Chapter 3
Part Time Slave.
"Horny, darling?"
Jason kneads my naked pussy and is pleased with what he finds. My dream fades before his masculinity. I feel guilty about how terribly real it was, my nose can still feel the wiry curls of Lotte's pubic hair pressing down hard upon my face. I have to suppose its vividness arises from what Jason is doing to me. Or was the dream first and Jason second .... ? I do not know. At any rate my master deigns to visit me ... and my wrists hurt like crazy.
"Yes, I'm horny. I'm ashamed of it. Why would being whipped make me horny? Jason, please let my arms down?"
"All in good time, love. Went to sleep, didn't you?"
"I think I lost consciousness. That whipping hurt something awful. I'm so tired."
"Time for bed, eh."
I flame into desire. Hunger, thirst, everything is forgotten except my rampant loins. Jason is so mean not to unstrap my wrists - he knows -- he knows! He adores these moments when I am utterly female and entirely his. But I must be cautious. If I am too avid for his maleness he will play cat and mouse with me, excite me more, leave me fastened like this with my hands strapped high and my body excitingly bare. I say, modestly, "Yes, Jason, time for bed."
It is tumultuous, explosive, a volcanic eruption. The chain locked on my ankle clinks joyously as we disport ourselves in this sexuality and that. My whipping has made us both inexhaustible with a, fire successive couplings does not quench. I do not care whether I am chained or not: in fact I adore the weight I carry on my foot. Repeatedly I snuggle beneath him on my whipped back, the pain is the most potent aphrodisiac in the world. I do not believe a whipped girl could ever be frigid. Jason owns me.
Over breakfast he tortures me again, laughing at my disbelief. He is so terribly, terribly sure of me. I squirm inwardly in chagrin but adore every moment of this new shame.
"You'll pick up your life where you left off, Carrie my sweet."
Dazedly, I raise my hands and look at the handcuffs tight on my wrists. "You mean you're turning me loose, Jason?"
"You sound like a jilted wife, darling." He grins expansively. "You'll never be free, you'll never escape. You're a slave."
I suspect he is playing his Russian Roulette again, preening his ego. "I can't possibly go back. You've made me disappear." I tell him petulantly.
"You'll manage. Tell 'em you've had a secret love affair with a name you dare not disclose. They'll buy it."
"But you've made me into this!" I clink the handcuffs at him accusingly. "You've changed me. I can't possibly start over."
"You can and you will - if you know what's good for you."
"What's good for me is terrible. I'm ashamed of it. I really am a slave, damn you, and you've done it."
"Just recognized the latent image, love."
He is so damn assured, loving every bit of my confusion. And why not! I'm his possession to enjoy. "What happens to us?" I ask unhappily.
"Nothing, sweetheart. Your job's nine to five, isn't it."
"What do I do: come home and make your supper then slip into the handcuffs when I hear your key in the lock?"
"Tremendous! We'll make that a must - suitably nude, of course."
I will never defeat him. He finds everything about me erotic. I am a self renewing delicacy. But I love it - Oh dammit, what's wrong with me! As if I didn't know ... ! "You're playing that game again, like with the policeman."
"So what! It's delicious. Man's finest sport."
"It's unkind to me, walking out of slavery every morning, returning to it after five. It will tear me apart."
"It will keep you vividly alive."
Jason is always right. All my fighting is an outrageous retreat. I will do whatever he orders, be whatever he wants. I am not in love with him ... I'm not, I'm not! But I am in love with what he does to me and the way he shapes my being. If I am honest with myself I can see it as a woman's ultimate sexuality. I once wanted, desperately, to escape. But what was I running away from ... ? Or running to! I wouldn't have been running away from Jason, I'd have been fleeing from Me! That Me is lost, lost, lost. I don't want her back. Oh, damn!
"People will suspect something"
"Why not. They'll envy your glow."
"Will they envy my whipped back and beaten bottom?"
Jason chuckles. "Some of 'em might. You'd be surprised."
I sniff, and have a mental vision of baring my weals in the Little Girl's Room ... Wow!
The Minutes of the Board Meeting are in a neat pile to my left, to my right accumulates today's letters at which my I.B.M. hammers urgently. My In tray is full, my Out tray almost bare. The lights on my phone flicker ....
Everything is normal.
It has been a month, and Jason was right. I have become a femme fatale, and bask in glory. If they sense my double life, they cannot be sure. This adds to my mystique. I enjoy it ... even when it hurts.
Jason has me - does he ever! I have given up being ashamed. I have become an interesting specimen under scrutiny: his and mine. I continually surprise myself, and am thereby edified. I look back in wonder at my Pre-Jason existence. It seems unreal.
Everything is unreal. I will never be bored again. Adjectives flow from me as exclamations. Jason unleashes them from some inexhaustible source. My pains and slavery are the channel through which they vent. I ought to mind terribly but I do not.
I ought to mind about my belt. It is one of Jason's toys. He will think of it cutting into my waist, knowing that with every breath I will be conscious of it and of him. It is his hand upon me when we are apart.
The belt is his own invention, one of many designed for my discomfort. I guess slaves aren't supposed to be comfortable when away from their masters. We are expected to remember our Master. Jason ensures I do. It is a piece of heavy wire. He had had it chromed and circlets welded at each end. It constricts my waist to just short of cruelty. It cuts and burns and bothers. I cannot move without paying tribute to it, especially in my walk, it affects my walk most wantonly. I control it as best I can in the office, and such hip action as escapes me is attributed to my new status as someone's inamorata.
