by Joey W. Hill
His skill at such things told her how well-practiced he was at this stuff. Sheer female perversity had her appreciating that yet not wanting to dwell on how he'd acquired it. Maybe that was the female version of what he'd said, about most men not really wanting to know about a woman's former lovers. Women did want to know about men's former lovers, but not the sexual side of it. They wanted to dissect the emotional landscape of that relationship, see how it could work better with them, but they didn't want to hear how good that woman was in bed or how hot she was. No way, no how.
That was okay. As the day progressed, by following those instructions to the letter, she moved out of the realm of such issues. It was like the pretend dress-up, the skits she and Alice had created, on a far more adult and serious level, because there was no doubt that tonight was about more than some spirited role-playing. She moved away from the reality of herself, Madison, a thirty-something shopkeeper and former financial manager. She was a slave given to the training center on her eighteenth birthday to be readied for a Master's ownership. She'd graduated and would be auctioned tonight, would be offered to whomever bid the highest for her, for the talents she'd learned and perfected to serve a Master.
The reasons the instructions specified a bath became clear. She didn't have to draw the curtain to take a bath. She'd mounted the webcam on her tablet, set it on the kitchen counter, and with that little light flickering, she knew he'd be watching. Was he at his house, making his own preparations, keeping an eye on her? But part of a guided fantasy was guiding herself in it as well. She dispelled that thought, closing her eyes and imagining many eyes on her. Male eyes, strangers, watching. Considering how much they'd pay for her to be their slave.
Cleaning herself inside and out before an audience was the biggest hurdle, particularly the inside part. She used the products provided to flush out her most private regions, knowing her face was scarlet during some of it. Refilling the tub afterward, she bathed with the perfumed soaps. When she had to stand up on her knees to reach around and wash between her buttocks, arching her back in a way that tilted up her breasts, she started thinking about her audience. Getting braver, considering how she might drive up the bidding, she rose. Putting her foot on the tub edge, she leaned back against the wall and rubbed between her legs with soapy fingers, then cupped her breasts and tweaked her nipples so her lips parted at the sensations.
It wasn't a self-pleasuring infraction, because her intent wasn't orgasm. She wanted to make the eyes watching her grow intent with lust. She thought of the men's cocks getting hard. They weren't restricted the way she was. They could open their pants, fondle themselves, jack off, imagining how they'd have her down on her knees, doing for them when she was part of their household.
Her soldier. She thought of him, the glimpses she'd seen of him at the training house, the stern eyes and hard mouth with a little cruelty to it. He watched her a lot, telling her with his eyes, his manner, he already considered her claimed. By him. She'd felt that way the first moment he'd looked at her. What if he was outbid? What if one of the others took her? What if she had to spend her life serving a Master who didn't make her pussy cream when he looked at her, who didn't make her heart trip with longing to serve him however he demanded?
She stopped herself, lowering her head and opening her eyes to gaze at the webcam, as if she could send a message to him alone, no matter how many bidders might be staring at her.
A beep, and the screen showed a text message.
Training Mistress: A bidder has paid for a private viewing for the next five minutes. Spread your legs. Place your fingers on either side of your clit. He wants to see how swollen it is.
She braced her foot on the tub edge again and complied, spreading her thighs as wide as she could, and aligning her fingers on either side of her clitoris, pinching it to increase the pouting, flushed look. Just that pressure made her catch her lip in her teeth as the throbbing increased.
Wet your finger in your mouth and put it up your ass.
She hadn't gotten really comfortable with the anal stuff yet, but with that cursor blinking, she moved to obey. Staying in that position, one foot up on the tub edge, she wet her finger in her mouth, slowly, sucking on it until the knuckle was glistening. She rocked herself back and forth as she did it, the playful naughty girl with a lollipop, and then let the finger come free. Lowering her gaze, knowing how hard her soldier would get from the contrast, naughty girl and obedient slave, she reached back and worked the finger into her rectum. Her hips jerked at the sensation, and she had to reach out and steady herself against the wall as she did it, her thighs still in their spread position, so now her breasts were also thrust out and tilted up.
