Virtual Slavery Ch. 17bywltedford©
I can't remember the sequence.
Really there was no sequence. It was all one event; one single event, which became my life. Where, with the exception of that first month with Winston, my life had always been school or my work, which was the same thing, and everything else only interruptions; now sex, the peculiar submissive, helpless sex to which Brad subjected me, was my life and I was impatient with everything else. I wanted to get back to it; even, I must confess, back to him. Jefferson was more beautiful--that is wrongly stated, for Brad had no beauty whatsoever, except perhaps the beauty of power and intellect--and Jefferson could always make me come; but there was something about him that remained detached and mechanical.
After using me, Brad sometimes made me spend the night in the same bed with him, naked of course, and usually in bondage, my wrists and ankles encased in steel or leather cuffs so I would always be aware of my condition. One night when I awakened, he was on his side, facing away from me, his body a huge hulking shadow. Amazingly I felt the impulse to roll toward him, to press my naked body against his hairy back, to cuddle with the whale. And after a while I did.
I knew I was obsessed. But I did not have the least desire to end my obsession. I actually wondered if I was going through some hormonal change, though I was much too young for menopause. Or as if I had been given some aphrodisiac that kept me constantly sexually aroused. As Brad says--and that is part of it: inside that grotesque form is one of the finest and most original minds I have ever encountered--it is a conceit to call ourselves rational animals. We are Homo insipiens, not homo sapiens.
Cocks, hands, tongues, fingers, breasts, cunts, dildoes, fists, bodies, ropes, chains, sperm, whips--though it was a long tantalizing time before he whipped me--filled my body, my mind, my life. I did not want it any other way.
As I said, the sequence doesn't matter. It was all one.
Mid afternoon. New York. In my street whore outfit, including wig, I walk through Times Square to the 42nd Street subway station where I board the C Train and ride all the way to the Bronx and back. Brad and Jefferson board as well and sit at the far end of the car. As instructed I take a seat facing toward the center, where everyone can see up or, if standing, down my skimpy dress. There is a small calculated risk that someone I know professionally might enter the car, but I don't care. Perhaps I am beginning to want to be found out, to have this all come into the open. Various men position themselves opposite me; others sit beside me and 'accidentally' brush against my thighs or breasts; still others stand directly in front of me, their legs against mine, their greedy eyes devouring my cleavage. In the Bronx I cross and uncross my legs, then sit with them spread apart and give a teenager carrying a book bag home after school a show that probably provides material for his fantasies for months.
Mid afternoon. New York. Wearing a blue pinstriped business suit, similar to a man's, but tailored snugly to my body with the skirt ending at mid-thigh, and black, sensible heels, I sit in the comfortable living room of an Upper East Side apartment on Fifth Avenue, almost directly across Central Park from Brad's.
Four other women, girls actually, are there. Three watching daytime television; one, a black student at Columbia, studying a chemistry text. The black girl is fashion model beautiful; the other three cheerleader pretty.
When the buzzer rings, Heather, the madam, dressed as I would at Broadthroup, comes from a back room where she has been doing some accounting. The television is turned off; the chemistry text disappears.
Heather has advised me to sit demurely, feet on the floor, ankles crossed, but with ample thigh showing. The black girl, whose working name is Clarisse, sits beside me, composed and cool. The cheerleaders exude bubbly enthusiasm and youth. Something for everyone.
From being one of LA's cheapest, I have become, as promised, one of New York's most expensive whores.
I did well, making more than $2000 that afternoon. A lot of men want to fuck the boss, though frankly they did not do it well. Heather urged me to work for her full time. Considering that the money was cash and could be kept tax free, I did some mental calculation and realized that I would make more than I ever had in my life prior to getting my partnership.
Early evening. San Francisco. In the back of a rented limousine in which Brad has collected me after my meetings in Silicone Valley, I lean against the corner of the seat, my skirt pushed up, my legs apart and facing him, and lightly stroke my clit, as he has directed me too. The dark glass partition separating us from the driver is raised.
"Whose clit is it?" he asks. We both know it is a rhetorical question.
"Keep touching it, but don't come."
"Where are we going?"
"A place I know in the city."
"And what is going to happen?"
"Do you dance?"