This wire circlet round my tummy is locked on me every morning with a padlock, so placed as not to obtrude. It is an infuriating infliction against which I am helpless. Jason points out that I can always buy a pair of pliers during my noon hour and cut it off. But then I cannot put it back on, and must return home to face a terrible retribution for my crime. I must wear it in virtue and in pain. On my first day with it in the office, in desperation, I retired with it to the privacy of a rest room cubicle and bared enough of myself to see if I couldn't do something about the damn thing. But it was tightly indented into me, and unless I pawed at my flesh was not even visible. I worked on the padlock with a hairpin but that was a waste of time. I was foxed. I stalked back to my desk, quite sure everyone knew what I was hiding. But no one did. It is terribly easy to control a girl in public, all you need is an inventive mind.
Jason gets things made for me. I expect he has a friend and they snicker together planning my subjections. He came home the other day with a hobble for my knees. It consists of two metal bands he locks tight above each knee. They are joined by a short length of woven wire cable so as to make no noise, a chain would clink as I make my quick hobbled steps, hoping desperately my gait appears natural. Since they lock and need a key, I have no hope of removing them. Again, there is the temptation to get pliers and cut the link. But I cannot splice it back. The severed ends would condemn me to Jason's justice.
The penalty is one hundred strokes. I don't think he has ever been that cruel to me, and I don't want it to happen. He has figured out to a nicety the number of whip weals I can bear with erotic effect. Beyond that number pain increasingly devastates my capacity to endure. I cannot face a hundred, not hung by my wrists with my feet off the floor while he delivers them across my skin throughout a day. But it need not happen. Resolutely, I do not buy the pliers.
Oh sure, the answer's simple. I hack off Jason's bondage and walk away from him, never to return. Like Hell it's simple! I can't, I can't, I can't! In me is a homing instinct which delivers me back to Jason every night at five. I am conditioned. The hell of it is I'm not unhappy. I live in a constant erotic glow of suspense, a heated excitement I cannot relinquish, it's too beautiful. I have never been so female.
He holds me to my whimsical idea of making his supper and the handcuffs. Being Jason's slave leaves me lots of money, so I treat myself to the luxury of a taxi home at five. It gives me extra time. On arrival home I strip naked and ruefully survey whatever he's got locked on me, then I work like crazy on the meal. When I hear his lordship at the door I click the handcuffs on my wrists and go and make a wifely fuss over the weary breadwinner - I've probably worked harder than he has, but what the hell!
But the handcuff idea was mine. The Male Ego demands something exclusively its own. So, after I've paid my loving homage, Jason unlocks one cuff, turns me around, and handcuffs my wrists behind my back. I then, having been well instructed, go to the nearest corner in the wall and stand there facing the wallpaper like a delinquent little girl in school. I have to get right in close so I have no view. I am forbidden to turn my head or glance sideways; and must stand like that meekly until given permission to do something else. It is one of the most difficult and demeaning acts he makes me do.
Since his slave has been rendered helpless, the Master takes over. Before he kidnapped me he'd picked up culinary skills, he's quite a good cook. I have already laid the table, so all he has to do is finish things off. He does not hurry, but pours the cocktail I have mixed and shaken and sips it while he works. From time to time his hand and the glass appear before my submissive eyes and I gulp gratefully. I must not speak or take my eyes from the wall. After a few good gulps I find my humiliation rational. I have no hope for me at all.
I am not allowed to take supper for granted, I may not even get any. Mostly I get to eat, but the manner of it varies. Often my hands are cuffed back in front and we sit and have a cosy dinner and talk as we eat. We are both good talkers so that's fun. Our only difference to any married couple is I'm nude and my hands have to do everything close together.
Then there's times Jason eats and I wait table. My costume is the handcuffs and a dinky little apron he ties round my waist with a big bow at the small of my back. It is petite and absurd and makes me feel twice naked. From time to time he gravely lifts it up to: 'Make sure my pussy is, still there.' I am not allowed to laugh but am supposed to share his concern that all of me is still present and accounted for. Often he will play with his discovery enough to get me excited, then he returns to his knife and fork. I tug the tiny apron back into place and feel hot and bothered.
The one I suspect he is most fond of is what I think of as The Classic. I am totally slave. I am completely nude. My hands are locked behind my back, though sometimes he will vary this by tying them with cord, I kneel submissively beside his chair and dutifully eat whatever he chooses to put in my mouth. I am quite helpless so have to be fed like an infant or an orphaned animal. Or perhaps not fed at all. Mostly I am allowed to kneel back on my heels, it is much the most comfortable. But Jason will often order me to kneel erect to place my breasts within easy reach as he eats. He then, in an absent minded sort of way, plays with my nipples until my breath quickens. He then tells me to sit back the way I was.
One shames me beyond telling but I adore it. My wrists and elbows are corded tight. I have to shuffle under the table and attack the zipper on his pants until I worry it down and manage to get his penis out of his shorts without biting. Jason blissfully eats while I am thus engaged, it isn't a bit easy and takes time. Tied the way I am makes it infuriatingly frustrating. I am helpless to a point where I could weep. But eventually I will manage to engulf his rigid cock in my mouth and to service it in the ways I have been taught. Along with being a slave I have become an accomplished whore.
