Cherry Ch. 07: Master's Guests

Daddy wasted no time putting my new DSLs (dick-sucking lips) to work. I was amazed by the man's refractory period. Daddy tended to work only about six hours each day--he delegated most of the grunt work to the associates at his firm--and I usually blew him three to four times per workday under his desk. After I served him dinner, he usually fucked me at least once over the table or a counter, and once more in my bedroom before my bedtime. I was never allowed into Daddy's bedroom except to clean and change the linens.

On that note, my only nights off occurred when Daddy had a woman over. This occurred frequently--as a rich, fit, charismatic finance attorney, it's no challenge for Daddy to have beautiful women coming in and out the door. I was never allowed to interact with them beyond taking their coats or serving them at the dinner table.

"My personal bed is for myself and for the women I fuck. I'm not sullying it by bringing in a sex toy," Daddy had told me one evening as I sucked him off at the dinner table. I was the sex toy to which he referred. And Daddy frequently made that point clear, both implicitly and explicitly. I could frequently feel him getting harder and pulsating when he slapped me in the face or called me degrading names. And he interacted with me as one would interact with their dog. Worse than a dog even; most owners who accidentally kick or step on their dog would apologize and make sure the dog is okay. Daddy would just kick me again for being in the way.

Indeed, most of the time when Daddy wanted my head, he snapped his fingers, pointed at me, then pointed at his groin. Despite the insult, I would still put on a stupid, goofy smile and crawl over to him and eat his cock as if I was the one receiving the favor. "Thank you so much for giving this useless slut your big cock, Daddy," I'd been trained to say after swallowing his load, "this inadequate fuck toy is so lucky to get to swallow such wonderful cum."

I especially hated him in those moments that he would force me to express gratitude for physical abuse. "Thank you, Daddy!" I would usually respond after being slapped, "your little love slave is so grateful to have such a dominant Master to put her in her place!" More so than even my hatred for Daddy, I profoundly hated myself in those moments. I hated the thing that Daddy had turned me into.

One evening, Daddy fucked my face particularly roughly. I had finished serving him one of his favorite meals: a vegetarian wellington with a side of berry salad and a tall glass of Syrah. I found it to be particularly insulting that Daddy leaned toward vegetarianism out of moral considerations but had no quandaries keeping me enslaved and degraded. My well-being was worth less than an ox or a pig to him. After Daddy had finished eating, he sat back in his chair, looked at me with a condescending grin, and uttered the three words I dread most in the universe: "Cock worship mode."

Before the higher levels of my brain comprehended what he said, time seemed to stop around me. More specifically, I lost my sense of the immediate past or immediate future and became hyper-aware of my sensations in the present. Space itself seemed to close in around me. More precisely, the only space that mattered was the space between myself and my Master's cock; i.e., the god of my universe.

I was acutely aware of my position in space as I crawled on my hands and knees toward my bound god. I say "bound" because this god was confined by Daddy's belt, zipper, and underwear. I was merely privileged enough to have the honor of uncovering it. I bowed my head low in humble, obedient deference as I crawled forward with my knees splayed outward and my palms face-down in front of me.

When I reached Daddy's lap, my hands, as if on their own accord, traveled to Daddy's groin and lithely unbuckled his belt and unzipped his pants. My hands reached to pull down his underwear and to lift my Alpha and Omega as if lifting the most precious, rock-hard diamond in the universe. When released from its confines, I looked up at my god as it stood before me. My mouth was agape, not only in preparation of servicing the god but in admiration of its grandeur.

I cuddled my face to the god's base, whispering words of admiration like the dutiful devotee I had become. I kissed it from top to bottom. My eyes watered as a feeling of warm gratitude built up in me. I was about to service the creator and destroyer of the universe--or what I believed it to be in my fucked-up, programmed state.

When I was in "cock worship mode," I found myself at a quandary when ready to put the head between my lips. On one hand, a humble slave like myself had no right to point the deity down toward me so that I could wrap my lips around it. On the other, I had no right to raise myself above it in order to wrap my lips around it. Perhaps understanding the cognitive dilemma, Daddy pointed the idol straight at my face, wrapped his hand around the back of my head, and plunged god into my throat.