"Yes. Dance. You know what dancing is. Waltz. Tango. Fox trot. Rock and Roll."
"No. Not much."
"That's what I expected. Too studious to go to the prom."
"I went to the prom."
"That makes one of us. Anyway dancing isn't what it really is about. You can fake it."
Unlike Boston, San Francisco's residents never permitted the Interstate to block off their waterfront, thus avoiding Boston's Big Dig that is now rectifying the error of the 1950ties at an expense of eleven billion dollars and has disrupted the city for years. When the highway ended near the base of the Bay Bridge, the limousine followed surface streets until it pulled up in front of an old movie theater.
I was surprised when Brad told me, "Put your panties back on." As I did so, he pressed the button that lowered the partition. I noticed the driver's eyes home in as I lifted my hips and wiggled on the pale blue tonga. "I won't be long," Brad told him. I noted the pronoun. So he was leaving me here alone.
By the time the driver had come around to open the door, I was dressed. We respectively walked and waddled across the sidewalk to where a doorman/ bouncer, who looked like a biker, acknowledged Brad with a friendly enough "Hello, Mr. Rankin."
The lobby was shabby carpet, cigarette smoke, and a peculiar smell, which I soon came to know was disinfectant.
Behind what had been the snack bar stood a tired blond, selling condoms and various sex toys. A zombie. I'm not sure she even noticed us as Brad directed me to an unmarked door.
The manager's office was a small cluttered room, dominated by an unexpected teak desk of elegant Scandinavian design, with a similar chair and a sofa, which were in sharp contrast to several old gray painted metal filing cabinets, and rows of shelves cluttered with papers against one wall.
"Here she is, Sam."
"Hey, Brad," a rail thin, weasel faced forty-something man sitting behind the desk replied. As I had come to expect and accept, his eyes moved up and down me. "A real beauty. A gem. Where did you find this one?. Though," eyes up and down again, "the clothes are wrong. And the shoes. We can find something. Clothes don't matter," he leered. "She won't be wearing them anyway. But the shoes do. One of the other girls will have something. Close enough anyway."
Brad nodded. "You know what to do. I'll leave her in your hands. I'll be back later." And with that surprising quickness of his, tuned and was gone.
I did not even consider asking any questions. I had learned to accept whatever was to happen to me. So I stood silently after I heard the door close, until Sam said, "So, what do you want us to call you?"
"We already got a Linda."
"I said I don't care. You make one up."
"Vicki. How's Vicki?"
"It really doesn't matter. Fine."
"So, sit down, Vicki."
I sat on the sofa, crossing my legs. Weasel Sam sat down again behind his desk.
"I see a lot of pussy," he said. "Get tired of it, like a kid working in a chocolate factory. But I must admit that you are something else. You ever been in a place like this?"
I nodded negatively.
"Thought not. Well guys come in here to jack off. A few couples. Even some women. They look; in one of the rooms they can even touch, but you can't touch them back; and they play with themselves and leave. We give them a variety of ways to look: private booths; peep shows to dancers; part of the old theater stage for lesbo action with a b and d flavor. They pay a general admission charge and extra for the booths and peep shows and special tips. We don't allow any prostitution on premises. Really. I can't guarantee that some of the girls don't make appointments for after hours. What they do then is their business. But here is mine. The cops pretty much leave us alone, but there is always the risk. Anyway, I don't expect that is your concern, unless that is what you've been told to do, in which case it is none of mine. Brad says to move you around, let you work all the venues, so that is what we are going to do. I'll give you the ten cent tour I give all the new girls, but first we generally have a private audition. So let's see it."
My pussy spasmed at that 'it'. I had been reduced to 'it.'
I uncrossed my legs and stood up.
Except for the pantyhose I had left in the limo, I was still wearing what I had worn that day for my meetings at Meganet: a two piece beige suit, cream colored blouse, pale blue bra and panties, sensible tan shoes.
Pulling the suit jacket from my shoulders, I dropped it onto the sofa, then looked directly at Sam while unbuttoning the blouse.
"That's good," he croaked as my breasts came into view. Maybe he wasn't quite as bored as he pretended to be. "Very good. The eye contact, I mean."
"The skirt next or the bra?" I asked.
"Whatever. The bra."
