Delilah

There were no longer any secrets. Her belly was so round, the skin so taut; there was no question that in several days she would become a mother at the sweet age of 20. Complaining that she couldn't sleep, she often drifted off in the middle of the day when watching TV, listening to a conversation. Everything about her cried out white dream. She was a white wave of silk, over-ripe, and succulent. Ever the more desirable because of her condition, mystery or not, we adored her.

A year ago she wouldn't have been happy to sleep in the sun or feel our hands on her warm body. A year ago she would have laughed at us if we had suggested binding, spanking, and needlecraft. A year ago she would have said no. Now, she belonged to us, she was ours, and the only time she raised her voice was when she came, her mouth open, stretched into a perfect, red circle, almost like agony.

We didn't know who had fathered the baby. Nine months ago there had been so many tutors in her education. Spread eagle, tied to the four posters of the bed, a gag in her mouth, her lovely blue eyes bulging in horror as we held parties in her honor. The men would disrobe and stand around the bed, hands on her breasts, hands on her thighs, as one at a time, they crawled on top of her, entered her, surprising her each time as they really slid their rock solid cocks up inside her and left her full, running with their streams of cum. We were teaching her humility. We were washing the arrogance from those blue eyes and her upturned nose. Pretty little rich girl no more. In the process she became pregnant.

We speculated often, sitting around the table, pulled up to the bar. What if it was one of the homeless men we paid to come up and defile our angel? How many men had filled her tiny cunt with their seed? Was it one of us? Conrad and I already had children, wives...what would we do with this child? The options were simple when the child belonged to some stranger or friend who'd sweated on top of her during those months. We'd even let the building custodian, three hundred pounds, smother her with his flesh. The revolving bedroom door...but then we discovered another way to break down her defenses, putting her on top of the pool table, dangling her legs down so that her feet didn't touch the floor, sliding in and out of her back door.

Now she was a good little girl. She never failed to please Conrad and I. We bound her less, and fulfilled her more. Conrad liked to bathe her, wash her hair, carry her in his arms from one room to the next, and bury his face between her legs. I was more of the craftsman, always having had an interest in needlecraft, I was the one to gently gag her, tie her hands behind her back, and decorate her nipples with needles. I loved the way the steel glided into her flesh after the initial difficult push. The pink skin of her flesh almost popping as it resisted the prick.

In the beginning, I would slide two into each nipple, making a perfect cross. She would squirm; raise her hips as the needles went in and then out of her skin. Quiet little lamb, moaning around the ball that fit nicely in her mouth under her gag. Later, Conrad would pull the needles out, washing the tiny trails of inconsequential blood. I soon became more creative, surrounded the nipple with a flower of needles, twelve, then thirty, until I had soon impaled her entire breasts with needles. I took her from behind, my hands gripping each breast as I did, letting my whole body rest upon her back so that she had to push back against me, pushing her breasts into my hands. Did I know that it hurt? Of course...that was part of the exercise. As my cock slid back and forth in her wet cunt, the fact that she responded to me, that she let the pain course through her body along with my cock, taught both of us a lesson. I knew that she loved me. I knew that she would do anything for me. In return, I was giving her the greatest pleasure she had ever known, the sweet tingling of pleasure and pain. Even Conrad, the nurturer, took her doggy style that day, his hands squeezing her pin-filled breasts. It was exquisite, one of our fondest moments.

I graduated, of course, to skewers—which I had seen in photographs. We tied her wrists above her head and hoisted her off the ground so that just the tips of her toes touched the ground. When I produced the first skewer, there was terror in her eyes, which I put to rest with a reassuring tone, nothing a seductive, "Good Girl" wouldn't solve. I slid the first skewer through her left breast—going horizontally through her breast. Then matched it with a vertical cousin. I did this to both breasts before performing my coup de grace—the fish hook. I took the fish hook and pushed the end of it into the edge of her areola, just at the edge of her nipple. I pushed it deep inside, turning it as I did, so that finally the tip of the hook appeared, emerging from her nipple. Her body became so rigid as I pushed the hook through, the point of the hook coming through the nipple. What a lovely sight she was, her eyes closed, completely submissive. We used a vibrator that time, brought her to orgasm at least ten times as she hung there, hooked, skewered, beautiful.

Our lovely little fish. So uncomplicated and brave. Then she began to swell—at first we admonished her for eating too much and began to withhold some of her food. Still she swelled, until finally, she confessed in a fit of despair that she thought she was pregnant. We liked to think that we were all she needed. We were intelligent. We added vitamins to her diet, fed her well, and watched her belly grow. We wondered at first why we hadn't thought of this, then decided that we had been so overcome with our desire of our perfect beauty, that we hadn't thought something as mundane as a pregnancy would ever spoil her.

