Gillian's Weekend as a Slave Pt. 01

It had been a long time since Gillian had last spent a weekend with him in New York. §

As she grew older, it got harder and harder to live out her fantasies. One wrong photo at an orgy or BDSM club and her career would be very ruined, so she'd had to make do with kink in private and encouraging her lovers to overpower her, spank her, slap her pussy, and fuck her face, but to them, it was all acting, naughty sex, they didn't really want her to submit and she didn't feel that urge deep in her to actually submit, she just loved the attention and feelings.

After years of desperately not wanting to think about it, about him, about the level of degradation and servitude she yearned for, it was finally time to lean back into the lifestyle. She'd messaged him a month ago, saying she would be in the city and could maybe meet up. He'd replied, saying he had a spare weekend, which meant only one thing; if she said yes, this wasn't meeting up for a coffee or a few drinks; it was submitting herself to a whole weekend as his toy, his slave, his plaything. It was so long ago that she last let go of control and spent a weekend of servitude that she'd almost forgotten what it was like, but when she replied and said yes, the butterflies in her stomach were so familiar, and the lightheaded dizziness that comes with what she'd agreed to, so welcome and exciting, she knew she'd made the right choice.

So here she was, a month later, ringing the doorbell on the front door of a classic NYC brownstone as the sun set, pushing the door open when it buzzed (he'd said nothing when she rang, he knew what time it was and she'd not dared be late), and walking up the two flights of stairs that were so familiar. Years ago she'd almost skipped up them, stocking tops showing, no knickers, excited by being seen, dressed exactly how he'd told her to arrive, long before the days of camera phones and Facebook. Now she was dressed as anonymously as possible, with a long dark coat, hair under a hat, and big sunglasses. Somebody might have recognized her in the street, but not once she was in the cool, dark hallway.

Stopping outside his door, she tucks the hat away in the coat along with the glasses and folds it over her arm, revealing what's below. Her outfit was still very conservative compared to the slutwear she'd stood here wearing before, but this was certainly not what she wanted to be seen in the street. The knitted mini-dress barely covered her arse. Her stockings came to mid-thigh and were obviously both expensive and disposable. Her tits were pushed up and out, straining the dress, and her posture had her standing tall in her heels, mostly because of the very long, if slim, buttplug that had made her squirm so much in the taxi here. She checked herself and, with a shaking hand, knocked twice.

It felt like she stood there for an age, ears straining to hear him coming to the door, desperately hoping not to hear another apartment's door open and footsteps coming down towards her, standing there in all her finery, a tabloid headline in the making. Did his neighbors even know what went on behind that massive solid door? Had they overheard the whippings, spanking, crying, begging, and pleading? What about the screams and cries of orgasms? Gillian knew she wasn't the only woman to kneel for him even back then; what had his neighbors thought over the years? Other submissive sluts must have waited here for him, or did they get a key, to quietly let themselves in and kneel inside the door? Maybe the neighbors even partook; he'd often threatened her with lending her out as a fucktoy for an evening; had he bribed his neighbors by delivering them a slut on a leash?

The door opened quickly and silently, and before she knew what was happening, he'd punched her in the gut, wrapped his arms around her, and carried her in over his shoulder. The door closed, and she was quickly carried down to the open plan main room, dropped rather roughly onto a sofa, and he was there kneeling next to her, one hand round her throat and the other pressing down hard below her waist, pinning her where he landed whilst her head spun and she gasped for air.

"Welcome back, Gillian; you didn't think your status was going to have me rolling out the red carpet and doffing my cap, did you?" he growls in her ear, the hand at her throat relaxing enough to let her breathe but not get up at all.

"No Sir, not at all Sir", Gillian finds herself saying, slipping straight back into their vocabulary. He is "Sir" and nothing else. She is whatever he calls her, slut, cunt, slave, fucktoy, whore, she wears them all with pride no matter what filth he uses for her.

"Excellent, then we'll have a lovely weekend; it is good to see you again, I must say. You must know I've watched your career with interest over the years, you winning cases in the papers, representing charities, and being all conservative, knowing what you're actually like. Did you ever worry about me telling the world, exposing you?"

"No Sir, I trust you, I've always trusted you, and I don't think there was ever any evidence, no photos of video."

"That's true, and we'll not change that. You're here for a weekend, and once you go back to normal life, that all stays here if that's what you want. Is that what you want, slut?"

"Yes, Sir, very much so, Sir. For this weekend, I don't want to have to be in charge of anything, Sir," Gilian croaked. His hand still round her throat, his other mauling her tits through her dress, groping and squeezing her, his to do with as her please.

"Then go and get your collar, you know where it is," he said, letting go of her throat taking his weight off her, and standing up. He held out his hand, and she got up off the sofa, the initial rush of being overpowered and overwhelmed at the door fading. After smoothing out her dress, she walked off into the second bedroom, heels clacking on the wooden floor.