It is not an ordinary blow job, Jason has finesse. After all, I must be given incentive. Unless I bring him to orgasm I will be whipped. The deadline is dessert. My whipping will not be frightful but one I will not enjoy, it will hurt horribly. So I employ my lips and my tongue with all the skills I know. He counters me by the power of his mind, refusing to think of me hard at work between his legs, giving all his attention to his food. I have been astounded by what an adversary food can be. Sometimes I am still lustily sucking and licking after the last of his steak has gone. His member is taken from my mouth and replaced where it belongs. It will enter me later, but between then and now I will be whipped. Ashamed, I crawl out and stand at attention close by where he can examine his naked and incompetent thrall while he finishes dessert and has his coffee. I am trembling and he knows it, damn him!
Tonight I am lucky. I sit opposite Jason in the candlelight and eat in civilized fashion. Being handcuffed like this is almost freedom for me. I am happy.
"How's the whip-marks, Carrie?" He asks kindly. "Fading nicely, darling. I've almost got space for some more."
It is absurd but we enjoy. The Master sets the tone, the slave follows along. It is our own brand of repartee in which we manage to exchange a few serious thoughts.
"Anyone suspicious about the way you walk?"
He is speaking of my knee hobbles, he has left them locked on me through dinner. It does not matter much, and anyway I am not allowed to ask for the removal of anything he has placed on me. I answer demurely. "There's one girl. I'm sure she knows or suspects. She keeps trying to catch my eye."
"Invite her home. I'll lock a set on her."
Jason would love to have a harem, a bevy of us all bound, chained, or tied up to his taste, anxious to serve him or scared not to! I am outrageously jealous, and tremble at the thought of being whipped into a willingness to seduce susceptible damsels into his fold. If he sets his mind to it, it will happen.
"Aren't I enough for you? I do everything you want."
"Hmmmmm, we've scarcely started, sweetheart. It's a fallow field, unexplored."
"If you get other girls in here you don't need me." I exclaim imprudently. "I'll look for an apartment."
There comes one of those silences. His Majesty stops eating, and examines me as though I was a strange new species. My heart sinks. Why oh why can't I stop when I'm winning! Jason has not said a word but in his own way has told me I am in for something unpleasant after we have done the dishes. The moment passes and we resume our chatter. I am becoming quite good at passing these indiscretions. What will happen will happen, I refuse to think about it.
The mood lasts through the dishes. Jason likes to make the dishes a together thing. I become almost vivacious. I have brought the handling of dishes while handcuffed to a fine art. I am inspired by the penalties Jason has set for breakages. Twenty strokes seems to me excessively painful for one little dish. But I do not drop the dish!
When Jason sets the stool against the wall I know my punishment. Up above is a stout hook. When he motions I step blithely up on the stool, lean my bare back against the wall, then raise my arms and slip the single link of the handcuffs over the hook, Jason takes away the stool and there I am!
If it was for thirty minutes or an hour it wouldn't be so bad. I am not suspended, the handcuffs don't cut my wrists. But he will keep me thus for a long time, all evening. He has never left me all night but has dropped enough hints to keep me scared he might. I look up often to wonder if, somehow, I couldn't get my hands up and back over the hook. But I can't, he's figured the tensioning just right. But even if I could I wouldn't dare. I hate to think what the punishment would be for that one!
Jason has a gift for unconcern. Having attached me to the living room wall he goes about his evening as though I do not exist. He looks at me often but in the manner of glancing at a familiar picture. You'd think a naked girl chained prettily to the wall would bother him to death, but if it does it does not show.
He reads the paper, writes a couple of letters, watches a movie on the television. My eyes are on him constantly. He is all I have, unless he frees me I will stand here forever. Through it all I become increasingly restive and sorry for myself. I change position as much as I can, it gives a limited relief from the one big ache that is Me. But I have to be careful about noise, grating the handcuffs on the hook is a no no, so are moans. I'd give a lot for some real honest to goodness moans but they are not permitted, my owner finds them distracting. The other prohibition is complaint or requests for clemency, Jason just doesn't want to hear. If I persist, he won't whip me but he'll strap the gag in my mouth. It's hateful to stand here gagged, so I'm foxed there too.
I am getting tired and resentful. What I said wasn't all that bad, and look what its got me! I keep wondering if I can't devise some reasonable approach to catch his sympathy. But before I blurt half of it out he'll be shoving the blasted gag between my teeth. I must have stood here a couple of hours, surely that's enough!
When Jason turns on the T.V. I could really moan. The announcer tells me I've only been punished an hour and a half, the evening stretches endlessly. I hope to get a bit of relief from the movie but Jason has thoughtfully placed my hook where all I can see of the screen is an acute angle which does me little good. He's done this on purpose, of course, it's damnably tantalizing. So I listen to the sound, it doesn't help much, my ache gets bigger. I have a nice quiet cry all by myself while His Majesty watches the show.
When he turns the set off he makes coffee. Jason makes wonderful coffee and I yearn and yearn. He may or may not give me some. He is quite capable of sitting and sipping while I stand mute and longing. I am not allowed to ask. In this punishment I must stay silent no matter what. I am constantly tired now, it's been all of three hours. I have to keep consciously raising my half dead arms to stop the handcuffs cutting my wrists, they didn't hurt at the start but they do now.
I get coffee. For several minutes I love my torturer dearly as he feeds me successive tilts of the cup between my lips. He has used exactly the right amount of cream and sugar, the brew is heavenly and I am reborn. What a treasure of a man Jason would be if only he did not fasten me like this. But then ... if I was free I would not be relishing it half as much, or needing it as I do now.
Our eyes are close as he lifts the cup. The moment becomes potently personal, demandingly intimate, we feel each other's emanations. It seems impossible that I must not speak, even to say thank you. Jason's gaze is broodingly enigmatic, his silence too is part of my punishment. At this moment I wish he had whipped me and been done rather than that I stand here for what seems forever. I long to speak words of love to him but am afraid.