I could scarcely breathe as its rigid shaft cut off air to the back of my throat. But this did not matter. Under my "cock worship" conditioning, I would choose to suffocate to death if that meant giving my god just a little more pleasure. If Daddy pulled back from face-fucking me enough to allow me to breathe, then I would only be grateful that this slave could live to worship Daddy's cock for just a little longer.

I could not tell if this lasted for a fraction of a second or ten thousand years. And I did not care. When one's brain is hyper-focused on the present moment, like the most meditative monk, time itself loses its meaning. But eventually, my god shot his precious gift down the back of my throat. Tears filled my eyes; not because of the gagging or lack of breath, but from the religious gratitude from receiving this gift.

After my mind comprehended that Daddy had cum, "cock worship mode" immediately wore off. I then became aware that I was light-headed from the lack of oxygen and the burning from the friction in the back of my throat. I collapsed on the ground, heaving.

Daddy put his foot under my face and placed the toe of his shoes under my chin. I could see my pitiful reflection as Daddy made me polish his shoes regularly. Using his foot, Daddy lifted my chin to make me look him in the eye. An evil, shit-eating grin met my gaze. "So, how was church, bitch?" Daddy chuckled at own his awful joke.

Rage burned inside of me, and for a microsecond, my face contorted in loathing and disgust. But my programming wouldn't allow me to express such disrespectful emotions for long. My face soon went back to its idiotic, grateful smile. "Thank you, Daddy! I'm so grateful that you let me eat your delicious cum! Yummy!" I sounded like a child thanking her daddy for a scoop of ice cream.

That's a good girl. Some of my colleagues from Orgos--that's the client organization that helped me condition you in the first place--are going to be over for dinner tomorrow evening. You're going to be the perfect little maid, chef, and fuck toy for them.

Fear swept across my face. "Yes, Daddy," was all that my conditioning would allow me to respond.

"In preparation, I'm going to program a few more personalities into you. Clean up your mess, clean up my dinner, and sit beside my chair by the fireplace. Wear something that you can move around in; let's say some yoga pants and a simple shirt."

"Yes, Daddy." I'd learned to be nervous when Daddy had new ideas for games or new programs for me.

After my chores, I kneeled compliantly beside Daddy's high-back chair. Despite my hatred of the man who sat in it, I admired the expensive red leather. Something about the fact that the chair was taller than me, and that Daddy could look at me at eye level even when he was seated and I was standing up, imposed a sense of intimidating arousal in me.

I had done the programming song and dance before. Usually, when Daddy wanted to condition a new command phrase, he would just order me to do a certain set of actions at a certain command. And my conditioning would force me to obey. This would save him from having to re-explain exactly how he wanted me to complete tasks; e.g., that "dust the den" including a thorough cleaning of the borders at the bottom of the wall, that "serve white wine with dinner tonight" involved chilling the wine for at least two hours before dinner, etc. Other times, when Daddy wanted to surprise me with what he had programmed me to do, he would take away my consciousness, verbally list the commands to some unknown part of my brain, and then randomly drop the commands on me when I was conscious.

On this particular day, Daddy chose the latter. As if he had just noticed my presence, Daddy looked up from his book and sighed as if I was interrupting him. I noticed that the book was titled "Capital and Ideology under the Ancien Régime." The pretentious asshole. Daddy snapped his fingers and commanded, "go under." My brain knew exactly what to do. My vision closed in around me, I became extremely dizzy, and I lost consciousness as I slowly lowered myself to the floor.

I do not know how much time passed while I was under, but when I came to, I could see that it was dark outside. Daddy was right back at his book and enjoying the warmth from the crackling fireplace. "Time for bed, Cherry," he said without even looking at me. Despite myself, I felt regret that Daddy wouldn't be fucking me or ordering me to blow him before bed. Had I done something wrong?

The wobble in my step and the soreness in my anus told me otherwise; Daddy had just fucked me while I was still under. I was nothing but a flesh light on two legs. A flesh light who could experience humiliation, who would beg to be taken down from the shelf and used, and tomorrow, would probably be shared with Daddy's guests.

I spent most of the following day dusting and scrubbing Daddy's house and preparing the upcoming meal for Daddy's guests. "There will be five men dining, including myself. One of the men has a little love slave of his own; you and she will not be eating today. We're going to want you both clean and empty," Daddy finished with a chuckle. "As you know, I normally find eating meat to be distasteful, but client relations come first. The most important of these men once told me that a bloody steak with a strong Barbera was his favorite meal. So that's what you'll be preparing for us."

