Harem School Ch. 02

Chapter 2: A Sale in The Harem

Author's Note:

This is the first sequel to "Harem School", called "Harm School" here thanks to my proof-reading skills in submitting it to Literotica. That story was to set the scene. This story is set within that scene.

This story took me a long time to write because it bogged itself down in poor writing, and me failing to keep to my own aesthetic. I stumbled into a total no-man's-land of writers' block halfway through, and it took me a rest, reading other people's stories, and committing to a total hatchet-job of an editing session to beat it into the shape where writing it was fun and easy again.

So I hope you enjoy it, but if you don't I won't be too surprised, because I'm not sure if I like it. Tell me what you think.

*

The room was large but appeared cramped, bookshelves lining the walls, the walls towering over the occupants and seeming to loom inwards, inducing claustrophobia in the susceptible but a feeling of coziness in the comfortable. The writing desk against one wall and a reading desk against the opposite were imposingly bulky, dark-stained timber cut and carved into noble and beautifully proportioned curves and slabs.

Sunlight, incongruous in such a dark, sombre setting, filtered down through a skylight high overhead, failing to illuminate the furthest corners of the room and leaving the leather-bound books veiled in shadow, the furniture lurking in the gloom.

Against the far wall, hidden from the light, stood an imposing wooden cabinet with two doors each the size of the room's own door, a bulky slab of mahogany, brass-handled and hinged, but somehow lost in the subtly ornate paneling of the walls.

The cabinet stood open, revealing in its depths, set into the wood as though it were a window, wood-framed and no metal visible, a wide-screen television that stretched almost from side to side of the cabinet. Beneath it was the thin brushed-metal face of a DVD player.

The screen itself was split into two, one normal-ratio image on the right, one narrow strip on the left.

In that left hand pane there was the picture of a naked woman, young and nubile, toned of flesh and smooth of skin, slender but soft, feet spread three feet and her hands on her hips, flanked by two mirrors, one revealing her flank and one her back, only the faintest of movements from her belly betraying that this was running video not, after all, a still image.

She showed no rippling muscles or hardness, a layer of feminine softness over every inch of her flesh, but she did show the subtly delineated curves of every skeletal muscle, each one carefully built to show the finest proportions of a female body. Her legs were long, her ass high and hard, her hips wide, her fingers long and delicate, her breasts large, firm and round, hinting with their downwards bulge that the tissue was in no way fake. Her hair spilled flaxen yellow down over her shoulders and her back past her breasts, framing a face with high cheekbones, bee-stung lips and innocent-seeming blue eyes.

Those blue eyes looked unseeing out of the screen onto two massy burgundy leather armchairs bracketing a circular, curved-legged table on which stood a silver tray bearing a cut-crystal, stoppered carafe full of the rich warm glow of brandy. Bracketing the carafe was a pair of square cut-crystal glasses.

Seated in the right-hand chair was a regal and statesman-like man with a cap of silver-white hair and the seamed face of a veteran of life, his eyes as hard as sapphires and every muscle disciplined, his dress of worsted trousers and a maroon smoking jacket over satin shirt as deliberate a statement of status as it was his choice. His long, almost spidery, hand reached out to the carafe, unstoppered it with precisely mannered movements and courteously poured for his guest before himself, the splash of amber fluid making the room seem warmer and more comfortable with its sound.

From the speakers of the TV, a different sort of sound flowed. The sounds of slurping, of wet suction being broken, or breath whistling and grunting as, on the right hand pane, the woman from the left hand pane knelt on her hands and knees on a plain bed with iron head and foot frames and a plain white fitted sheet. The man kneeling in front of her had the overly-muscled physique of a porn star. His cock was embedded hilt-deep in her throat, but when she drew back her lips revealed that it too was porn-star thick and long.

She pumped him hard, her breasts swaying like a pendulum, her face flushed red with eagerness as she worked on his already hard cock, body writhing unconsciously in anticipation of her own pleasure to come until he grunted, pushing her off, leaving a shaft so slickly coated with saliva that it began to drip off.