Now that she was pregnant, close to the end, her body had done some delightful things. The first was the milk her breasts produced, which we took turns drinking. In the beginning it was a clear, sweet liquid that we would have her express. Soon after we began to lie in the bed, each of us at a breast, as she fed us. Suckling on her long, hard nipples, her precious milk flowing into our bellies, our fingers stroking between her thighs, we spent hours in bed. I wondered vaguely if we'd be able to share her milk with this baby that we still didn't know if we'd keep. A baby would complicate things. Another delectable side effect of her pregnancy was her lips...her vaginal lips began to swell...and she was always wet. I practiced the art of needlecraft on those plump lips, putting a skewer successfully through one lip and then the other. Later, I fucked her, skewer in tact...and loved the way she cried out. Pain and pleasure. Each make the other so sweet.

We were not always quite so sweet, for there times when we invited homeless men to defile our Lady Madonna. Watching them paw at her clean, white body, leaving their seed deep within her, made her appreciate those moments when we held her in our arms, as a lover. Now the baby moved most of the time, and one of them didn't want to enter her. Nothing a few twenties wouldn't cure.

Lying on her back, her legs over my shoulders, I waited eagerly for her labor. We had decided to try a home birth—so that Conrad and I could experience her pain, help her through it, in ways a hospital wouldn't understand. We knew that there may come a moment when all bets would be off and we'd have to send her on her way to the nearest hospital, and we packed a small suitcase in case. I stroked her fat, swollen lips, letting my finger linger on her clitoris. Conrad suckled from her breast, his head obscured by her round belly. I pushed a large dildo into her vagina, choosing the eight inch for this exercise. I slid it deep, to the hilt, and then left it there as I decorated her bottom with needles. We turned her over on her stomach and used ping pong paddles to spank her needled derriere.

Three days later she went into labor, the muscles across her pregnant belly contracting in rhythm. We made love to her—no needles, no paddles or whips, no bondage, as she struggled through the pain. We slid a vibrator against her clit, making her come, making her cry out in ecstasy between the cries of pain. When the contractions grew so intense that her eyes would roll into the back of her head with each clench—we tried needlework, but it was to no avail, and we promptly called a cab for our Lady. We pressed three hundred dollar bills into her palm, hoping she would return to us...although we'd decided that the baby would be better off somewhere else. If Conrad and I were honest, we knew that we'd be better off if she came back, empty armed and open hearted. We were both smart enough to know that she might not come back at all.

We waited 2 weeks and a half, spending time with our wives, our children, being respectable members of society, getting more work done than usual. I wondered where I was going to find another girl like her, a girl who would let me plant the seeds of domination, who would give up everything for me. If she returned with the baby, then I would know that I had failed—if she came without the child, then I would know that I had won. That she truly belonged to me.

It was a Tuesday. Conrad had driven by the apartment where we kept her and reported a light was on. He was afraid of entering the apartment without me. I supposed by then he loved her—not just as an idea or a thing, but as a woman. This would cause problems for the three of us, so I told Conrad to wait, that we'd meet the next day and approach her together. Once I had placated Conrad, I gave my wife an excuse about work, and drove quickly to the apartment to look for my garden girl.

She answered the door wearing a white robe and I could tell that there was nothing beneath it. She looked swollen still, her body round, and I could detect the curves of a belly under the cloth. I stepped inside and said nothing, just gazed down at her, waiting for her to report the direction her destiny had taken. Finally she stuttered, "I'm back, Master." With these words she fell to her knees, and looked down at the ground.

"And your child?"

"I left him with my mother, Master."

A son. A son she'd left with her mother who lived fifty miles north. I wanted to know more, what the child looked like, could it be mine, did she plan to ask for money. Instead, I told her to remove the robe, and then I tied her, spread eagle, to her four poster bed. I lay on top of her for a long time, kissing her face, before sliding my cock into her cunt. She grimaced as my cock found its way inside, but she did not tell me to stop. I let my cock rest inside her, let her feel it there, let it replace the child. Then I spoke, my voice grave, my voice serious.

"I'm moving you tonight. I'm moving you where your mother won't find you. Where you will be mine. Conrad doesn't want you anymore. You've bored him, angered him by having a child. You're mine now."

I finished, my cum shooting from my body hard and hot, filling her up. I waited for her to pack, then drove her to an apartment nearer my house, a beautiful modern apartment, all white walls and glass. No phone, of course, and only I could open the doors that were fitted with dead bolts. Someday those locks would be unnecessary. I had her take a bath and lie across the queen sized bed that I'd bought her. I lay next to her, my lips on her breast, and I took the nipple into my mouth and began to suckle. She groaned.

"Does that feel good?" I asked her.

"Oh, yes, Master," she replied.

I drank more, knowing that as long as I drank from her, she would always be full of milk. How sweet and warm it tasted. I rose up on my arm and pinched the nipple between my pointer and thumb, pulling it upward, stretching it as I slid a needle completely through the base of the nipple. I let go of the nipple, then pressed my lips to the bright pink bud and began to suckle...the milk flowing from her body, over the steel of the needle, and into my throat.