Jason puts away the cup and devotes his fingertips to making me excited. He will get me sexually aroused then leave me cold. I know this is going to be the way of it, but I abandon myself to ecstasy, a girl in the spot I'm in had best take what she can get and be thankful. Even a minute or two in this desert of hours is welcome beyond words. I stick out my chest, giving him my nipples. I open my legs to give him access to my private place. I am shameless in a terrible female hunger. Our eyes remain locked as he does this, each of us knowing all there is to know.
I have to stand another hour while he reads a book. When he finally pushes back the stool and I retrieve my hands and voice I am a little hysterical and want to hug and kiss and be a little girl loved and forgiven. But I am still handcuffed, so I lean my head against his chest and say, fervently: "Oh, Jason, thank you, thank you for letting me down. I'll try and never earn that one again."
"You'll earn it." He assures me dryly. He pats my bottom. "Go and get ready for bed."
I forget I am tired, I forget my punishment. What is four hours on the hook to a healthy girl! I squelch guilt at so easily forgetting something that had me in tears, I simply do not want to remember. I obey the male command, longing to feel Jason inside me. I make myself as beautiful as I can. When I join my waiting master I place my foot up upon the bed, and watch him shackle it, in about the same manner as I would once have donned pyjamas.
But tonight Jason is whimsical. He removes my handcuffs, turns me around and crosses my wrists behind my back, then ties them tight with thin nylon. In bed I am allowed to be feminine, so I point out: "But, darling, I could be so much nicer for you if I had my hands!"
"I like to see you make love without 'em, sweetheart. You flop around like an amorous seal."
"Oh, Jason, I don't want to be a lovesick seal, I want to love you to bits."
"Don't think you're not going to, love. You've been tied before."
"Yes, but I still think -"
"You're not supposed to think, sweets. You're supposed to provide me with a well lubricated cunt and a pair of red and ready lips."
"I've got both, darling, obedient and ready for you. But if I had my hands -"
He puts his finger on my lips. "Enough about your hands. I don't want to hear any more."
I nod and am not unduly concerned. He has explained to me the benefit to his erection in having me tied so I have to lay across one of my arms, it raises my cunt for his convenience. The Master is all wise and always right.
My hands are tied very tight. I expect they will stay tied that way through the night. I am used to it, they will not stop me sleeping. More importantly, they will not stop my being female to his Male. In much of our love play I will indeed emulate an anxious to please sea lion, flopping here and flopping there in pursuing my erotic duties. My lips and my pussy will always be where they are expected to be. I will fulfil him joyously and finally sleep beside him, utterly replete. The fact that I will twist and flounder and fall all over him will only add to our enjoyment, even mine. But I won't get my hands loose, never, never, never!
I must have been good in bed, His Lordship allows me to go to the office sans impediments - or maybe he just forgot. No wire, no shackle, no nothing. I wish I could make him understand I think of him all the time regardless, I don't have to hurt to be faithful. But Jason's ego is such a tender growth it needs all my pain to nourish it. Strangely, I take pride in this. I'm nuts.
Annoyingly, it is on this day when I am uncontrolled that Daphne picks up a clue: She's the girl who I figured had suspicions. She looks and looks at me, half smiling. She finds excuses to come to my desk ... Finally, I can't stand it any longer and ask her bluntly: "O.K., what's on your mind?"
She's sort of cute, her giggle is infectious. She points a finger and laughs. "Your wrists ... you've been tied up."
I could kick myself. It's become so commonplace I forget. Nice girls don't show up at the office with wealed wrists. I look at mine in dismay, my wristwatch and bracelet do little to disguise Jason's work. But I'm stuck with the entranced Daphne, so I shrug and ask. "Well ... so what?"
"You're doing a number with someone, I can tell." She is trembling with eagerness. "Let me in on it ... please?"
"Daphne, it's none of your business."
"I know that, Carrie." She wriggles her attractive assets. "But it's so hard.... The men are usually all the wrong kind, and the girls won't admit a thing. It's driving me nuts."
"Just forget it then."
"Oh, Carrie ... !" Her reproach is a wail of anguish. "Don't be mean. Can you forget it?"
"Forget what?" I ask blandly.
"See, you're like all the rest." She is breathing hard, her nostrils flaring. "You clam right up as though you're guilty of something. I think it's just dog in the manger. Give me a break?"
"Daphne, you're imagining things."
"I'm not imagining those rope-marks on your wrists, and I'm not imagining the funny way you walk sometimes. Somebody locks things on you." Her eyes sparkle. "Is it a chastity belt?"
"Oh, Daphne, please .... !"
"Is it a He or a Her you do it with, or a Group?"
"You've been reading the wrong magazines."
"That long time you were away - I bet someone had you chained up or something."
Her innocent earnestness gets to me. If Jason cast me adrift now I'd be in the same boat as she is. It would be fun to confide in her and tell her the whole story, but then she'd want me to take her home, and I'm not going to share my slavery with any cute little number, I just won't. I may belong to Jason but Jason belongs to me. On the other hand I have to feel sorry for the girl, she's outside looking in. I shrug regretfully and tell her. "Drop it, Daphne, leave it alone. Girls don't want to discuss their private affairs."
She fishes in her bag and places a hundred dollar bill on my, desk, her gaze is defiant. "Carrie, I'll bet you this hundred that if we go to the restroom and you slip out of your clothes there will be marks all over. I bet you've been whipped?"
"Daphne!"