"I believe that you applied for a bed-partner for anal sex, for whipping and for threesomes with your existing slave," the man in the maroon smoking jacket said in a dry baritone as he set the carafe back on the tray with the barest of /chink/ sounds. His other hand smoothed down his jacket, flicking away imaginary lint before settling both arms on the arms of the chair, his hands steepled in front of him. "Let us take these one at a time."

The woman on screen twisted around on the bed, grabbing hold of the iron frame, her back arched up as he shuffled forwards, his massive cock bobbing, and seized her by the hips, meaty hands digging into her flesh as he set the engorged, winged head of his cock at her puckered asshole.

Her panting turned to eager begging, her voice husky in her throat, made more feminine and sensual by it, gasping out "Yes! Stick it in! Fuck my ass, oh yes, fuck me, come on..."

The man needed no encouragement, only the time to aim properly, setting his oversized head into her asshole, stretching her buttocks with his fingers to make access easier, and then smoothly pushing, her saliva letting him slide in and bottom out without any resistance except the tightness of her ass.

The man in the left-hand chair, wearing a worsted wool suit that fit his tall frame immaculately sitting or standing, looking young by his skin, old by his hard face and middle-aged by his eyes and poise of movement, rolling brandy around in his mouth with the startled joy of a connoisseur who discovers the finest platinum when he had expected gold, held in the hard fingers of his left hand a leather folder which lay open on his lap, an A4 still of the woman standing hands on hips clipped to the inside cover on the left, a sheath of papers slid into a pocket on the right.

He had already studied the photograph, and the others in the dossier, and read far more than just the first sheet of pale yellow legal foolscap, but that first sheet had caught his attention the most as he had absorbed from its neatly typed lines not only her standard physical dimensions, height and weight and measurements of shoulders and bust and waist and hips and cup size, but also those dimensions he had not before seen set out so carefully, measurements of the potential girth and depth of cunt and ass and mouth, the strength of her vaginal muscles and how well she could breath with her throat filled.

On screen, the woman shrieked as her ass was filled, screaming "OH FUCK, YES! OH FUCK ME! FUCK ME! HARDER!"

The man, as if desperate to match her lust and prove himself at least her equal, began thrusting as desperately as she was demanding, his face no longer pink with the effort of controlling himself but scarlet with the effort of exerting himself.

Every time he bottomed out inside her, hitting far too hard, his concentration ruined by her preparatory phellations, she was slammed forwards, nearly toppling, her arms on the bed frame folding, her breasts swinging wildly. Every time he drew back, taking a simultaneous, desperate, gulp of air, she thrust back at him, desperate to keep him inside.

"Your dossier is admirably complete," the Master's client said, in a voice at once hard and grudgingly respectful, but a trifle too loud and with a hint of harshness that did not suit the sombre mellowness of the room, after swallowing the brandy and, somewhat regretfully, setting the glass back down on the tray, "But fails to do her justice."

The Master did not betray by either the flicker of an eyelid or the tightening of his jaw his opinion of this statement, he merely raised a single finger towards one corner of the room, where stood a woman in a long, off-the-shoulder, light-grabbing, shimmering red silk dress that caressed her nubile flanks, hourglass waist and elegantly curved back while hinting through a slit in the side at her long legs, firm thighs and slender calves. Her delicate feet were strapped into 4" heels that revealed the line of her arch, her dainty toes and enameled nails for all to see, and her graceful, long-fingered hands were folded in front, one holding and almost concealing a long, slim, remote control.

At the Master's instruction she raised her hands, one finger moving, her eyes not at all, and the screen changed.

The scene had not, but the man's intensity showed even more the straining desperation to avoid cumming, while the woman showed no reduction in her lust or energy.

"You are already aware," the Master said in his measured tones, "That each of our girls is conditioned to respond faultlessly to a selection of key phrases."

"Yeah, bitch," the man on screen panted, desperately trying to be in charge. "Fucking cum. Cum, bitch!"

The woman's eyes flew wide as the hoarse command seemed to go straight to her body without first passing through her brain. Her body convulsed and her mouth flew open in a wail of ecstasy, her hips pumping desperately, not skillfully now, as she bucked backwards, each shock of orgasm clear for all to see, as were the juices spurting from her cunt, as the man, gratefully, let himself go as well.