Roll your hips. Show him how much you wish to please him.
She made it a slow, circular motion, lifting up so he had a clear view of her wet, soapy pussy, arching her back so her breasts were even more on display. It pushed her finger in deeper and she let out a moan. Her pussy rippled. She could come, just from the stimulus of exhibiting herself for him.
Stop.
She came to a halt, dizzy, throbbing.
Continue your preparations as instructed. Do not remove any evidence of arousal from now until the auction. The screen went dark again.
She sat down on the tub edge, made sure she was steady enough to step out of it. There'd been two energy bars in the box and a postscript to her instructions that had said she was allowed to eat either or both of those and drink a cup of juice if she became light-headed, but she knew this feeling wasn't from hunger. Plus, she wanted to be light-headed, floating in a euphoria, where she had to focus on simple things really hard, keep anything more complicated out of her head.
Powders, lotions. Drying her hair, brushing it out until it shone and fell past her shoulder blades. She wanted to keep it that way for him, but the directions were clear. She put the sculpting clay in her hair, worked it into a braided topknot, every piece held in place by the style and the clay, leaving her neck fully exposed and her face with nothing to curtain any vulnerability.
At last, she lifted the collar and put it around her throat. When she threaded the buckle, her fingers shook. She pulled it too tight at first, wanting to feel that hold, the brief constriction of her air. Then she buckled it at the proper fit, still savoring the restraint, what it meant. That act alone inspired a contraction between her legs, and more slippery honey slid from her pussy. As it trickled down her leg, she reached for a tissue, then remembered. She wasn't to remove any of it.
Pausing, she straightened, put the tissue back. Then, feeling wicked, she ran her finger up the inside of her leg, collecting some of the fluid. Putting it in her mouth, she lifted her lashes to give the webcam a sultry, come-punish-me-for-it look. He'd bust her ass for that one, wouldn't he? She hoped so. She was caught between a giddy, slightly hysterical laugh and a throbbing need to pant like a sex-starved nymphomaniac. She was losing her mind.
The acceleration of her heart told her how close to six o'clock it was getting. Still, she verified it was five-thirty on the dot when she stood in front of the webcam and seated the well-lubricated plug in her rectum, holding it in place with the ring in the back of the thong. The bullet in the crotch pressed against her clit, especially when she altered the ties of the side straps to hold both stimulants in place. The pressure made her sway, the stimulation in her ass only adding to it. She caught the edge of the counter, had to sit down on the commode lid, which only made the desire to rock against the two pieces almost overwhelming. Her clit was so swollen, even more swollen than it had been in the tub. She thought if she rubbed it at all, she might go off, so she locked her legs together, tried to think of broccoli, cigarette smoke, roadkill--the least sexually appealing things possible--until the feeling passed.
She fixed the chains to the collar, attached the nipple clamps, pinching each nipple as she screwed the clamp in place. The sensation made her hum in her throat, made her want to play with them. She closed her eyes, imagining her so
ldier tugging on that chain.
Ten minutes before she was scheduled to be picked up, she laced the blindfold in place and knelt by her door. She'd placed the webcam by it, so she could still be viewed. As she thought of the picture she made, she was trembling, gooseflesh on her arms, her mind blank. She was a sex slave, waiting to be sold, waiting to find out whom she would spend the rest of her life serving.
She was ready. Please, let it be him.
She heard a car turn into her driveway, two doors opening and closing, footsteps. As they reached her porch, and the screen door latch turned, one quick, Madison-near-hysteria thought invaded. She visualized a pair of Jehovah's Witnesses about to confront a kneeling, blindfolded and collared naked woman.
