Chapter 7
She was lying on the bed, looking at him, saying nothing.
"Okay, boy, let's see what you can do."
In the room were several objects, some of which took Dexter a moment or two to decipher the functions of.
There was one, however, that needed no explanation.
It was a post. Square, about seven feet high, almost a foot through in thickness.
At the top were four large brass rings embedded in the wood, one on each face of the post.
Dexter looked around the room, eyes finally alighting on the table against one wall.
On the table it was. He stared at Jonah, felt the cold gaze returned ... and he realized that the man was going to just sit here and let him show how tough he was.
He looked at the girl. She was totally impassive.
No expression of any sort on her face. No fear ... no joy ... nothing.
He looked back at Jonah. The man just stared, a faint trace of a smile on his face. Dexter walked over to the table.
There were wrist cuffs, ankle cuffs, there were several different varieties of whips, there were nipple clamps, clit clamps ... pins, hooks ...
Ropes and scarves and gags and dildos ...
He wanted to gag.
His stomach was churning ... ready to fall out.
He looked back at Jonah again, realized that if he was to even ask for guidance he would flunk the test.
But how far did he have to do to pass?
All of this contemplative speculation took no more than thirty seconds. Yet to him it felt like an eternity. He'd never been so totally freaked out before by a situation of this sort.
And yet ... he recalled the moment, two days earlier, when this man's daughter had said to him, "Bite it ... hurt it ... do anything you want ... " and his cock had twitched and gone berserk and his balls had cried out in shocked ecstasy.
And now there was already a hardening of his shaft, a wetness where the glands touched his underwear, and the thumping his heart and the pounding of his blood through his veins was most certainly not simply from fear.
And that fact, undeniable as it was, turned his mind completely around.
What was happening here? What was he allowing to happen? Was it so important to him?
He lifted the ropes in his hands felt their slick texture, decided they must be nylon.
He looked at the girl on the bed again.
Amazing, that her breasts could be so huge, yet so firm.
Were they artificial?
He set the coil of rope on the bed and reached for her breasts now, touching them, letting his fingers sink into them.
There was no trace of silicone. If these were fake, they were the best job he'd ever seen in his life.
Yet he knew, already, that they were perfect. That this woman was real, and that if he was to go into business with Jonah, if Jonah was to be persuaded to invest, the girl whose breasts he fondled now was but a sampling of the type that would be available.
He knew it, and he knew, furthermore, that he could make it work.
And suddenly his balls were aching. There was something being slowly filtered into his blood, something that was working subtly on his brain, something that was changing his attitude, creating a different frame of reference against which to measure his concepts of values.
Her breasts, so soft, her nipples, so erect, so stiff.
He pinched them now, pressing thumb to forefinger and mashing the flesh until it was flat.
Start slow, take your time. He was being given carte blanche, he was being permitted to indulge himself.
The reality of it was stunning.
He wondered, would Jonah Sands permit this if he knew what had happened to his daughter?
Maybe. Maybe he already knew.
Dexter squeezed the girl's tits now, letting his fingers sink deep into the fleshy mounds.
She closed her eyes and winced.
A small groan emerged from her lips.
He kept the pressure and began to pull on them, both of them, stretching them.
Such large mounds of flesh were exceedingly pliant, and they soon were elongated out of shape, looking bizarrely mutated.
Keeping his fingertips firmly pressed against her flesh, he began to twist now, turning slowly, but increasing the scope, until a genuine cry of pain came from her lips.
"Oh ... God ... " she gasped, her back arching, her breasts thrusting up against his hands.
He released her and she fell back to the bed with a shudder and a gasp.
He said, "Get up," in a voice that he tried to drain of emotion, but it was difficult.
He felt as though his entire body was shuddering from excitement, and it was difficult to keep the sensation from his voice.
She sat up.
Her breasts continued to jut straight out from her body.
Amazing, he thought to himself in wonder, that they didn't sag. And when she moved, instead of swaying, as you would have expected from breasts of that size, they jiggled. Tightly. Quick fibrillating shivers that seemed to echo through her entire body.
And once more Dexter's balls started to ache.
He thought fast. What the fuck was he supposed to do? He wasn't into this shit. Hell, he was a restaurant manager, who'd happened to get an angle on a couple of good ideas and managed to wrangle a contact ... and now, here he was, way the fuck out of his depth, but he was going to learn fast how to survive here ... because he knew he wouldn't get another opportunity like this again.
He'd already made one important connection regarding Jonah Sands, however. If he won the man's support and interest, it would have nothing to do with business opportunities.
It would be because he wanted to watch this sort of thing take place, and quite obviously enjoyed performing these demented acts himself.
You didn't own a collection like this just for decorations, for chrissake!
He had to move like he knew what he was doing.
He picked up the rope off the bed and passed it through one of the brass rings. What next?
Oh yeah ... the wrist cuffs.
