by Marco Vassi
She capitulated. And then they were making love. They clung to one another and embraced fiercely and rivaled an entire nation with the hunger expressed in their kisses. Now when his hand slipped over her ass and his finger slid into the hole, there was no gap between the instant of penetration and the instant of response. His entry and her reception were simultaneous as psychic events. She raked his back with her nails and cried to have his cock inside her.
He rolled her face down and trembled over her for a few moments. Her loveliness was breathtaking. Long smooth back flaring into arched, taut buttocks, and between: the dark, the moist, the invitation to hair and heat and wet; and below all that, two shapely legs, now kicking ever so slightly in a scissors motion of muted excitement. He lowered his body onto hers, swimming in the sweet surrender of the contact. She rose up almost imperceptibly to meet him, her ass twitching.
He put his hands over her eyes.
“Where are you?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” she told him. “Anywhere.”
“Who are you?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” she replied. “Anyone.”
“And what do you want?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “Anything.”
“The Parlor?” he whispered. “Do you enjoy the Parlor?”
“Yes,” she sobbed. “Anything. Just so long as I am being touched, being entered. I don’t care. I just want my cunt stuffed, my ass touched, my mouth stimulated. And I want my heart to come alive.”
“Then love me.”
“No, please,” she begged.
“Love me,” he repeated.
Now his cock was hard and he slipped it between her thighs. The top of it rubbed against the outside of her cunt. She arched her buttocks and pressed more tightly against him. She began to rotate her hips and went after him with a touch of desperation. He pulled back slightly. She moaned and thrust her ass back to maintain the contact. Abruptly, he went to his knees. She whimpered and went to her knees, kneeling in front of him, rump offered. He grabbed her ass cheeks, the thumbs near the hole, the other fingers on the outside, and pulled them apart. She cried out and put her face on the bed, completing her posture of submission. He held the left cheek open with his left hand and with his right hand grabbed his cock and rubbed it up and down the crack, slipping into the asshole and cunt with brief thrusts each time he passed.
“Ooohhhh,” she moaned. She was overcome not only by the sensations of the moment, the delicious tantalizing teasing of the proffered cock, but also by the nostalgia of remembering what it had once been like. Her situation had been so extraordinary that the most common of all erotic experiences emerged as exotic. She hadn’t realized how hungry she had become for the familiar.
Without planning or foreseeing it, tears sprang to her eyes. Hot, wet, compelling, they overflowed and ran in streams down her cheeks. Her face wrinkled and shrunk as she sobbed out her grief, while below and behind she waggled her ass and silently begged to be split apart with Robert’s hard cock.
But he rolled her over once more and now she was on her back facing him. She tried to cover her face with her hands but he held her wrists. He did not let go until she knew she would have to keep her arms at her sides. She cried even more harshly, sobbing openly. He watched her fall apart and he smiled. And as the tears spilled, all the feelings connected to them came to the surface, all the emotions she had been suppressing in order to remain hard enough to survive. Now she was stripped bare by the loneliness, the fear, the confusion, the screeching despair of her situation. She wanted to be free, to run back into the world, into her old life. She wanted to walk down a street, to buy a frankfurter at a corner stand, to hear the voices of her friends, to see Chet again.
She opened completely, weeping, thrashing about, giving herself up to her sadness. Robert gazed on her, his eyes on fire. This was what he wanted; this is what all the men who paid so much for slaves really wanted. Not the cries of physical pain, not the bondage of physical constraints, not the penetration of fist-fucking, but to have, to savor, the actual authentic openness of a woman. To see her flailing about unself-consciously, so intent on her grief that she forgets she is naked, forgets that her tits are flopping madly, that her cunt is exuding thick aromas of dripjuice, that the ass is clenching and unclenching on the wrinkled sheets.
When she reached the pinnacle of her wail, he leaned forward, covered her mouth with his, and slid his cock slowly and deliciously into her open, wet, hot hole.
“Ohhhh noooo!” she yelled into the cavern of his mouth, suddenly aware that he had swooped in and taken her at her absolutely most vulnerable moment.
In response, he drew back and slammed his cock home.
She was caught halfway between her own expression and her reaction to his expression. Which was exactly where he wanted her. He had her in perfect vulnerability.
“Give it to me,” he whispered. “Give me that juicy pussy, baby. And give me the whole woman that goes with it. Now! Go crazy on my cock!”
She hesitated for one microsecond, and then wrapped herself around him. Her arms locked around his back, her legs locked around his thighs. She closed her eyes. And then went wild. She went absolutely berserk, scratching, clawing, thrusting, bucking, sailing, pounding, thrusting, engulfing, swallowing, shouting. She became the quintessence of every last pornographic ideal, the voracious woman, shameless in her shamelessness for indiscriminate degradation in her need to be filled.
Robert smiled, relaxed, and enjoyed the ride. She sucked at him with her cunt for almost half an hour before the sperm was drawn violently from his body. He projected every imaginable smutty image on her as she labored to steal his ejaculation. And she just went on and on, a fucking machine, a lust pot, a crazed slut.