The clasp was in the front. Getting into the tease, I kept my hands over my beasts when the bra fell open.
"Come on. Come on."
He made a small unintelligible sound when I let my hands fall away. I remember the passing thought that I liked the power I was finding that my body had over men, while liking even more the power Brad gave men over me.
The zipper slid down and the straight slim skirt soon joined my other clothes on the sofa.
"Wait a second. Turn around. Slowly."
The blue tonga was a mere wisp of butt floss.
"Very nice. Very, very nice." And when I was facing him again, " O.K. The rest."
I kicked off the shoes, remembering momentarily removing my shoes so long ago, so many incredible experiences, another life ago, in a Saint Louis hotel room, and pulled down the panties.
"He said you were something special."
"Who?" I asked eagerly.
Disappointment. I had wanted him to say Brad.
"Sit down again. In the chair. Put your feet up over the arms."
I gave him a look.
"Just do it. You know what you're here for. This is what you'll be doing in the private booths, showing it close up and personal, assuming poses while they talk dirty to you and jack off."
I assumed the almost gynecological position.
"Nice that you're shaved. Makes everything so easy to see. Spread the lips apart. They like to see inside. To penetrate with their eyes what they can't with their cocks. You're all shiny and wet. You get off on this?"
"Yeah," I said, which is not normally a word I use, but seemed appropriate. "Yeah," my voice guttural. "I get off on this."
"You can touch yourself if you want, but I wouldn't come yet. You're going to need your energy. What size shoes you wear, about an 8?"
Tracing a light circle around my clit, I replied, "Yes."
Weasel Sam hit a buzzer on his desk. A minute later a handsome young blond guy with a neatly trimmed beard came into the office, glanced disinterestedly at me spread open as wide as the Grand Canyon, and said, "What?"
"Go back and see if anybody has a spare pair of shoes about size 8."
When he had left, Sam said, "Remember you're in San Francisco. We hire a lot of gay guys. Fewer problems. Enough of that," meaning me. "Let's see another pose."
"Whatever. Turn around, on your knees."
"Knees further apart. Try to look as though you're just getting ready to be fucked. That's what they like. You can't go wrong if you think of all the various ways you've been fucked and duplicate those positions."
I obediently followed his instructions through a few more poses, before he said, "All right. Stand up. Come on over here. No. All the way. Around the desk."
He swiveled his chair as I walked closer until when I was within arm's length, he reached up and cupped my breasts with his hands. Almost respectfully he squeezed them. "He's one lucky sonofabitch. Whatya see in him? Or what's he got on you? Never mind. Forget I asked." Then more demandingly. "Turn around."
"Bend over. Spread your legs some. Reach back and spread your ass apart. Show it to me."
I gasped when the side of his fingernail caught on my cunt.
He fingerfucked me for a while. I got hotter. "Amazing," he muttered to himself. "Motherfucking amazing."
A second and a third finger joined the first, then the first, his forefinger, withdrew and, lubricated from my cunt, pressed against then popped into my ass.
"Press back, bitch." he snarled. "Take them all the way up your cunt and ass."
I ground my hips back.
"Further. Fuck my hand hard."
I did and moaned.
"Did you just come?"
"Hardly anybody around here really gets off, the ones who work here I mean, but you are something else."
I felt his sticky fingers withdraw. I did not want them to. I wanted more, but then realized that one way or another I would get more that evening. It was still early.
"Turn around. That was fun, but I hear you are a truly great cocksucker."
From Jefferson, I assumed. So that is how they talk about me. How else? About my superior management and organizational skills?
I got down on my knees. He shifted his hips to help me get his gabardine slacks and Jockey shorts down. Now that I had seen so many, I judged his cock to be about average. When I lowered my head, he thrust up, seemingly disappointed I swallowed it all without gagging.
I was still on my knees when the office door opened and the blond guy returned.
"Leave them," the weasel gasped. I think he wanted the blond guy to see him being sucked off, because the first drops of semen splattered my mouth just as the door closed. As I swallowed, I wondered if he was bi, but Brad would not expose me to that kind of danger. At least not knowingly.