"Yes, Daddy," I meekly bowed my head. Daddy usually told me to eat at least something nutritious each day--not because he cares about my well-being, but because he abhors his property being spoiled. On days when he orders me not to eat, that usually means that he wants both my colon and esophagus to be cleared for a long night. Fuck.

At 6 pm, the first guest arrived. I later learned that his name was Edgar. A name fitting the man of his mid-70s who walked in the door. He looked overjoyed to see me. "And you must be Cherry!" Edgar boldly put his hand under my chin and examined the sides of my face, as if he was inspecting a piece of livestock. "Turn around for me, Darling. Oh, yes, I see that the treatment is doing wonders. And I love what Jay has done with that beautiful mouth of yours." My conditioning only allowed me to smile gratefully; how I hid the disgust in my stomach would put a professional poker player to shame.

"Edgar, it's great to see you!" Daddy strolled into the entrance hall. "Cherry, be a good girl and take Edgar's coat."

"Yes, Daddy," I meekly cooed as I helped the elderly man out of his grey jacket.

"Oh, you have her trained well," Edgar wagged his trembling, decrepit finger at Daddy, "between you and me, I have a girl queued to be imported from Hungary in a couple of months. She doesn't know it, but she's scheduled for some conditioning with Orgos. She won't be recognizable to her own mother by the time Dr. Moffet is finished with her. It's an expensive program but given the company's financial projections, I may be able to die with a collection!" I hated this old man. I generally hate when old men say terrible things and laugh at their own jokes. But my pity for this unsuspecting Hungarian girl added a flavor to my hatred of Edgar. The men began discussing business strategies, ignoring my continued presence.

A few minutes later, the second guest arrived. This was Adam. Adam had the privilege of caretaking for Orgos's second experiment, whom I would later learn was named Katie. Adam was apparently the most important member of Orgos's internal finance team. He handled the intricate parts of contract negotiations and enforcement with investors. As I later gleaned from overhearing business conversations, Daddy was the "good cop" in financing negotiations; his velvety charisma would melt audiences like butter. Adam was the hard-ass "bad cop" that Orgos would bring in when an investor forgot his place or made too much noise about a transaction.

Adam stroke in confidently, looked at me once, and kept moving with a chuckle. The young lady behind him meekly shuffled in, carrying Adam's jacket, hat, and sunglasses in her arms. Katie was a blonde bombshell. Long blonde locks framed her petite, narrow shoulders. She wore a low-cut, tight cocktail dress. Her cleavage--I guessed it to be at least at a D-cup--was barely contained under the tight dress. Her ass sported generous implants. Her hips swayed back and forth with her ass cheeks as she walked. Her thighs were each nearly as thick as her petite torso, yet somehow, she sported an obvious thigh gap, conspicuously visible under the short dress. Despite her constant efforts to "fix" herself, the bottom of her cheeks usually bulged out from the dress.

I walked forward to take the jacket, hat, and sunglasses from her arms. When I removed the bundle from her arms, I could see that it was covering a meager bump in her groin. So, Katie also used to be a boy.

After putting the jacket away, I walked back toward Katie. She didn't look up. She didn't speak. She didn't acknowledge my presence. She just kept staring at the ground in front of her. I tried to say something, but a man had not given me permission to speak, so all I could do was vainly move my lips. I sighed heavily, seeking to get her attention. No dice.

After discussing a bit with Edgar and Daddy, I heard Adam snap his fingers. "Katie, come and introduce yourself to Master's friends." So, Adam preferred the honorary, "Master."

Katie immediately perked up. Her eyes, previously glazed over, blinked as she shook her head. It looked as if she had been unconscious or in some sort of trance. When she saw me in her peripherals, she did a double-take at me with a shocked expression. She looked me up and down. My white cocktail dress was more modest than hers, if that term was even appropriate here, but Daddy had yet to inflate my body to anything near Katie's proportions. Katie obviously wanted to say something as she vainly opened her mouth. I could see that she wanted to address or call out to me. But, as if against her will, the only sound from her mouth was, "Yes, Master. I'm coming!" Katie looked at her master and pranced toward him.