She is only slightly abashed by my reproof, her plea becomes intense. "Whoever you're doing it with must surely want a girl, girls aren't that easy to find, are they - I mean, girls like me? I've got a lovely body.... ?"
Poor kid! I lie like a bitch, and feel guilt. "These marks probably aren't what you think at all. Daphne dear, don't cheapen yourself."
I don't think she heard me, she simply continues. "Look, I'll make myself completely available. They can tie me, chain me, lock me up ..." She takes a deep breath and plunges, "And they can whip me, they'd love whipping me, wouldn't they?"
She has put it all on the line, bared naked her psyche. I want to take this lovely creature in my arms and comfort her. But I do nothing, nothing, nothing! After we have looked at each other through a long embarrassed silence she picked up her hundred dollars and flounces back to her desk. I feel more of a bitch than ever. It would have been so easy!
I am punished. It is irrelevant and unrelated, but I see it as retribution. Jason springs a surprise, a surprise I do not like.
I have the supper well along, I hear Jason's key, I handcuff myself snugly to keep the chrome circlets from slipping up and down. I go to meet my master. But my master is not alone, he has brought a friend. The friend is another Jason but less sophisticated. His eyes bug out at sight of my nakedness. In quick succession they focus on my handcuffs, my pubic hair, my breasts. His beaming smile is fatuous.
"Her name's Carrie. You can give her orders through me, she's reasonably obedient." My master's tone is brisk. He nods from me to our guest. "You can call him Bill, darling."
I say, shyly, "Hello, Bill." I then properly kiss Jason. But I have never felt so nude or embarrassed in my life. The handcuffs bother me as might the sudden sprouting of a third breast. Bill says, "Hello, Carrie." And continues to visually eat me alive.
I suppose I have half expected this to happen. Why should not my owner be proud to show me off, it's not every man who owns a slavegirl. I stand and blush while I am told to finish dinner by myself but in the meantime to serve cocktails.
Feminine intuition tells me the whip is hovering. I am on thin ice. Jason will expect me to put on a good show so he may bask in glory. Cringe as I may under the scrutiny of our concupiscent acquaintance, I had best ham it up. So I stick my breasts well out, deliver their tall cool glasses on bended knee, and I call each of them Master. I keep my handcuffs in full view but not so as to cover anything Bill wants to gawk at. Bill is obviously of the underprivileged who do not keep naked girls around the home.
I attend the stove and I attend my two masters. I am a busy girl but know I must be constantly on display, I am what Bill has come to see. "I don't believe what I'm seeing." He says fervently. "Jason, how the devil d'you get one of these?"
"Tell him, Carrie."
"I was kidnapped." I inform brightly. "Jason kidnapped me."
"But why - I mean ... how!" Bill is lost.
I hold up my handcuffed wrists. "These keep me around - along with not having any clothes."
"If you treat a slave girl right she falls in love with you." Jason says grandly. "You have to whip 'em regularly."
I clasped my locked hands behind my neck and turn slowly round to give an entranced Bill a good look at the whip-marks on my skin.
"I have to be a good girl." I explain demurely, "Or I get some more of these."
"But ... but - they must hurt?"
"Yes, terribly. I scream."
"You mean, you just stand there ... and let him whip you?"
"Oh no, Bill, I'm always tied."
"She makes a very pretty picture, waiting to be whipped." Jason says it with total nonchalance. "Writhes beautifully while it's happening."
"You two are putting me on."
I back my whip-marked nudity up close. "I can't simulate these, Bill. Feel them, they're real."
His finger is trembling and curious, it traces my most recent wounds lovingly. "I'll be damned!" His voice is reverent. "Jason, you've got to help me get one of these - or can I offer you ten thousand for this one?" -
"Carrie's not for sale."
"I'll make it twenty, seeing as you've trained her?"
This intrigues Me. I am worth a lot of money. I am marketable! It is my first pleasurable thrill of the evening. My owner asks, casually: "Want me to sell you, Carrie?"
"No, Master."
"Loyalty's part of the package, Bill. A properly trained slave doesn't want to change owners. Carrie's a good girl."
"I'll raise it to thirty?"
I retire to my stove, but their conversation follows. I am getting a kick out of this male exchange over Me - Me - Me!
"Bill, I think you'd be disappointed. You'd whip her too much or screw her too much - or maybe not enough. You'd have a rebel on your hands who'd always be trying to escape."
"But Carrie's explained. She can't escape."
"There's nothing to stop her running out in the street, naked and handcuffed, and asking for help - only embarrassment."
"I don't notice her doing it."
"Well, that's Carrie. Another girl might be long gone."
"But couldn't I chain her and stuff?"
"Oh sure. Your best bet would be to keep her locked up. But that becomes a bore for you both. You need to give 'em enough freedom so they do things to earn themselves punishments. When a girl knows she's guilty, punishing her becomes a real way out experience."
The S.O.B.! Fancy having me figured like that! And I fall for it. I slam pots and pans and announce Dinner.
"You won't need the extra place setting, darling, take it away."
While I obey I almost make the faux pas of asking what about our guest. But then I suddenly realize the one who isn't going to eat is Me. It sort of figures, obviously the omnipotent Males must be waited on throughout the meal. Innocently, I ask. "Should I get my apron, master?"
"You won't be needing that either, sweetheart."
I'm not anxious to wait on Bill with my pussy and breasts staring him in the face, but then I feel the chill of premonition. I shouldn't jump to conclusions .... My quick glance at Jason is more than anxious.
"Get everything underway, love. Then you know where to go and what to do."