There in the corner of the room he kept as a playroom and dungeon was the tall chest, exactly where it had always been. She slid the drawer open and realized how many others there must have been. When she'd last been here, there had been four slim leather collars, each with a name engraved on the inside of the buckle. Now, there must be nearer forty, each in its own compartment; all face down, so she didn't see any other names. Instinctively, she picked up hers, turning it over and seeing her name; it was still in the same position it had always been in. Closing the drawer, she returned back to the main room, facing him a few feet apart and slowly kneeing, holding the collar out.

"Last chance, are you sure this is something you want to do?" He asked, knowing her reply but giving her the one last choice of the weekend.

"Yes, Sir, please, sir, making me your toy", Gillian said, looking up at him.

He took the collar, slipped it around her neck, and buckled it at the back. From a pocket, he pulled out a small padlock, solid and grey, and she felt it click into place, making the buckle permanent. This was new, and Gillian looked up questioningly.

"Ah yes, you've not been locked in place, have you?" he said, gripping her hair by the ponytail she'd pulled it back into. "You're there until I let you go, just like always, only now you'll not get any choice; the key stays with me until I'm done", he said plainly. It was just a fact; there was no disputing it.

"Yes, Sir, thank you, Sir", she heard herself saying.

"Now, let's get you changed and ready; we're going out."

The words shocked her, and she felt panic rising. For months, years, she'd imagined the weekend here, in the apartment, bound, beaten, and fucked for hours, waking up here in the morning and starting her day with his cock down her throat, not going out, not in public! Was he doing this deliberately, threatening her now he was famous? Was it a trick, and she just wanted to scare her?

"But Sir, you can't make me, we can't go.." she didn't get a chance to finish the sentence. He'd let go of her hair and, with the same hand, slapped her across the face, open palm, making her head spin and her eyes roll. He grabbed her by the hair again and forced her to look up at him again.

"I can't? Won't? You've forgotten your place, girl; you know you don't say words like that to me! That's why you're collared, that's why you're kneeling there because I can, and I do, and we are! Now, let's get you ready, and you can calm down."

Her dragged her back to the playroom, pushing her to her knees again on the sheepskin rug that he had such fond memories of. Opening the tall wardrobe, she lifted out a dark blue latex catsuit and dropped it on the bed, pushing her face towards it.

"Familiar? I thought it might be. Now get yourself out of those expensive corporate whore's clothes and into that."

And so she did. She stripped and hung her clothes over a high-backed wooden chair in the corner as she always headed, making sure to be tidy. Stepping out of her shoes and tucking them underneath, all under his watchful eye and admiring stare. When she bent over, he stepped in, being her, and parted her arse cheeks brusquely.

"Leave the plugin; it'll help keep you full tonight. How long is it?"

"35cm Sir. I had to order it especially," she tells him, remembering the hassle of ordering online without using her real name, the giddy sensation when it was delivered, and she took it from the delivery guy, convinced he must know what was in the anonymous box.

"Very good; you've not lost your love of being an anal slut, then?"

"No, Sir, I still love it."

Gillian wiggled her way into the purple catsuit.

She'd forgotten how much she loved latex, pulling her in tight and restricting her breathing just enough. She knew that even 20 years after she'd visited regularly she looked amazing in it, so much so she'd almost forgotten his threat about "going out", but turning towards him it came flooding back and she almost opened her mouth to question him.

Except she didn't. She remembered she trusted him and that he wouldn't expose her, she knew it. The threat was real, but deep down, she'd surrendered that choice to him when she walked up the stairs long before he collared her.

In his hand was a hood, in the same deep blue. He stepped up to her and pulled her ponytail through a hole in the top, then unrolled the hood over her face. With a bit of work, it sat perfectly, her eyes and mouth exposed, her nose enclosed; it was perfect. She was shrink-wrapped, her arse full, and totally anonymous.

"Time to go. Our Uber is waiting".

Throughout the journey, Gillian saw the driver looking back at her, and she had to keep the panic from rising. He just couldn't keep his eyes off the latex-clad hottie in his car, which sat on the end of a leash held by a big, scary-looking guy, well-dressed in a white shirt and waistcoat. He'd tried to talk to her once, but she'd cast her eyes down, and Sir had stepped in to reply, making it very obvious she was not to be addressed.

When they finally pulled up to the BDSM club, Gillian knew it immediately. They'd been before several times long, long ago. She'd been tied up and gangbanged here once. She'd made out with another female sub whilst their masters chatted towering over them; it all seemed so long ago.

As they walked down the corridor inside, Gillian couldn't help but remember all the things that had happened here, wondering what might happen, what he might have planned for her. They took a sharp turn to the right, and she was pushed in front, nearly falling on her heels. The strong arms of the two men waiting for them grabbed her and pulled her arms behind her back, almost lifting her off the ground. Cuffs were snapped around her ankles and her arms were cuffed together. They wrestled her towards the wall into a gap, and she knew what was happening.