When he came, she shuddered for five minutes in sympathetic orgasm, crying out in the simple wonder of her realization of what she had just done, what she had become in the process. And when she finished shuddering, Robert pulled out. Then he rolled over and lay on his back. After a few moments, he pulled out a cigarette and lit it.
“That was nice,” he said, blowing out smoke.
“I’d forgotten what it could be like, just to let go.”
“You’re a pretty hot woman,” he told her, idly reaching over to stroke her cunt, slipping one finger into the lips and twirling the slimy juices around. She twitched as he teased her.
“Just a woman,” she amended. And then added, “Just a person. I don’t want so much different from anyone else. Some affection, some special handling every once in a while.”
She looked around the room, taking in the implements of torture, and her eyes fell on the three cages. The women were watching her intently, their eyes boring through the dim light.
“Oh my God,” Constance said. “I’d forgotten all about them.”
“You shouldn’t,” Robert replied. “They add a definite piquancy to the happenings.”
She shuddered.
He laughed.
“You’ll have to get used to such things if you are going to join the staff.”
“You mean I have the job?” she said, her voice a thick mixture of sarcasm and false enthusiasm.
“If you want it,” he replied seriously. “It’s a rather big step, isn’t it?”
“To become one of the slavers . . .” she mused. “And yet, the alternative is grim.” She stretched. “It sure is good not to have to think about going to the Parlor again.”
“Oh you’ll go again,” he said. “But this time as an overseer.”
Robert reached out to stub his cigarette out in the ashtray next to the bed and then reached behind the night table to push a button. The doors of the three cages flew open and the women let themselves out with the ease of acrobats. Suddenly, they no longer seemed like emaciated, weak, starving, abused women. They walked toward the bed, smiling.
; “Joan, June, and Emma,” Robert said. “Also staff members.”
“What . . . ?” Constance exclaimed.
“I merely set up the drama of the cages to test your responses, that’s all. I really would have had no use for you if you had stormed out of here at the sight of them.”
“You mean you had to test my hardheartedness?” Constance said with a trace of bitterness.
“No, your judgment,” he replied. “I expected you to feel for them, but I also hoped that you would understand that there was nothing you could do and change your attitude at once.”
“Hi,” the three women said and climbed onto the bed.
“How nice,” Robert sighed, and then lay back. “Go to it, ladies. Do your licking, and stroking, and fingering. Fill the room with the aroma of cunt juice and then cover me with your sweet, sweet flesh.”
“I’m on my way up in the slave world,” Constance thought. “I’ve made it to the harem of a minor functionary.” And then surrendered to the mounting tremors of excitement and lust.
Seven
It was her first time in the Parlor as an employee and, she realized, the first time without a blindfold. Her first evening involved no specific task; she was to act as a “floater,” moving about the room and being of assistance to any of the attendants who needed her. After her evening with Robert, when she and the three women had spent hours rolling about in the opulence of an excess of woman-flesh and he had taken his turns fucking each of them, climaxing the evening by having them kneel at the edge of the bed, four asses up and four cunts open and dripping, and walking behind them, slipping his cock into one cunt and then another, switching from pussy to asshole, and then ordering them to converge on his cock with their mouths, lying back as they swarmed over him with tongues and lips . . . after waking up the following morning, she was taken by one of the women to a new wing of the building, given an orientation talk, assigned a new room, and heartily welcomed aboard. She had had the day free to sleep and wash and get used to her new quarters, and then had gone on duty.
She was now dressed in a pair of green shorts, cut very tight, and a green T-shirt. She learned that this was the standard uniform for lower-level workers in the Parlor. She walked around in a trance, trying to assimilate the sights which went with the sounds she had grown so used to. It was difficult. For everywhere she looked, she saw women being subjected to the rigors that had been her fate until just the day before. And she still burned with the shame of betrayal, the inner voice, which whispered that she had sold out and was now to be numbered among the lowest form of life on earth. And yet, what else could she do? She would not be assisting a single person by remaining a slave. While in her new capacity, she might at least have the possibility of helping someone in some way as yet undefined.
“Constance, over here please,” she heard a voice say.
She went where she was called. Roger, one of the attendants, was tying a woman down to one of the tables. It was a tall girl whose body hair had been entirely removed. Not only her arms and legs and underarms, but her eyebrows and the hair on her head and cunt. Then she had been rubbed with a body oil, and covered with a white creme so that she looked like an alabaster statue. The attendant was tying her with white silk cords onto a slab of blood-red leather. The contrast was staggeringly powerful.
“What is it, Roger?” Constance asked.
“She’s brand new,” Roger said. He was a short black man in his early fifties. He’d been working for the Slavers for almost thirty years and was universally liked for his friendliness and kindness. “And she’s probably a little bit more terrified than is good for her or for business. Maybe you can calm her a bit.”
The girl had been given a local muscle paralyser so that her jaw was tight and she couldn’t talk. Her eyes were wide with fear as she gazed all around her.
“Why no blindfold?” Constance asked.
“Client wants to see the terror in her eyes,” Roger replied matter-of-factly.