Surely it isn't possible! He won't make me! But my instinctive glance at the table legs and the lower hem of the tablecloth gets confirmation. "Right you are, Carrie: Be a good girl -"
I look in horror at Bill. I'm sure he is unaware. Jason is going to spring me on him as a surprise. I catch my master's eye and he winks in complicity. It does not matter whether I want to do this thing or not, I'm going to have to.
"Excellent source of protein, sweetheart, don't waste any."
The bastard! He's telling me to swallow it all.
"Protein ... ?" Bill looks vague.
"The cheese sauce, Bill - my favourite."
I get another wink, Jason is in the best of moods. I have not yet erred. It's going to be hard not to, but I'll try. Dolefully, I wonder which of these male so-and-so's I should service first. Jason tells me.
"Nice variety here, Bill. A bit of this and a bit of that. Here, you go first."
So it is Bill's male organ I must first get into my mouth! I've never seen the guy before, and here I am about to suck his cock! It's unreal! But, if I refuse it will cost me at least fifty strokes: and I can't stand fifty, it's too damn much!
Jason fixes me with a firm eye. "If dinner turns out well, sweetheart, there's no penalties. I just hope everything tastes good."
Damn, he's given me my briefing. I am fully informed. I have no excuse for making a boo boo. My principle hazard is Bill. He hasn't caught on. Who gets blamed if he goes through the roof! I give the table its final touches and serve the wine. Then I slip down under among the shoes and feet. Bill probably thinks I'm looking for something I've dropped.
I know the hazards. Surveying the credit side, I am enormously grateful for my hands. The handcuffs won't impede me on this job at all. Jason's trick of tying my hands behind my back makes this more of a sporting proposition for him. It takes me half my allotted time to get his zipper down with my teeth and to pull his cock out of his shorts, if he's got an erection it's damn near an impossibility without hands. But today I've got hands! Having them makes me almost cheerful: that and the absence of a penalty. As a cautious prelude I softly stroke Bill's knees.
Jason natters hospitably, but Bill is silent. As I touch the clip on his pants above the zipper I feel him tense. By the time I get the zipper all the way down and search inside his shorts I am bombarded by vibrations. Bill's voice is pathetic.
"I say, Jason ... under the table ... ! There's something going on -"
"Eh? Oh that!" My master does not pause in his eating. "I expect it's Carrie. The poor girl needs to eat something, y'know."
"But she's -"
I've got his damn thing out and it's limp. I inhale it and proceed with what I suspect is one of Woman's oldest tasks: When I feel evidence of life growing beneath my tongue I am thankful. If Bill couldn't get it up it would be my fault, Jason would think I hadn't tried.
"I say, Jason, I'm not sure about this - !"
"Eat hearty, Bill. Don't want to hurt Carrie's feelings."
"Yeeeeel, no ... But ... but!"
"The girl doing a good job?"
"I, ... I ... expect so. Jason, this is difficult -"
"If she's not pleasing you, we'll give her a whipping. The whip inspires these girls amazingly."
At mention of the whip, the thing in my mouth grows two inches. I take it out and look. It's a medium size model. I run my tongue up and down ... it gets harder.
"You wouldn't really whip her?" Bill sounds aghast, but the response of his prick belies his concern. "Really, Jason, I'm lost in this ménage of yours."
I leave Bill's cock and go to my Master's. Bill needs to eat. With Jason's sizeable weapon between my lips I am having my own hors d'oeuvre, my main meal will take a little time to get to.
"Of course, I'd whip her, Bill. You absolutely must keep discipline with these girls. They'll twist you if you don't." My Master is being macho for the benefit of Bill. I bite him playfully and am rewarded by the sudden grip of his thighs on my cheeks. I revert to his favourite motions. The thighs relax. Dolefully, I consider how long this may go on, with frequent rests it could be a long time.
But I need not worry. Between my mouth and Jason's erotic goading talk poor Bill has no chance to show his mettle. Shortly after I return to him he rewards me with a deluge I dutifully swallow. I then lick his cock ship shape and dry and return it to where I found it. I have never zipped a zipper more thankfully. My Master, too, gets excited from his own talk. I have him defeated before dessert. It is best never to tell a man we women are sexually the strongest, but we are.
Emergence from beneath the table taxes all my insouciance. I do my best. Bill is dazed, happily shocked, sweating. My Master is proud of me, for the moment I am a prized possession. He winks slyly to show we are having our little joke at Bill's expense.
I have had Dinner.
If I was a wife or a girl friend I would blow my top. But I am a slave, very conscious of what will happen to me if I cross Jason's will. When he catches me alone in the kitchen and springs his next demand I want to scream.
"But, Jason, haven't I done enough! I didn't want Bill's silly cock in my mouth - and now you want ... ! What's so special about this Bill anyway?"
"Carrie ... !"
The way he says my name shrivels me up. But the whole thing's so unfair. "I don't want to be whipped." I complain dolefully. "I haven't done a thing to deserve it - and if it's only to amuse your fatuous friend"
"Carrie ... !"
"Oh alright! You aren't going to give me a choice anyway " -
"That's better, love. Give the poor idiot a break, he's never been so happy."
"At my expense."
"Don't act miffed. If you're going to be sulky, you and I will have a little session after he's gone home."
"So I get whipped either way! Jason, you're not a bit kind -"
"I want you to continue to ham this up." Jason pats me affectionately, then kisses me for good measure. "Do anything you like to earn a punishment, then play up to the act I'll get going."