Pushed into a kneeling position, her wrist cuffs were clipped to a steel pipe, and her elbows were drawn closer together, making her push her chest out. Her ankles and the D ring on her collar were clipped into the steel frame of scaffolding pipe. Finally, a gag was pushed into her mouth and buckled around the back of her hair, forcing her mouth open with a hollow ring.

He stepped up to her, looking down, and addressed her where she was, tied, mouth forced open, over a foot of rubber cock deep in her, kneeling in the gap where one was missing in the row of urinals. She'd seen it before, years ago, but she'd never thought she'd end up here.

The two other men left, the door closed and as the sounds of the rest of the club cut off, he addressed her.

"Nobody here knows who you are. Nobody will ever know. You forgot your place earlier and said no to me, so as we drove here, I arranged this rather than the whipping and fucking I had planned for you. You might have made a lucky escape; I have a friend who was going to suspend you and make you dance for my entertainment, she's a vicious bitch, but I know you'd love her. I'll come and collect you in an hour or two, and I'll keep an eye on you from out there." he gestured to the long mirror, which she forgot was one way, and the bar looked in on her, "but you'll not forget again. Let's hope it's early enough in the night that most people haven't had too much to drink."

Then he left, the door closing behind him. Gillian stared at the mirror, hoping this was all a test and that he was watching and coming back to let her go, seeing her own eyes looking back at her, seeing the latex stretched over her fabulous tits, watching herself squirm against the buttplug.

And then the door opened, and somebody came in. He was tall, well-built, and with a substantial bulge in his trousers. He strode up to her, unzipped, and pulled out his soft cock.

"Well, lucky me, aren't you a most delicious little thing," he said and then pushed his cock into her mouth, even flaccid it pushed into her throat. He sawed back and forth a little, and she felt him start to get hard, but then he pulled out and looked down at her.

"Maybe later, right now I came in for something else", and with that, he let loose, warm salty piss streaming into her mouth. She gulped and swallowed as best she could, but the piss just kept coming, running down her, splashing on her face. Between swallows, she gulped in air, desperately trying not to panic, her nose inside the hood useless as she tried not to drown or be sick.

And then it was over, as abruptly as it started. He nipped off the stream, looked down into her face, and tucked himself away, smiling.

"You're in for a long night slut, a very long night," he said, washing his hands and walking out.

Gillian got her breathing under control and let herself relax against her restraints a little, glad to be alone again, and looked up into the mirror, seeing the contentment on her face as she waited for the door to open again.

Several hours passed...

Eventually, the door opened, and Gillian saw a familiar pair of shoes approaching. She looked up and into her Master's face. He reached down and stroked her cheek with his thumb as he unzipped himself.

"One more for the road, then let's get you home; I think you've had enough, haven't you?"

Pushing his cock right to the back of her mouth, she felt him tense and let go, and she gagged and swallowed as fast as she could, desperately trying to cope with what felt like the longest piss of the night. She'd no idea how long she'd been there, her knees aching, how eyes stinging, her belly aching and feeling swollen with everything she'd been made to swallow. At least six different men had stood and used her, some in silence treating her as an inanimate object, others taking delight in abusing her. One had cum in her first, then washed it down, threatening to turn around and have her clean his arse, but not going through with it. Gillian had stopped looking up at the door with pleading eyes whenever it opened, hoping for her Master; it only seemed to encourage them.

Pulling out, he tucked himself away and unbuckled her, helping her to her feet and removing the gag last, letting her aching jaw close. She clung to him, and he held her, almost holding her weight as she got used to standing again.

"And what have we §learned tonight, pet?"

"Not to say no, Sir. I'm sorry, Sir, it'll never happen again."

"You know I'll look after you, care for you, give you what you want and need, don't you?"

"Yes, Sir. I've missed you so much, Sir."

The taxi ride back seemed to take forever, every pothole making her tense, very aware that she could smell piss on her breath and panicking that the driver could, too, even if he was on the other side of the glass. Once they got back in, she was undressed and vomited up the content of her stomach, and her Master bathed her, let her brush her teeth, and brought her a mug of warm cocoa and brandy.

"I thought that might help settle your stomach, I guess you'll not be drinking white wine for a little while," he smirked, brushing out her hair as she sat on the rug at his feet.

"Not for a while, Sir." Gillian sighed, nestling into his warm legs, feeling once again safe and loved.

"Did I please you tonight, Sir?" she couldn't help asking, fishing for compliments.

"I was very proud. A few people commented on how well you were doing. Most slaves only last a couple of people at most, but you were there for well over an hour. I have a favor from a Mistress who lost a bet that you'd not make the hour now too."

"Thank you, Sir. I hated it, but I knew you were watching."

That night Gillian finally got the fucking she'd been craving, held down under his weight and strong arms, fucked until she came, and eventually, so did he. She slept in his bed, collar chained to the headboard, exhausted but satisfied.