His shudders, starting second, finished well before hers.

The client had read through her abilities, in silence, astonishment ever warring to break through his professionally unreadable, hard face, but this was something he had needed to see verified. Now, seeing it, his face revealed to the expert reader that he could scarcely believe it.

The Master read him, but contented himself with a wave of his hand to the woman in the silk dress.

The screen froze for a fraction of a second, displaying for just that long a still image of the woman's face contorted in orgasm, eyes squeezed shut and mouth stretched open, before flicking crisply to a new scene.

The slave was once more centre-screen, but this time spread-eagled, tied in a vertical cross on her knees, her knees and wrists cuffed and stretched tight by sturdy cords to an even sturdier frame, the trained physique of this athlete of sex shown off to best effect, her firm breasts lifted by her upraised, spread arms, and by thin lines tied to her nipples and to the top corners of the frame, to an even more enticing position.

The only other figure in the scene was a woman dressed in leather boots and bustier and mini skirt, ash-blond hair tied high on the back of her head, thin face serious and focused behind a cover of pancake white makeup with ruby lips and eyeshadow, breathing deeply and steadily, booted feet spread for balance as her thin right arm worked a whip with nine silken tails across the back and buttocks and thighs of the slave, who convulsed with every strike, every one of which landed fractionally early or late of rhythm to keep her guessing.

The slave's tied nipples betrayed her arousal, carefully positioned lighting betraying her nipples. With each impact of the whip she jerked forwards as much as her awkward, restrained position would allow, and each time she jerked her full breasts jerked too, bouncing heavily on her chest.

Each gasp she made with each impact of the lash had suffering in it, but also pleasure, and her face was flushed even as she winced and bit her lip and struggled to hold back the tears of pain.

"You will find her tough, but not insensitive," the Master said, a touch more dryly than usual, a fact which escaped his stonily unsettled client. "How you take care of her skin is, of course, up to you. You will also find, should you desire it, that all commands also work in such a situation, albeit with a slight delay for her body to catch up. You may of course view this DVD at your leisure before making your decision. Let us move on."

The Master had noted that his customer was too distracted by his particular fetishes to truly pay attention to what he had to say, and the knowledge bought with it a sickening contempt for his role here in this room, humoring someone whose only feasible option was to make it appear as though he had doubts, as though he were engaged in the purchase of a company, or another new car, and wished not to appear too keen.

Without becoming peremptory, the Master waved his hand again. The screen flickered and this time there were three figures upon it.

The slave was now unbound although not unrestrained, kneeling on a thick carpet with legs spread wide so that the man kneeling behind her could get an unrestricted thrust deep into her cunt, her arms held by the wrists back and up behind her, the man taking the weight of her upper body and holding her at just the right height to devote her full oral attentions to the finger-spread cunt and budding clitoris of the mistress who sat on the edge of the bed and used her free hand to tease her nipples to firmer erection.

With each thrust of the man the slave's breasts jerked forwards and her mouth was thrust up, her wide-open jaw letting her tongue and her lips stroke from asshole to clitoris.

With an ever widening grin, and her hips beginning to twitch as her belly clenched with every lick, the Mistress on the sofa was making her own nipples red with the pinching and rubbing, and her tongue began to lick her lips like an adder sensing a kill.

"We've taught you well, haven't we?" she said huskily and eagerly, over the panting of the man. "You're a good little licker now, slave. Keep it up and I'll let you cum."

The Master's client shifted in his chair, slightly, barely enough for the leather to betray his broken concentration with the faintest of squeals. He licked his lips with a quick flick of his tongue, managing to avoid having to clear his throat.

"So many talents?" He asked, pitching his voice appropriately this time. "So much training? That is far more than I ordered."

On screen, the Mistress gave a signal and the man leaned back, jerking, pulling the slave upright and holding her back against his chest, her breasts heaving with deep breathing, the thrusting now stilled as the Mistress slid down off the bed and knelt knee-to-knee with the slave, groin-to-groin and breast-to-breast, leaning into her, sandwiching her against the man for a deep, tonsil-cleaning kiss, grinding mound against mound, the Mistress pressing deep, the slave, filled deep with massive cock, pressing demandingly back.