What the hell! Grudgingly, I admit to myself some amusement in Bill's expressions, and I am a trifle flattered by his offer to buy me. He can't be too much of a dope if he has a loose thirty thousand kicking around. I choose an odd plate, the pattern which I have always disliked, and slam it down hard on the tile floor. It makes a most satisfactory clatter. I pick up the larger pieces and carry them mournfully to the living room.
"I'm terribly sorry, Master."
"Dammit, girl, that plate was my mother's!"
"It ... it slipped." I hold up my hands. "It's these handcuffs."
"That's no excuse, you've been wearing handcuffs for ages. You'll get the regular punishment."
"Please, Master ... I don't feel like being whipped."
"You never feel like being whipped. You'll get your strokes after you're through in the kitchen-and don't take all night."
"But, please Master-!" I infuse tears.
"Crying will earn you extra." He turns to Bill. "She always produces tears about now, they're supposed to soften me up."
"I can't help crying -" I sob beautifully into the broken dish, and keep one eye on Bill's thunderstruck joy. "The way you whip me hurts something awful."
I retire, snivelling, to the kitchen, dump the broken china noisily, dry my tears, then get cracking. Memory of Bill's facial expressions buoy my spirits, but not too much. I suddenly recall the penalty for a broken dish is twenty lashes!
Why, oh why, didn't I think of something else that would have got me by with five or ten! I shed myself a few tears that aren't synthetic at all.
I go to my whipping with a fine air of martyrdom, bestowing hurt reproachful looks upon my masters at every opportunity. I make much play with my handcuffs as though, if only I could get them off, I'd make a run for freedom. Bill most obviously has an erection.
"Tell Bill what your penalty is, sweetheart." The sadistic S.O.B. He's going to wring every drop of eroticism he can out of me to give Bill a thrill. I pick up my cue. "The penalty for a broken dish, Bill, is twenty lashes on my bare back. It's very severe."
"Twenty lashes!" It is an emotion charged exclamation. "And on your bare skin ... !" He likes the sound of that.
"Can you really bear it?"
"I have to, don't I!" I mix flippancy and bitterness in just the right degree. "And, anyway, I'll be tied so's there's nothing I can do about it."
"Tied!" He is breathless. "You mean, really tied up so you can't get away?"
"Of course. Unless you want to ask my Master for mercy for me? Please, Bill, ask Jason to let me off?"
Poor Bill! The last thing he wants for me is mercy. On the other hand he is a nice guy. I can almost detect his conflict of emotions as he embraces nobility. "I say, Jason, she's a damn sweet girl. How's about forgiving her, I'll pay for the dish?"
"Not a chance! With these slave girls punishment must be immutable. Once you start this mercy caper you ruin 'em."
Bill's sigh of relief is almost audible. "We have a room for these affairs."
Jason tries to make his pride casual as I usher my masters into the chamber where I will be punished. For Jason and I it is a place of memories, not all of them painful. For Bill it is a torture Chamber, a cornucopia of things to do with girls. Dutifully, I place myself beneath the bar to which my wrists will be raised and strapped. It is a spot I know all too well.
"Not there, idiot girl, bend your pretty bottom over the pedestal."
My heart flutters. A change, and change is usually painful! But I would sooner have my bottom caned than my back whipped. Perhaps Jason is finding an easy way out for both of us. I cannot imagine he really wants to give me twenty lashes on this occasion. I saunter to the pedestal and drape myself over its horizontal bar.
"Nicely obedient." Jason comments. "She hates having her bottom punished in front of visitors. That's why I'm making the change. Damned humiliating for a grown woman."
He's telling me! By the time I'm strapped tight my pussy and a few fronds of black hair will be coyly peeping out back where Bill can have a good look.
"I won't be too hard on the dear girl in front of company." Jason concedes grandly. "Just a half dozen, all zingers."
I actually feel grateful: it's better than twenty. I watch the straps make me helpless, wrists and ankles. My tummy and thighs are clamped down hard on the pad, my sacrificial bottom rears itself against my will, its skin cruelly tight. My discarded handcuffs are on the floor in front of my down-turned face.
"She's a very beautiful girl, Jason." Bill is looking at my bottom.
"Lovely bottom, 'eh! Round, ripe to be caned. Here, Bill, feel its texture."
Their hands excite me, dammit! They linger lovingly. My pussy is well explored. Jason pulls out one of its hairs to make me gasp.
"Try her nips too. They rise to the occasion."
He is right. My nipples are traitors, rock hard. They get frictioned and pinched. I begin to breathe heavily.
"I'm going to give her six, Bill. D'you want to lay on a couple yourself?"
"I couldn't presume - !"
"Hell, man, you want to!"
"Well ... yes. Yes, I suppose - "
"Here's the cane - nice and limber."
Jason is partly right, it is limber but certainly not nice. I get an upside down view of Bill accepting it dubiously. I gasp in embarrassment as he swings, then gasp again as my tight skin gets the impact of his aim. The gasp is of relief. "Shit, man, Carrie won't even feel that. We won't count it."
The bastard, he could have given me a break. Bill's cut at me lacked conviction, but it still hurt. Anything would hurt, the way I'm fixed. Bill's features take on stern resolve ... I gasp again.
"Oh, much better! She actually noticed.... !"
Jason is so damn happy with this whole thing he's staged for Bill, or really for himself. Maybe my pain is in a good cause! I gasp, and try to wriggle, to show Bill he's doing fine.
"Attaboy! You're getting the hang of it, Bill. Carrie felt that one, I can tell."
"Forty thousand dollars!"