A couple of guys just coming through the door looked startled as Sam led me across the lobby. I was only wearing the blue tonga and black high heels that were composed of straps that crisscrossed over my feet and up my ankles a couple of times before being tied. Then we were into the darkness of the back rooms.
It was not really so bad, and Sam was hardly Virgil, but I flashed on Dante being lead on a tour of the circles of Hell.
The first was literally a circle, a circle of closed doors. Above most of them red lights bulbs were lit. Sam found a door with one unlit and opened it and gestured for me to enter, before squeezing in beside me.
"The screen can't go up unless the door is locked."
The booth was tiny. Our bodies were jammed together, and a seat built into the door creased my legs.
Sam's hands pushed between us and managed to extract a couple of coins from his pocket. When he inserted them into a slot in the side wall, a screen rose revealing a round stage on which four naked girls were desultorily dancing. Separating us from them was a clear piece of plastic with circular cutouts at breast and crotch level.
One of the girls came over when she noticed the booth was occupied, stooped over and peered in. "Oh it's just you." And returned to the others.
"They get a minute a quarter. A minute of time before the screen drops. If they want a particular girl to come over they beckon. They give the girls $5 or $10 to stick it right up close. Another $5 or $10 to reach through and touch. You want to keep it well lubricated, particularly if you're not turned on. Which somehow I don't think will be a problem for you. There's a buzzer on the other side to call for help if someone grabs ahold and won't let go." And he squeezed my ass. "Come on."
We entered a darker labyrinth, a single corridor, that made alternate right and left turns past small cubicles. Some of the doors to these were closed too, but through those that were opened I caught glimpses of women caged behind clear plastic. We had to squeeze past a couple of guys cruising the area.
"There're telephones in there. The guys pay $10 directly to the girl, through a slot at the bottom. No hole in there. No touching. But they can talk. A bit more intimacy."
Beyond the labyrinth, steps led up to what I assumed had been stage level and a ticket booth.
"The Marquis Room. After de Sade," he grinned. "Not really heavy stuff. Cost another $10. All lesbo. The law permits sex acts between women that it doesn't been men and women because technically it isn't sex. Nothing going on in there yet. Too early. Come on. You'll start at the front and work your way back."
As we retraced our steps I asked, "Why do you do this for Brad? I assume he pays you? Does he often drop off women here?"
He had insisted on walking behind me, presumably to admire the view.
"Of course I do it because he pays me. He owns the place. I thought you knew. The guys who started this up had a falling out and sold a couple of years ago. As to the last, that's his business. Ask him."
The lights on the dance floor changed from blue to red to orange to green then blue again.
Leaving my panties with Sam, who waded them into a ball and stuffed it in his pocket, I joined the other girls, who didn't seem pleased to have more competition. Even less so when a screen slid up and a small dark haired girl went over and returned with a, "He wants you." meaning me.
The music was loud, some group I had never heard. I had to lean close to the top opening to hear what the guy was saying and still wasn't sure, so I just said $10, and he handed it over.
Not really knowing what he wanted, I stood there, sort of moving a little with the music. A hand came through the plastic and grabbed my left breast, then didn't really seem to know what to do with it. I noticed the fingernails were clean but bitten to the quick. The hand squeezed, not too hard, weighed and tested my flesh, slipped down. Fingers grasped the nipple and pulled. That hurt a little. I gave a small gasp, but kept on semi-dancing, swaying. The young guy was peering up at me and kept steadily increasing pressure, studying my reaction. Just as I thought I couldn't take any more and was about to reach for the buzzer, he said something I couldn't hear and released me. Automatically I reached down and rubbed my bruised nipple.
Cautiously I moved closer, pushing my body against the plastic, bending my knees as his hand came through the lower opening and found my cunt. He had only just touched me with the screen started to descend.
I took a step back, waiting to see if he put in another coin. Perhaps he was out, because the screen stayed down. The thought of his frustration pleased me.
I wondered what to do with the $10 bill. Then noticed a number of small jars on the floor near the door and dropped the money into an empty one, before rejoining the other dancers.
About every five minutes one of the girls left and was replaced by another, so I guess I was out there twenty-five minutes or so before someone tapped me on the shoulder, and I saw Sam standing in the doorway. I left my money behind. I heard one of the girl say something to another, but only caught the words, "Brad's" and "later."