I later learned that Katie had been a twenty-two-year-old law student at a prestigious university. She, then a "he," had interned for Adam during her first summer. Drunk at a company dinner party, Katie--then "Chris"--had admitted to Adam that he often felt less like a man and more like a woman on the inside. A few drinks later, and Adam had learned that Chris was very much a sub and a bottom. Adam took Chris out on a few more dates and convinced Chris to undergo the conditioning of his own accord.

I didn't know at the time that Katie had undergone the conditioning voluntarily. The thought that someone would choose such deep, absolute submission and ownership hadn't crossed my mind. I wanted to communicate with her to tell her that things would be okay. That someday her and I could esca--Nope. I knew better than to let that train of thought run. This would be the worst time to be subject to that punishment reconditioning; if Daddy's colleagues and clients saw that one of their subjects could still form thoughts of escaping, Daddy would need to exact something terrible in order to save face. Even aside from his own wrath and embarrassment.

The other two guests arrived in short order. The next guest was a short, slender man in his early forties. John was his name; I later gleaned that he was Orgos's CFO. The final guest was a familiar face, Dr. Moffet. The other men affectionately referred to him as "Doc." He was apparently brought on as a consultant for the company's more medically "adventurous" issues.

I was the perfect trophy wife and hostess. The napkins were perfectly ironed and folded. The cutlery was shined. Plates were served from the right and taken from the left. Steaks were cooked to perfect specifications. The asparagus on the side was seasoned and cooked to seasoned perfection. The expensive Barbera that Daddy had ordered from Italy filled the table with its generous bouquet. As I served the asparagus, I found myself grateful that Daddy didn't have a golden-shower fetish and I actively hoped that his guests felt the same.

Katie stood behind Adam's chair with her arms behind her back and her head bowed. I was impressed by her flexibility; Katie's elbows touched beneath her shoulder blades and her slender forearms made contact down to her graceful fingers, which intertwined between her hands. The tips of her fingers rested casually on her inflated ass. Why was I jealous of her flexibility and generous ass?

As I was admiring Katie's figure, Edgar chuckled and pointed in my direction, "it looks like someone's either aroused from jealousy or still admires a good bottom." He shook his finger in the direction of my crotch. I looked down in horror as my little dick tented the front of my cocktail dress.

I looked up in timid chagrin at the guests. John was shaking his head, chuckling. Dr. Moffet was too busy staring at Katie to notice the scene. Daddy furrowed his eyebrows at me angrily. Adam turned around to see what the ruckus was about and rolled his eyes when he saw my shame.

"That's a solvable problem, Jay," Adam said, "I mean, I don't have a problem with my girl having erections. I often invite her in when I bring women over. Some women love a tgirl. But if you're at a dinner party, just put her in a chastity cage." Jay lifted Katie's skirt two inches to reveal a pink, plastic tube attached to the front of her clit. "Seriously, I don't mind her getting hard when she's home--it makes it better for me that my little slut gets off on swallowing my load. But she wears this when we go out."

"True," Daddy responded, "but we don't even need to make that investment. Cherry, stop having an erection." My dick immediately softened. Edgar and Dr. Moffet were stunned. John sat at his chair in smug satisfaction of his company's work. "Problem solved," Daddy continued, "now Cherry, go fetch dessert. And bring more wine!"

I'd prepared five individual blueberry tarts, paired with a Nordic vine de glace. After the guests had their fill of food and wine, Daddy looked at me hungrily. Dinner had gone on long with conversation, and I'd served each guest about six glasses by that point. While normal social norms would be less likely to constrain this crowd anyway, the wine only lubricated their desire.

"Adam, I must say that I love what you've done with Katie," Daddy looked from Katie to myself, "tell me, did you leave her personality intact?"

"Oh, you misunderstand," Adam looked surprised at the question, "this is her personality. Katie chose this. She underwent reconditioning because she wanted to submit to me fully. She wants to be owned."

"Sure Adam," Edgar rolled his eyes, "just like Jay's bitch of an ex-wife chose to be my live-in maid after he divorced her. And just like she chooses to suck my cock every night. The tracking device we planted in her, the shock collar we keep on her, and shortening the tendons in her ankles to keep her from running are just part of the persuasion." The rest of the men laughed.