’s Master had then mounted her again. There had been no resistance to the violent entry he’d made, and little friction as the man had thrust in and out of Emily’s ravaged butt. Not much was needed; the man came within a few minutes: the thrill of his domination taking him home.
As the man had spewed out his mess into Emily’s guts, adding to the spunk that was already there, Emily threw her arms around him, smothering her face in Her Master’s butch hairy chest, lapping at the flesh, clutching him close – her surrender total and complete. They had lain still for a moment, Master and slave in stationary copulation, feeling wonderfully spent in a foul smelling place. Emily was in agony, but she felt at peace, holding Her
Nemesis with every part of her body. She held him for the minute that the man allowed before he prised himself away, cleaned his soiled cock, dressed then left – the closing of the door so firm and decisive, the curtain drawn on another mind-spinning encounter.
There were no parting words. None were needed. Everything had been said. All was clear and mutually understood. This beautiful young sophisticated woman, who roosted on the top floor, strutting around and displaying her feathers, would return to the basement, obedient and contrite, for more abuse and humiliation whenever Her Nemesis demanded.
Chapter 2
Suddenly alone, Emily felt the shame try to creep over her and make its indignant claim. But she wasn’t crushed by the snapping, poison-spitting disgrace, as she had been after the first time she’d been so totally debased – a time when so many prejudices and supposed taboos had been broken along with her will to resist. Having endured a repeat, and soared during the raw and vulgar treatment, her base depraved nature had been nourished by the acts and was growing stronger, challenging her prim and proper facade.
She was too fucked to care, too buggered to give a damn, so Emily didn’t try to rationalise it as she lay there on the hard uncomfortable floor. But would do so later when safe in her home, and be shocked by the honesty of her conclusions... For a woman like Emily, shame was cerebral – ingrained from the cradle through upper class breeding, public school ethos, and the elitism of Cambridge. For Emily Johnson the roots of shame were deep, finding adult nourishment in posh London bars and elegant restaurants in the City and West End. Shame cried its claim in exclusive locations surrounded by her arrogant snooty friends – false acting prudes who would be horrified by Emily’s whorish depraved behaviour should they come to hear of it or sniff its vulgarity. But shame for Emily had no stinging rebuke, no vigour to flay her ego like a whip – not in the washroom of an office block basement when she was lying on the floor all alone, with her body so alive, electrified by sex, cum dripping from her asshole, the memory of the abuse she’d been subjected to still stirring her new found passion.
Minutes passed. Emily knew she should move – get up off the filthy floor, clean herself and dress. Her husband Les would be waiting at home, getting dinner ready even though she had text to say she’d be late – Emily’s normal domestic life was still there to be lived as long as some wool could be pulled over the willing Welsh eyes of her doting husband - eyes that would prefer the bliss of ignorance, to the awful, heart-breaking truth. But Emily couldn’t find the strength or the inclination to move – that normal life based around propriety now seemed so dull compared to this degradation and depravity.
Absently Emily’s hand drifted between her legs and her fingers touched her bloated pussy. Both men had fucked her, but not enough – she still yearned for more cock inside her, inside her cunt, pounding away. She yearned for Her Master who had made a promise – hours of hard rutting, but only once she’d earned it. Apparently putting out for the Italian stallion hadn’t been enough. What more must she do before he delivered against that promise? And when would she get the chance? Soon, he had said, but not soon enough – Emily needed him right now!
Drawing on the most recent memory of him, Emily drifted her hand down to her ravaged asshole. It was puffy from the fucking, and even more so from the fisting – raw and tender, wonderfully sensitive. Emily gently caressed the bloated flesh, and purred as she recalled a harsher touch and the two wonderful cocks that had serviced her there so well. She could feel the spunk dribbling out – it drizzled down her crack to swell the pool on the floor. It was the spunk of Her Master and the spunk of his ‘friend’ – the man he had graciously shared Emily with. Emily collected some of this cocktail of semen. She brought the soiled hand to her face; hovering it a few inches above. A dollop of the smeared cream dropped on her cheek – instinctively Emily’s tongue lashed out in attempt to capture this waste. It was out of reach, but Emily was not to be thwarted. She stuffed the sticky, cum drenched fingers into her mouth and slavered up the mess. It tasted foul. Emily made an involuntary retch; yet still she hankered for more of the discharge. Again her hand was at her asshole scooping out another potion of the ejaculate mixture. She gobbled it down, feeling repulsed – tasting Her Master, tasting the Italian, tasting herself and the flavour of her rectum. Consumed by the act, she feasted on more – gathering, slathering, a cum glutton whore. There was no command from Her Master bidding the action – this was all for herself – her base depraved nature laughing in triumph as she gorged on the gift that had been deposited in her bowels.
She came to an end suddenly. Emily rolled onto her side in a foetal huddle and convulsed into bitter tears. Triumphs are short and often sweet, but wars are long and nasty, and the battle for the soul still raged inside her. Shame can be subdued but never totally defeated. Ask Mrs. Johnson as she lay there and wept.