Instead, the door opened, no knock. The air around her moved as someone stood before her, looking at her. It wasn't him. She could tell, but it still made her quiver harder, a stranger seeing her like this. Then the person squatted and a finger caught the edge of her collar, tugging on it. That pressure, as well as how the chains twitched against her nipples, brought forth a needy sigh. She recognized his touch, his scent.
Troy.
He snapped a lead to the collar. "Stand up."
His tone wasn't unkind, but it wasn't injected with the warmth or subtle gentle note always there when he spoke to women, even his Mistress. Did women speak differently to men than they did among themselves as well, as if dealing with another gender required a different tonal language, a different form of music? Just as it had on movie night, the blindfold had her noticing a lot of things.
The firm tension on the lead, Troy's hand at her elbow, had her rising to her feet. Were they going to parade her naked down her front stoop?
"You disobeyed your instructions, slave." Shale's voice was devoid of the friendly tone she'd had the night she and Madison had danced and teased their men together. "You took pleasure for yourself."
Madison's stomach did a nervous somersault. Shale meant the kisses she'd sought from Logan. Or maybe the orgasm she'd experienced at his hands on the couch, an orgasm she'd been helpless to resist.
"Yes, ma'am."
Shale made a disapproving noise. "I told the directors you should be pulled from the auction and forced to repeat the full training regimen, but they disagreed. They said a severe punishment would teach you the necessary lesson. The marks you bear as evidence of your disobedience will drive up your price for those bidders who relish an excuse to punish a slave."
Her voice sharpened. "Now ask for the punishment you deserve."
Madison wet dry lips. She'd known it was coming, hadn't she? It was part of what she could give to her Master, the pleasure of being punished. She thought of the webcam, still focused on her.
"I want to please my Master," she said in a near whisper. "I want to prove I'll . . . incur any punishment that pleases him."
"Then get back on your knees." Shale's stern tone held a note of approbation. "Forehead and palms to the floor, ass in the air. Knees spread shoulder width apart."
Twenty-five strikes with a switch. That was the punishment laid out in the instructions for seeking her own pleasure. Madison suppressed a serious quake of nerves. Logan had spanked her, and while his hand had hurt at a certain point, open-palm-to-bare-buttock had a threshold. She remembered the switch in her mother's hand. Even applied with the restraint appropriate for a six-year-old's punishment, it had hurt like fire.
Something beeped and Shale stepped back. "Yes. I understand. Thank you."
She must be wearing a hands-free ear piece. Madison heard her step forward again, felt the brush of her high heel against the side of her bare foot. Kneeling the way Madison was, the soles of her feet curved up and vulnerable, she had a harrowing vision of Shale pressing a spike heel in the center of one.
"It was deemed that twenty-five is too many, just prior to the auction. We want your best assets displayed, not covered with welts. We don't want whoever buys you to spend his night having to tend you, do we?"
"No, Mistress."
"The sentence is eight."
Seven plus one. Seven failed relationships plus this one. The final one, the one she wanted to work out more than she'd wanted anything in a long time. Had Logan deliberately turned her mind in that direction by choosing eight strikes for punishment? He was so clever, she wouldn't put it past him. Being with him for a lifetime would be a challenge. She'd have to show him she could be pretty clever herself. Though the nice thing was she didn't have to be clever around him. She could be whatever she needed to be.
"Ass up," Shale reminded her. "Keep it off your heels so I can see your pussy, switch it if I want to do so."
She quaked. "Yes, Mistress." She forced herself to lift her hips higher and curled her fingers into balls, pushing her forehead harder into the floor.
"None of that. Breathe, and relax every part of your body. You don't tense up and resist your Master's discipline, do you?"
She made herself relax, one muscle at a time. And, points to Shale for noticing details, she didn't land the first blow until she'd finished, her entire body open to whatever was about to be done to it.
Yep, a switch still hurt like hell, particularly on an ass that was essentially bare. The thong didn't offer much in the way of protection. Madison bit back a cry for the first one and the second one, but on the third one it wrested free. It cut like fire, like her skin was being split, though she reasoned that couldn't be the case. Logan hadn't done a thing to break skin yet. But CIA torturers could reduce someone to a mass of jelly without even so much as a paper cut. She'd read that in a suspense novel.