Okay ... pick them up, a quick perusal to make sure he saw how they were supposed to be fastened together, and then he indicated that she was supposed to hold out her hands.
She did, without protest.
What was this girl, he wondered, a pro? A real honest-to-God submissive?
Or was he going to have to fight her eventually, force her to do things?
Suddenly he caught himself, realized that he'd already been projecting, fantasizing himself in a dominant role, imagined himself forcing her to ... to ...
To what?
He couldn't quite picture the outcome of the projection ... but he knew that something was working on his head, and he didn't know quite what it was ... but it scared him.
And it also aroused him like he had never been aroused before.
Already his pants sported a massive bulge, one that seemed always to be growing more and more severe.
He unbuckled the leather bracelets that were meant to go around her wrists, attached them one at a time, and then buckled them up again, making certain that while they were tight enough to prevent their falling off, they didn't cut the blood flow.
The bracelets hooked together by an ingenious device that allowed them to be easily attached and pulled back apart by a second party, but which made it virtually impossible for the person held captive to effect their own release.
One ring partially opened and the other ring slipped through, only to have the first snap back shut again.
She stared at her bound wrists, still virtually no expression on her face.
But beneath the smooth surface of her skin her muscles rippled with tension.
She was perfectly formed, a fact which sank in more and more with each passing second.
Dexter led her to the post.
He realized now that he didn't have the faintest idea what he was going to do with this girl ... whip her ass and back ... or her thighs ...
He could do both, he surmised, and decided that would be the best course.
He turned her so that she was facing the post, raised her arms up over her head and passed the rope between her wrists, looped it a couple of times and then tied the remainder in a knot to secure her arms in place.
His lack of experience was painfully evident, he feared. There was a lot of rope left over that he didn't seem to know what to do with.
Then, of course, it occurred to him. Do nothing with it. No need to.
If he acted as though there was nothing wrong with letting hit hang, there would indeed be nothing wrong with letting it hang.
He studied her body, the shape of her back, the way her waist narrowed so provocatively, then widened again at her hips, stretching down to her firm thighs and legs that were the exact perfect length ...
She was immaculate.
He ran his hands over her buttocks, pressing fingers into her flesh, parting the cheeks and sinking the tip of one finger into her asshole to a depth of two inches.
The rim of the orifice was dry. It must have caused her some discomfort for she squirmed somewhat and moaned, as if in protest.
"Does that hurt?" he asked.
"No," she said, hesitantly.
He said, "Don't lie ... just be honest. Did it hurt?"
"A ... a little ... " she said, uncertain now.
He felt something come over him, a feeling, a sensation, whatever ... he didn't know.
But when he sank his thumb into her asshole this time, farther, harder, he was aware that he was different, that he was someone new.
She cried out this time.
He said, "Did that hurt?"
"Yes."
He said, "But you didn't mind?"
"I ... I ... " she said, faltering.
He pushed his thumb deeper into her, brought the forefinger of his other hand to her asshole and started to force that into the orifice as well.
Her body started to squirm at once.
She cried out, "No ... please ... "
He felt heat exploding in his balls.
Muscles from his neck down to his crotch tightened and spasmed in a series of small, but ecstatic vibrations.
It was exciting ... there was no doubt about that. It was the most exciting thing that he'd ever done. As well as being the most forbidden.
His forefinger stretched her asshole terribly ... forcing the muscles, which were normally clenched tightly shut, to open, much against their will.
She sucked in a deep breath and as it was expelled, the sound that rose from her throat was something other than human.
Dexter had never heard such a sound from a woman before.
It sent an even greater charge through his body.
He pulled thumb from finger now, stretching ... stretching ... stretching ...
"Oh Jesus," she cried, trying to pull away now. There was much too much freedom given her.
Something would have to be done about that, but he wasn't sure just what, yet.
Meanwhile, as his finger and thumb curved around the contours of her pelvic bones, stretching and pressing against the membranes within her body, she was like a hooked fish, struggling against a line that would never snap.
He pulled her.
He stretched her.
He jerked against her body, opening her even farther.
She curved her back, shoving her ass out at him.
Now, as his hands pressed more and more firmly against her asshole, his fingers moved between her thighs ... pressing up against the moist parting of flesh there.
Her juices were thick and hot and they seemed already to be flowing fast and hard.
He inserted two fingers in her pussy.
Unlike her asshole, her pussy membranes were loose, pliant, and willing.
They opened with no difficulty, and they seemed to welcome more.
He pulled his finger and thumb from her asshole and reached under her crotch, shoving up at her cunt slit, sticking his fingers into her pussy.
The hole was loose, but it seemed to have its limits.
He was unable to shove his entire fist inside her, though he certainly tried.
The structure of her cunt, the solid tissues behind the looser folds of flesh, prevented him from inserting his fist all the way.
But he pushed anyway. Pushed until the wide ridge of his hand was flush against the opening, twisting ... turning ... twisting ... pushing harder ... harder ...