Eventually pulling herself together, Emily struggled to her feet. Twenty minutes had passed since Her Master had left her, yet her legs were still shaking, barely able to support her trim toned body. She stumbled to the washbasin and gripped it for support – in front of her was a mirror, something her vanity could never resist.
Emily gawped at a stranger reflected before her. She looked a mess: her expensively cut ash-blond hair was sweaty and tangled, darkened by the wet; her normally perfectly made-up face was flushed and haggard, but thankfully, unlike before, there was no bruising to be explained, or to draw the attention of fellow travellers on the journey home.
Emily’s eyes fell to the leather collar round her neck – the collar that Her Master had put on her along with the chain leash that now dangled down her back. It was the collar that had been used to bring her like a dog, crawling on all fours, from the elevator where it all began, to the basement washroom where so much had occurred – where her life had been irrevocably changed. She stared at the collar in wonder, seeing herself so adorned for the first time. Shame cried again, but its protesting voice was quickly drowned by the thrill of exhilaration that rippled through Emily’s body. Slowly her hand was drawn from the washbasin and rose to stroke the leather. She watched her reflection, amazed at what she saw – the vision surreal but somehow soothing. She reached behind and found the chain. The collar was turned to bring the leash frontwards where it fell over her pearls to lie between her breasts, cool on her sweat drenched flesh.
Emily stared, captivated. Her collar and chain, the mark of her position in the world of the basement - placed there by Her Master on the property he had claimed, and left behind as a token, his claim un-removed.
Emily touched it again – the leather then the metal: smooth black cowhide and chunky links of steel. Born into a good family, and eased into a well paid job where she was being groomed for greater things – Emily Johnson was an affluent young woman who had many worldly goods: the latest fashions, designer labels, expensive jewellery to go with the pearls, the highest tech, the smartest gadgets, and a spacious townhouse in the right address – South Kensington no less, and those don’t come cheap! But all these things seemed only that as Emily looked at her latest possession. They were things, accessories to a life-style she had cultivated and still valued – objects to be replaced when something new came along. This leather and steel she bore felt like so much more. The collar especially – it was a symbol that couldn’t be easily discarded, at least not by the woman who wore it. Surely it could only be taken away by the master who had bestowed it, should that brute of a man tire of his latest toy.
“But that can only apply here in the basement washroom, and only when he is around,” Emily muttered, testing the claim, hoping it was true.
With a quick look over her shoulder to ensure the mirror didn’t lie and that Her Master wasn’t lurking, waiting for a crime, Emily reached with both hands for the collar’s buckle. She paused. It felt wrong to take it off. Her hands quivered – Emily watched them shake in the reflection. Then on impulse she unclasped the leash from the collar and let the metal drop in a coil
on her clothes. That was okay – a leash was only functional, irrelevant when alone – even a dog wouldn’t wear a leash if its master wasn’t around and taking it out for a walk.
Emily continued to stare, admiring this simplified arrangement, stroking the collar like a proud dowager might her diamonds. There was a rebellious part of her that wished she could keep it on, and display it to the world, flaunting the fact that a man had made a claim on her – that a master had turned her into his slave. But she knew she lacked the strength to act so brazenly on her own, and endure the laughter of narrow-minded strangers or the potential rejection of unsympathetic friends. At home there would be questions if she was to wear it there – Les would be totally flummoxed – chaos would ensue in a place that should be calm.
A grin hit Emily’s face as she thought of the reaction: Les, for once, throwing a fit of anger, instead of meekly accepting being under Emily’s thumb. A little domestic drama might not be such a bad thing - after four peaceful years together, her relationship with Les could do with being shaken up. It could be the making of them, but more likely the breaking of them – and Emily knew deep down she would never risk the disruption such a revelation would cause, and upset what was a very satisfactory arrangement.
Then the grin was wiped away as another scenario unfolded in Emily’s wayward mind – a fear she had repressed now rose to the fore and staked its hideous claim. What if in a moment of madness she put the collar on at work! Not here in the basement, but above in the office proper, where her boss, her colleagues, her friends and enemies lurked. Her life would become a nightmare – ridicule would ensue.
Emily shivered as she continued to stare in the mirror – the horror of that prospect becoming painfully clear, piercing her deep, and stabbing at her heart with all the surety of an assassin’s deftly yielded knife. The threat to her home life seemed negligible in comparison – Les was pliable and ultimately disposable. Domesticity was a world away from the basement where everything happened and the collar belonged. But her career was only an elevator ride away, on the top floor of the office block where Her Master also worked – part of the rank and file on one of the floors below. Emily had no idea what the man’s position was – she didn’t even know his name. But position was irrelevant – it was power that mattered, and the man who was Her Master here in the basement possessed a power that could threaten beyond, its tentacles stretching all the way to the top, like the internal mail he had sent her that morning, summonsing her presence for his pleasure.