Madame F Pt. 01

"Just a few, then. And only on my ass.."

They laughed: three fingers slid into my sex, a thumb mashed my clit, gloriously, making me gasp.

"Silly girl. You can't bargain -- you're just a lovely piece of cunt. Once you've told us you want it, we'll whip you any way we please -- cruel and hard -- and you will scream and cry and suffer for us. Now stop being silly, and tell us that you want it."

They were relentless, and I was lost in craziness anyway, and five minutes later I said;

"OK" in a half whisper.

But that wasn't good enough for them. They laughed, and praised me, and kissed and stroked me, and gave me some more of the cocktail, but it wasn't good enough. I had to ask for it clearly, out loud.

"Look into my eyes, pussy, and just say it. Ask me to chain you up, whip you, hard and cruel, on your ass, your tits and between your legs. You know you're going to do it, so just do it now, and make it pretty, eh? Just for me."

And her fingers were at my pussy again, and it was glorious, and I loved the attention, and the knowledge that Cool Blonde was watching, that she would see me beg, and that she would be whipping me, and I took the cocktail and downed it, and then looked helplessly at Green Eyes, and in a small, breathy voice, told her that I wanted her to whip me, that I wanted her to be cruel, that I wanted her to make me scream and cry, that she should ignore my pleas for mercy.

And when I had finished, I couldn't stop myself from looking round to the blonde woman, to see if she was watching, and she was, and she saw the need in my eyes, saw how turned on I was, and laughed at me, and I found myself smiling at her -- a small, pleading, helpless smile, so terribly, terribly weak.

"Don't worry pretty," she said; "my whip is as cruel as hers."

And then the tears were splashing off my breasts, and I began to shake with fear, begging, mumbling my useless, hopeless pleas for mercy; they blindfolded me; bound my wrists, and put a thick leather collar on me, before lifting my linked wrists over my head and fixing them to the back of the collar -- which they then fixed to some chain hanging from the ceiling.

They took their time now, enjoying my quivering apprehension.

"Now you can't protect your lovely tits even if you want to -- your pretty nipples are going to feel what a dog whip can do."

Where the first whipping had been more psychological, this was more physical -- they concentrated on my arse and tits, with occasional vicious cuts between my legs, and simply took turns, whipping me thoroughly for what seemed forever, but was probably only a few minutes (the marks the next day were nowhere near as terrifying as I was sure they must be), until I was hoarse with screaming.

Then, without removing the blindfold or comforting me, they double fucked me with fat strap-ons -- at first it was agony, but they took it slowly and steadily, and I got caught up in the power of it all over again, and began to move and moan, as well as cry out in pain, and at last I came like a steam train, moaning like a dervish, then weeping softly and hopelessly - helplessly; all the sensitive parts of me alive with pain.

They left me then, I suppose. Left me crying softly, feeling so unutterably vulnerable.

In any case, they weren't present when, some time later -- how long I couldn't tell -- strong hands lifted me down and took off the restraints. A man -- not the one who had buggered me earlier -- somehow I knew it was a servant, carried me to a large room, with a huge bed and a bathroom ensuite; gently showered me with cool water, rubbed soothing lotion into all the tender places which hurt so much, ignoring my feeble and ridiculous attempts at modesty, while being perfectly practical in his movements, and put me to bed, finally attaching soft leather cuffs at my wrists, ankles and throat, and chaining one wrist to a bedpost.

Only after all this did he lean over and lay two cool fingers gently on my puffy pussy mound. He spoke softly in my ear.

"They will burn you, here, soon. I hope I am able to watch."

He left me then, naked, with soft, warm covers, and at last I slept, a deep dreamless sleep. It felt late when I woke. A tray on the bed had a light, delicious breakfast, and a key. I was sore all over, but also somehow warm, relaxed and calm. I had done what Madame F wanted, had been a complete whore, even begged to be abused. I had also come in buckets. However shameful the circumstances, there is a lazy pleasure the day after multiple orgasms -- the body is soft, relaxed, dreamy.

At length unlocked myself, and looked around -- a skimpy white cotton dress, cut on the bias, with a spaghetti strap halter neck and high heeled white suede mules were laid out. No underwear, of course. A note said I should wear the collar and cuffs, too.

I took them off before showering, applied some more of the soothing ointment that I found in the bathroom, dressed and, after looking at the collar set for a long, shivery moment, eventually put them on too.

Feeling shy and nervous, excited, but somehow not really scared, I ventured out at last. The dress was lovely; it was also very short and almost backless - quite sheer, too, my nipples clearly visible through the fabric. I found my way downstairs, my breasts moving freely above the tight midsection, as I swayed in high heels on deep, deep pile carpeting.

I heard music and voices, and found the main room -- where last night I had been abused, humiliated, whipped and double fucked.

Now it was a sunny, LA morning room. The two women who had used me so cruelly the night before were lounging about, smiling and chatting easily. They jumped up, welcomed me in, gently took my arm and laughing, led me to a comfy chair, as if I was a long-lost girlfriend.