Constance went over and stood next to the table. The girl was breathtakingly beautiful. Nearly six feet tall, thin, with the muscles of a ballet dancer. Her breasts were high and full, although as she now lay they fell to either side of her torso. The nipples were rouged to stand out against the marble skin. The only other spots of color were her eyes, which were jet-black, and the insides of her cunt, a coral pink turning out against the whitened outer lips. She trembled finely from head to toe like a colt in a light rain. She was a superb creature, and probably not too many days over seventeen years old.
“A week ago she was probably dating the captain of the football team in her home town,” Constance thought. And then speculated that no one the girl had come into contact with up to that moment had had the foggiest notion of what to do with her. Probably all the boys she saw had vague and brooding fantasies of fucking her or having her suck their cocks, but couldn’t refine the notion any further. And now, all at once, she was in the hands of some of the most sophisticated erotic engineers in the world, being subjected to a barrage of stimulation which the poor girl wouldn’t have had the imagination to even conceive of.
Constance reached over and took the girl’s hand in her own. The girl turned her head and looked up at her. Her eyes were indeed filled with fear. She tried to work her jaw, to say a few words. But she couldn’t, and in a few seconds the tears flowed down her cheeks.
“Damn,” Roger muttered, “that’s going to spoil the makeup.”
He handed a tissue to Constance who then sponged the tears up from the girl’s cheek. The girl shot her a look of supplication, wanting Constance to help her in some way. Constance’s reaction appalled her. She felt her belly tremble, and something let go in her crotch and the next thing she knew her cunt was getting wet. She suddenly realized that she was in a position of real power. Her power, of course, was limited, but she was able to make some changes in the reality which would effect the tied girl radically.
All at once the vista of power opened before her. She saw that if she were on top, really on top, with money and guns at her command, then she would be able to have slaves of her own. She would be able to command the loyalty of other human beings, to have them work for her, fuck for her, to kill them if she wished. It occurred to her that all her benevolent impulses had been based on the awareness of herself as a powerless person, someone fairly near the bottom of the heap. She had had no choice but to be nice. But if she were wealthy, possessed of money and connections, then she could be as she wished: cruel, disdainful, haughty, capricious, hard.
She checked the impulse she had to stroke the cheek of the girl who was looking up at her. “She would look at anyone in my position with those puppy-dog eyes,” Constance thought. “There is no such thing as individuated personality. There is only the role within which the energy takes shape. She is helpless and I have power, and that is the only matrix of any meaning.”
Constance reached over and tweaked one of the girl’s nipples. The girl gasped and looked up at Constance with confusion. Constance smiled, and the smile said, “You thought you would find comfort in me, but you find only another master.”
Out loud, she said, “When the man is finished with you, I will take you to my room and have you for myself. Do you understand? If you do, blink twice. And then perhaps I will help make you comfortable during your ordeal. Otherwise, you will get nothing but further torment from me.”
The girl stared up and then blinked twice.
“That’s good,” Constance said, and ran her hand down the lithe frame and over the hairless cunt. She inserted one finger into the pink slit and moved it around until she had gathered a thin slick of pungent slime. Then she pulled the finger up and brought it to the girl’s mouth, and slipped it between her lips. The girl tried to pull away.
“Lick it,” Constance said. “Lick your own cunt juice off my finger.”
She felt the girl’s tongue hesitantly come
up and lick her finger, like a cat lapping at a finger dipped in milk. The girl’s eyes showed mortification, and Constance smiled again and pushed her finger down on the girl’s tongue.
“Do you like to eat your own pussy?” she said.
“Mmm, mm!” Roger said. “You sure do learn fast. Wasn’t too long ago you was one of the slaves and now you are starting to talk just like one of the masters.”
“I’m still a slave,” Constance said. “The only difference is that I have a slightly better position inside the slave quarters, that’s all.”
“We used to call them ‘house niggers,’” Roger said.
“Hey, I want her absolutely virginal,” a voice rang out.
Constance turned and saw a short pudgy man approach. He was in his forties, dressed in a suit pants and white shirt with no tie. He wore slippers. He had obviously just come from his room. He walked brusquely up to the table and looked down at the quivering girl.
“Fantastic!” he muttered. “Delicious. What a juicy piece of pussy. Look at those tits! Man! What a feast!”
He looked reproachfully at Constance. “What were you doing to her?”
“Giving her a little taste of her own pussy juice,” Constance said.
For an instant the man began to flash resentment that his slave had been tampered with, but then he began to chuckle. “Yeah,” he said, “not a bad idea. Why don’t you stick around? You can help me work her over. That would be fun. Watching her eat pussy.”
The man pulled off his shirt and his pants and kicked off his slippers. He had a cock all out of proportion to the rest of his body, hanging like a small club under his bulging belly. The girl, who had never seen a cock before, began to tremble violently. The man laughed once, harshly, and then literally flung himself onto the table. He couldn’t seem to get enough. Like someone who had been starving and suddenly pushed into a restaurant, the man tried to stuff everything into his mouth at once. He mauled her tits and pummeled her cunt; he crushed her mouth with his and slid his hands under her to cup her ass. He slid down and buried his face between her thighs to lap at her cunt and then scooted up and knelt at her head and forced his now erect cock into her frozen mouth.