The increase in my price comes out of Bill in a strangled moan. His face is pink, he is breathing heavily. The bid frightens me, it shows what the whipping of an innocent girl does to a man. Even Jason is shocked.
"You're excited, Bill. I'm not taking advantage -"
"I mean it, Jason. Forty thousand! The girl's bloody marvellous."
"Yes, I know. Carrie's really something. But don't let's get carried away by a little punishment. Here, give me the cane, she's still got six -"
"But I've had two!" I wail at them.
"They were from Bill. Are you complaining?" "Nnnnnno, sorry. No complaint."
Jason gives me the six, well spaced with comments. He hits me with artistry and finesse. I recognize the blows as what he calls 'medium rare', but they hurt enough that I do not need to simulate the sounds I make or my surgings against the straps by which I am so erotically postured. Shocked with pain, I still manage to catch a glimpse of Bill's enraptured face.
"Takes it nicely, eh!"
"Good gosh -!" Bill gasps more than I.
"Listen to her now."
I pay him my dues. "Thank you for caning me, Jason."
"Learn a lesson, dear?"
"Oh yes, for sure! I'll try and not be clumsy again."
"I wish you'd take the money for her - you could train another, couldn't you?"
Jason laughs.
When I am unstrapped the show goes on. I do the little girl trick I would normally scorn: I gingerly feel my wealed bottom, and I allow my fingertips to elicit gasps from my lips. I twist to look back and see ... That little charade done with, I offer my wrists for the handcuffs and watch Jason lock them on. When he has them snug to his fancy I say my: "Thank you, Master." as though to be handcuffed is the greatest boon a girl could ask of any man.
We return to the living room. I try and act as though getting my bare bottom caned is an amusing diversion for which I hold no malice. I serve my masters brandy. I do it with a small tray on bended knee and gaze up at them adoringly.
"Pour one for, yourself, sweetheart."
I make it large, which is dangerous on a tummy as nearly empty as mine. But my bottom is heatedly remembering the cane, and I don't know how much longer I am going to have to cater to Bill. I weave my haunches at him so he can approve my marks, then I kneel at a respectful distance in their view and, most thankfully, sip while I am discussed.
"I wish you'd consider that money, Jason?"
"Wouldn't be fair to sell her, old chap. Carrie's got used to me now. I was a bit of a shock to her at first, so would you be."
"I wouldn't whip her too much - honest!"
"She's marvellous in bed, you'd waste her talent."
"Jason, name a price?"
My master waves at me. "Give Bill another blow job. He's overheated."
I look at them askance. Bill is boggle eyed in desire for me, I turn to my nonchalant owner. "But, Master -?"
"Do it!"
I know I must, I am a slavegirl, the atmosphere in the room is of millenniums past. If I disobey I will be whipped again. I gulp down my brandy and say, meekly, "Yes, Master."
I rise and dispose of my glass so Bill may have another nice look at my wounds. I manage to give Jason a reproachful look before I kneel once more between the waiting knees.
"Like I said, Bill, she's perfectly trained."
It is one thing to perform this disagreeable task in unseen anonymity. It is something else again to do it in the open before a critical audience. I yearn for the table ... ! But my triple brandy begins to blaze. My handcuffed fingers reach for Bill's zipper.
"She's got the best lips and tongue I've ever known." Bill is more than ready. I put him in my mouth as though I was starving.
After what seems to me a tong, long evening, Bill totters home, redolent of brandy, replete with the service of my lips. When I lift my foot up on our bed to have it shackled for the night, I say fervently and humbly: "Thanks, Jason, for not selling me."
He clicks the metal band and grins at me quizzically. "You both took that seriously, didn't you."
"Shouldn't I have? All that money ... ?"
"Oh, Bill meant it alright. But how the devil did either of you expect to make it real?"
"I suppose you'd have given him the key to my handcuffs."
"How would he have got you back to his place?"
"I don't know. I guess I figured it as his problem."
"Would you have walked with him to his car?"
"Naked and handcuffed? Oh, Jason, don't be silly. I wouldn't have gone with him at all unless the two of you had trussed me up into a package and bunged a gag in my mouth."
"Interesting hypothesis though. Want to try it, sweetheart? See what happens?"
"Noooooo ... no!" It is a wail of pure fright. "Bill would whip me to bits. Didn't you notice the effect caning my bottom had on him?"
"Oh sure, a feast after deprivation." Jason is ruminating some sort of notion. I look at the shackle on my ankle and the handcuffs on my wrists. I cannot escape either. I am his! In actual face he can do what he likes with me.
"Jason, you're not thinking of the money, are you?"
He is tickled over something, and he reads my thoughts. "It's quite a chunk of cash, honeybunch. You're fixed well enough right now I could easy rope you in a rug and make delivery."
I am shockingly bereft, not at the prospect but at what it implies. "But, Jason, there's more to you and me than that ... ?"
"Want me to marry you?"
He loves these little bombshells, they mix me up. "Sure I want that." I admit, defensively. "But what we have is better-at least I've been thinking it is ... for now."
He nods, his thoughts still distant. "Look, Carrie, you go to work tomorrow same as always. But you know you'll be tied tight and delivered to Bill when you get home. What then?"
"I wouldn't come home. Why should I? You'd have said you no longer wanted me."
Jason is pleased. He gives me a very sincere kiss. But there's still something on his mind. "You're right." He says slowly. "We do have something, something rare and very precious. But the only reason we have it is because I was willing to take a risk: first in kidnapping you and secondly the game of Russian Roulette. I took one hell of a risk, and we both learned a lot."
"I don't want to learn any more, Jason." Jason laughs.