They wanted to know all about me - about my life - it was really quite flattering (although shameful to explain my abject poverty and lack of any real purpose to two such obviously moneyed beauties). Green Eyes did all the talking, making plans to go shopping together, even -- Cool Blonde just looked on, smiling faintly. She was gorgeous. And terrifying. And fascinating. I kept turning to find her cool, smiling gaze on me, and having flashbacks of her face just after I had asked for the whip.

The dress was so short that, relaxed in the low seat, without panties, I was aware that my pussy was often at least somewhat visible. I began to wait for them to ask me to strip. It was inevitable. It was what I was here for - so why weren't they doing it to me?

And, didn't I want it too? I wasn't sure, but I was certain that this nervous anticipation was becoming torture of its own kind.

And then I found that I did want them to - or at least my body was reacting to the prospect of it. I began to get hot. I began to think about the inevitable -- that they would hurt me again. Whip me. Across my soft breasts and .. and up between my legs. On my sex. Hard. They had done it before, and liked it. They would do it again - of course they would. I was going to get my soft little pussy thrashed with a whip, even though it was already so sore. And I wouldn't be able to resist them.

I kept thinking about them whipping me; it was crazy! Impossible! I couldn't bear it again - could I? I was quivering, tinily, tingling all over.

After a while, there was a lull, some organising with the servant, Alan -- I wasn't paying attention. When he left, I found I had to ask the question that was uppermost in my thoughts - it just came out, as if I was a small child;

"Are ... Are you going to whip me again?"

They laughed at me, looked at each other, delighted, mock shocked, teasing me, left me waiting, turning from one lovely, cool, smirking face to the other, my breath coming only in shallow sips.

Cool Blonde got lazily, elegantly up -- I was mesmerised by how controlled and langorous her movements were -- and knelt beside me -- she was still taller than me as I sat in the low chair. Gently, almost tenderly, she advanced a fingertip until it just touched my warm sex lips. Automatically, my legs stiffened. She smiled, slightly, looked me deep in the eyes, and said;

"Don't you ever close your legs to me, little whore. Open yourself to me beautifully, welcome me, offer yourself to me. Or I'll take my cigarette lighter and ruin your lovely nipples."

Her voice, her face, were so calm as she said this that I had no doubt that she meant every word of it. And I obeyed her as prettily as I could, fear like a hot knife in me, eagerness for her finger to do more like a hunger, equally strong, equally urgent.

"I ... I'm sorry .. Mistress" - they had taught me to call them Mistress the night before.

Then a sharp, soft moan as she took my clitoris and nipped it between two lacquered nails. It was glorious and terrible and I was pathetically eager to open myself.

"Now, pussy, what was your question?"

It was a little while until I could speak, then;

"Please, I, I asked were you going to ... to whip me again?"

A pause, then she smiled, and said;

"What do you think, pretty?"

I stared at her for a second, then dropped my gaze. She nipped my clit, hard. It was both wonderful and agonising to hold my legs wide apart for this, this calculating, cruel humiliation, to know that Green Eyes was watching, grinning, relaxing, sipping a fruit juice, as if this was just a bit of cute girly horse-play, that she could see the way that helpless and unmistakeable sexual arousal was overtaking me ;

"A-ah! -O-oh!"

"Answer, when you're asked a question, cunt!"

"Sorry, sorry, Mistress. I ... I think ... Yes, yes, you will whip me again."

"When?"

It took me a while, but I got the point in the end;

"I .. I guess, when, when you want to."

"And how cruel will we be?"

There could only be one answer...

"As, as cruel as you want to be, Mistress."

"And do you want us to?"

It took a long time to answer, but we all knew I would say it in the end, and in fact, it was a relief to say it;

"Yes, Mistress, I ... I do want you to .. to whip me again."

She stroked my face;

"Good pussy. Lift your knees up now, open yourself wide, pull your knees far apart; goo - good little cunt. Now, kiss me - let me feel how much you need me to use you, how vulnerable you are, how eager, how weak ..."

And the kiss was marvellous, all engulfing, all consuming, as the hand at my sex became the points of four fingers and slowly, relentlessly, invaded me, until the pain began, and, almost worse, the shocked shame, as her knuckles forced my pussy open and her whole hand was in me, moving, the white rabbit fur of the bracelet on her wrist tickling my clit. Tears of pain squeezed out of my eyes as the hand bunched itself inside me and at last formed a fist!

Cool Blonde leaned back and grinned at me, letting me see how entertained she was at inflicting this upon me as she slowly, remorselessly pistoned her fist inside my poor pussy, fucking me with it; destroying me, her eyes hard and cruel as she fucked me, showing me she saw my wantonness for what it was as I began to be uncontrollably aroused, to gasp and pant, to lose focus, to buck my hips, opening my thighs as wide as I could, to cry and call out my pleasure at being so used, even as tears rolled down my cheeks.