The Mistress reached down between them and guided the man's cock out of the slave's cunt and into her own, a pathetic moan wrenched from the slave even as the Mistress sighed in pleasure, still thrusting her mound against the slave's as the man, awkwardly, in an awkward and painful position, did his best to use his hips to thrust into her.

The smooth lines of the Master's face did not betray the contempt he felt at his client's comment, but his voice did become a little dry as he responded. "We do not train girls of limited ability here, sir. Nor do we stint in our training. When we judge a girl to be ready to be offered to a client we judge to be suitable" - there was not even a hint of rebuke or warning in his tone - "You may rest assured, sir, that you are acquiring the very best conditioning and training that your money and your status" - again, not a hint of sharpness or pointed tone - "May acquire for you. She will obey you utterly, will perform any sensual or erotic tasks that you require of her faultlessly, and will take genuine pleasure in doing so."

The Mistress stood, pulling the slave up with her, still kissing her, still squashed breasts against breasts, sliding easily off the man's cock and leaving him to catch his breath as she turned them both, pushing the slave back against the bed and onto it, flat on her back, kneeling above her and dropping her hips to press once more mound to mound as she pinned the slave's arms with her hands and raped her mouth with her tongue.

The Master took up his ivory-headed, brass-tipped wooden cane from where it hung on the edge of his chair and, without appearing to use it, rose to his feet and turned to face his surprised, although hiding it, client.

"We are not some sort of Technical College, sir, teaching the mere mechanical application of mere crude skills. We are a University wherein our students are conditioned as well as trained and from which they graduate ready and able and willing, sir, willing, to satisfy your requirements now and in the future.

"You always get more than you order, sir, always."

The man on screen rose to his feet and climbed onto the bed, above both women, positioning his cock at the slave's cunt and pushing in hard, the lithesome body jerking under the Mistress' weight in response, before pulling out and impaling the Mistress, then the slave, then the Mistress, easily and smoothly, the Mistress enjoying the play, the slave tortured by the teasing.

The Mistress slid up the slave's body, brushing her breasts either side of the sweating, submissive face and then positioning her smooth cunt above it. The man, back contorted to keep the right position, stayed buried in the slave's cunt, fucking her mechanically.

"He's going to fuck you until you cum," the Mistress said evenly, "But you're not going to cum until I say you can, and I won't say you can cum until you make me cum. Twice. So get licking, slut, and lick good."

"I will leave you now," the Master said simply. "Please come and join me in my office next door when you have seen enough."

His client did not respond, knowing that he had been warned and knowing where the power in this room lay. Instead he watched the screen, not hearing the quiet footsteps and almost as quiet cane of the Master crossing the room, oblivious to the opening and closing of the heavy wooden door and even forgetting the existence of the woman in the figure-hugging silk, no matter how attractive that figure might be, as the women on screen became covered in sweat and the man's thrusts became more energetic, taunting the slave with stimulation.

The Master gently closed the door behind himself as the Mistress' breathing deepened and became moans. He stood for a moment in the corridor then, suppressing a deep sigh, made his slow and deliberate way down the silken hall runner to where an identical door marked the entrance to his office.

These affairs, these necessary matters of business, never ceased to tire him, to make him feel contempt for those who accessed his special services, and indeed for those who never would, all humanity damned by association. He had often wondered if perhaps he should have a deputy, an apprentice, a factotum. But time had resolved those wonderings, and he was no longer troubled by them. The answer was, of course, no.

His client watched on, the Mistress riding the squirming slave to her first orgasm, the man purple-faced with the effort of controlling himself, the slave delirious by now, struggling to maintain focus on her mouth.

"Keep going, slut! That's one! He's not going to cum in you, either, bitch. He's going to wait until I tell him where to put it, so don't think you'll get to stop!"

The woman in the silk stood quiet and still, invisible in her glowing red dress, face neutral and body calm.