She cried out now ... moaning loudly ... screaming, in fact.
He kept jamming his fist against her cunt ... harder ... felt the rim slowly yielding ... and suddenly it became a matter of pride and honor for him to get his fist up there.
Twisting ... juices flowing down around the sides of his fist.
He curled his fingers inside her cunt, pushed up against the point in her cunt wall where her clit throbbed and started to rub against it from the inside.
She screamed louder now ... as if she couldn't control herself, at all. As if she was being pushed farther and farther past her limits ...
Body tense ... shuddering ...
Arms pulling pathetically against the restraints ...
Mouth opened, sounds rising from her throat less and less human.
An animal, trapped, driving only by mindless fear.
He finally stopped ... pulled his fingers back out of her cunt and stared at them.
They were drenched.
Fear does that to a woman, much as lust and arousal will do it. Fear will make them wet ... will get the juices flowing ... he'd heard it before, and now he believed it.
Unless ... and this was something that only just now occurred to him ... unless there was more ... unless there was something here that could be explained in another way. Perhaps ... perhaps ... she really was a submissive ... perhaps she loved this. Maybe the fear and the restraint, the inability to know what was coming next, her helplessness to do anything about it ... maybe this was a combination that aroused her.
Were there others like her?
Was this the kind of woman he could fill his club with?
He felt dizzy. The possibilities were endless. He imagined himself leading a platoon of big-titted babes, all like this one ... all bound and fettered ... all in pain ... all screaming ... all loving it.
Shit ... it was an awesome thought ... much too awesome for his small mind to comprehend fully.
He stared down those perfect buttocks, now once against pressed firmly together.
He picked up a whip from the table, was about to turn on her with it, but then changed his mind, set the whip back down on the table and picked up a riding crop instead.
Why the riding crop, he wondered. What was it about that rod ... that stern, stiff rod that was so appealing?
More masculine, perhaps. Stern and stiff-erect like a cock. Ready to savage and penetrate, not physically, as a cock penetrates a cunt, but subjectively ... pain filling her nerves, her tissues, inflaming her cells, turning her body to liquid fire.
He walked next to her, felt the aching throb in his balls, knew that he was going to have to unload them soon, or he'd embarrass himself in front of Jonah Sands.
Wouldn't do at all, would it, to suddenly have a wet spot start to grow over your cock, not when the man was sitting there, looking to see what kind of control you could exercise over others ... and over yourself ...
He swung the riding crop. The suddenness and ferocity of the stroke surprised even him.
It shocked the ever loving piss out of her.
He landed the blow directly across her buttocks, catching both at once.
She screamed.
It was like a pair of electrodes had been touched to her body and a violent current passed through.
Everything jerked at once, every nerve responded, every muscle contracted.
She screamed ... she cried ... her breathing suddenly turned erratic and jerky ...
He felt his cock pushing against his jeans.
He couldn't delay.
He turned to Jonah and was going to say something, but the man was almost not even there. What a technique. He seemed to exude absolutely NO vibes whatsoever.
He might as well have been a piece of furniture.
He scarcely looked at Dexter. Yet, Dexter knew, he saw everything, saw much more than Dexter was even aware was taking place.
Dexter removed his shoes, then his shirt, then his pants.
His underwear he left on. No sense in going all the way before he had to.
Somehow he felt perfectly natural standing in front of one of the most powerful men in the city wearing only jockey shorts, preparing to beat the shit out of a naked girl he'd never seen before this night.
"You're going to have to prove yourself to him," Paul had said. Dexter hadn't realized what that would include.
He swung the riding crop again, harder this time ... searing her flesh, leaving a dark red welt on the spot where the riding crop connected.
His balls were good for two, maybe three minutes more, tops.
Then he was going to have to do something.
Control, however, was the prime goal, or at least the illusion of same.
Therefore, he'd better work it into part of the act. As in, don't go jizzing all over yourself and act surprised by it, he told himself.
He started to land the blows with deadly regularity now.
Her screams soon became abstractions to him. Not real. Certainly not the product of a human being.
They were unceasing, deeply impassioned ... tortured ... horrible, really.
He continued to hit her ... stroking her buttocks, each one in turn, focusing on various spots, them moving on, until her entire ass was a single red welt.
Then he started back again, hitting her harder, and harder ... and harder ...
Down her thighs, up her back ...
But always returning to her buttocks, those perfect mounds of flesh just begging to be beaten.
He noticed that he was starting to break the skin. That was his cue to stop.
Not that he thought it would be exceeding the limits of his test ... on the contrary he believed now that Jonah Sands wanted nothing more than to see this slut suffer, and brutally.
But he was going to give the man a show ... seeing as that was what he so clearly desired.
He was going to make certain Jonah Sands got a ringside seat at the most fiendish, diabolical show in town ... and if, when it was over, he still had any questions about whether or not Dexter was strong enough ... then Dexter would know that he'd failed.
Except he wasn't going to fail.