Even though Green Eyes leaned over me from behind and began playing with my nipples, I was denied release, time and again, until I was near screaming with frustration, begging, beseeching, gasping and moaning. And then Green Eyes spoke to Cool Blonde, calmly;

"You know, we do have to be in Beverly Hills in a half hour or so."

"Is it so late? Well then yes, of course. I'm looking forward to playing nasty cop with that luscious red head. I'll just wash up and fetch my bag."

And she pulled her hand from inside me without ceremony (although not without pain for me) and left the room, perfectly poised, leaving me bereft, hips surging helplessly, wanting the invader back, needy, wanton. I wanted to cry, to collapse, curl into a ball, but dared not. Green Eyes was over at a side table.

"We're done with you. Alan will call you a cab. I'll call you up someday, if I feel like hurting a pretty slut. That's right, hold your pose - don't you dare move, slut. Open your mouth now!"

She stood over me and pushed a fat roll of banknotes into my obedient mouth.

"Stay there for five minutes now, won't you -- I want to think of you like that for a while! Don't you dare bring yourself off either - your orgasms don't belong to you any more, girly."

And indeed I didn't move for a long time. Just sat there, knees apart, dress rucked up to show my gaping pussy, mouth distended with the wad of bills, tears rolling slowly down my face, dealing with the despair. Trying to deal with it. Dealing with the need for orgasm, the humiliation of the need for it, the pathetic certainty that I wouldn't be touching myself there - because I had been ordered not to.

Slowly, very slowly, I pulled my self together, straightened myself. Slowly, I dislodged the wad from my mouth, got a glass of water. Suddenly I was aching and stinging all over - like the worst drug come-down ever.

Told myself I was going home.

Counted the money, as if in a daze. She had given me $3,000!

After a while, I stood up, found Alan in a small room off the hall, watching an array of security screens. Yes, there was the chair I had been sitting in. He must have seen everything.

Alan was the man who had put me to bed the night before. I had no secrets from him, yet I didn't know him at all. I could hardly speak, so humiliated was I.

He was perfectly polite, respectful even (however superficially - I couldn't forget the chilling and strange words he had said to me about them burning me), and said certainly he would call me a cab. In the meantime, would I like some tea, an iced drink, or did I want to stay and have a swim in the pool?

I just stood there, a little stupidly, and eventually half whispered that I would just wait, thanks.

I sat on a little stool in the hall. He stared at me the whole time, and I felt unbearably self-conscious, feeling every move of my breasts in the gauzy, tight little dress, desperately conscious of how short the skirts were. I was trembling all over by the time the taxi came - and the ride home wasn't much better, with the driver leering at me in the rear view mirror.

I slept most of that day, woke, showered, ate a little, then slept again. The next morning I was all aches and pains - whip marks were turning blue all over my body - but the most powerful thing was a feeling of pride - utterly bizarre, but true. I was proud that I was the girl who had been the object of desire, the object of cruelty too - for those rich, powerful, confident women.

They had wanted me, wanted to do extreme things to me - wanted me to behave perfectly so they could do it to me, and I had satisfied them. And I had come for them, shown them that I was for real - not just acting for the money - I hadn't even expected the money - just done it because Madame F had asked me to.

Madame F! Cool Blonde and Green Eyes!! The money! So many surprising aspects to this strange experience. So many unexpected aspects to my personality. So little of my personality, as I had believed it to be, seemed real anymore - as if I had just been on auto-pilot, meaningless.

My life had changed, it seemed - and I had no thought, really of resisting it.

Of course I went through the motions - I had been raped, beaten, humiliated; they didn't care for me, they were all using me - using me in the nastiest, most degrading, cruel and risky ways. I was crazy - I should report them to the cops.

But all this was just play acting - a fig-leaf, a pretence that the morals of my upbringing could save me. I knew I didn't mean any of it.

Five minutes later I would be daydreaming about Madame F calling me.

I got a new apartment - one to myself, if tiny - I had lost interest in many things that had seemed to matter before - my attention was focused on my body - on how it was presented, how it might be used. I had been shown, with great impact, how it was that Madame F and her friends wanted me because of it - and somehow that was my new reality.

The money? No, not because of the money - weirdly, I thought of the money as love, when I thought about it at all.

No, it wasn't the money. It was the opportunity to receive their attention that my body seemed to be a gateway to, that was it. Or something like that.

So I thought about how I could present, prepare that body - my body - so that it could best serve the fancy of Madame F and her kind. And I fretted constantly about missing any call that might come from Madame F or from Green Eyes (somehow I knew that Cool Blonde would never call me - even though I dreamed of her often).

I picked up my yoga exercises from months back with renewed concentration and discipline, ate carefully and well, bought sexy underwear on the internet - a corset, a maid's outfit like the one I had been made to wear.

But mostly I waited, and masturbated - although for some reason, I never took myself over the brink - just built up the tension. I didn't want to come unless someone was making me.

And as before, I grew tense, desperate to hear. Madame F had turned my life upside down - I had done as she asked - why wasn't she calling?