Tears had gathered on that third stroke, the pain bringing the other emotions to the surface, just as before. What had Logan said? The first couple of times, it boils things up like pus, until it will run clean and you'll feel other things. Just as good, but different. Given her past, she wanted to think of it as a way of cleaning out all the other relationships. Was that why the instructions had told herself to clean herself inside and out, removing the touch of other men? That wasn't just the fantasy. This was a true clean slate, first step, and this punishment was just adding to the purging.
"God . . ." She'd lost count and that terrified her, because she needed to look forward to that eighth one, not get lost in the prior ones. That was important. Fortunately, Shale saved her on that.
"This is number five."
Madison cried out again, her thighs quivering. Shale ran her hand over the marks and gave her a little smack over them. "Very pretty. Your Master will be pleased. Three more to go."
"Please . . ." She didn't know what she was begging for, but it wasn't her safe word, so Shale didn't stop. Was Troy watching, wishing it was him, his cock getting hard even as he felt that quake in the lower belly, knowing that bearing the pain was part of it?
"Six."
When she yelped into the carpet, muffling the noise, she thought of her soldier. Standing in front of the camera, feet braced, arms crossed, his steely eyes focused on everything. How she was responding, every bare inch of flesh, every part of her, inside and out, that he intended to claim fully, all the way to her soul. She trembled harder. "Please . . ." she whispered, and now she knew what she was begging for.
"Seven."
"God." She didn't know if Shale was hitting harder, or the pain built with each one. Just one more. One more. The most important one, the one that mattered more than the others.
"Call it out, slave."
"Eight. Please."
It slashed across her hindquarters, low enough that sting burned through her pussy, like an itch she couldn't reach back and satisfy. That wasn't her job, either. She panted, letting the sting turn into throbbing, trying not to wince as Shale ran her hand over the layers of marks, nails scraping across them.
"Nice. An excellent job. Thank you, Troy. Give me back the switch and bring her back to her feet. Clean her up."
That had been Troy? She realized then that both of them flanked her. Troy had been so quiet, and w
ith the blindfold, her senses were disoriented. She'd just assumed Shale was doing the punishment.
His hand was under her arm, drawing her back up to her heels and then to her feet. She swayed, sniffled. "Close your eyes," he said with quiet firmness.
She was wearing a blindfold, so she wasn't sure why that was necessary, but she obeyed. Then he loosened the blindfold and lifted it. A soft handkerchief absorbed the tears that had fallen. Troy also carefully wiped around her mouth where the saliva had gathered from her position and stress. There was a reason the instructions had included not wearing makeup, apparently. He replaced the blindfold. "Open your eyes and tell me if you can see anything, even light. Be truthful."
She opened her eyes. "A little, under the left eye. Like candlelight."
He tightened it, and she was back in total darkness again, shaking like a leaf. They were going to take her to the auction, take her out of the house. That worry of being paraded down her stoop was back, trying to pull her out of her fantasy, and she resented it. It was dispelled like magic when a cloak was settled over her shoulders, smoothed by a pair of smaller hands. She recognized Shale's jasmine lotion, remembered her touch from the club, dancing with her arms around Madison, teasing the men.
Troy put his hand on Madison's lower back, clasping the tether now under the cloak and curved around her hip. In that manner, she was guided out the door, halted briefly as it was locked and secured; then they took her to the car.
It was an SUV, because Troy helped her up the step into the backseat. He sat next to her as Shale went up front to drive. Once the doors were closed and the engine started, Troy unfastened the cape down the front, slid it off her shoulders. She assumed the windows were tinted dark. Knowing she was a slave going to auction, stripped down to mostly full nudity and being transported that way amid an oblivious public, made her inexplicably hotter and more anxious.