Pipit Ch. 01

After dinner, as the Mistress and Masters were beginning to talk about play, Karen announced, "Whatever else we do tonight, I want this beautiful slave of yours to eat my cunt. You won't mind, will you, Frederick? Didn't you say she was poly?"

"Christopher said she liked him to lend her to his friends - would you call that poly? I haven't done it myself."

He glanced at Pipit, who wondered if he could see her mounting excitement. Not an hour later, she was bound spreadeagled to the table in their big playroom, Karen sitting on her face while Mouche stood against a wall, gloomily fingering herself as she looked on. Pipit was thrilled by Karen's big wet pussy, and she loved the attention from this grand and hugely wealthy lady even more.

So she didn't object when Karen led her to the bathroom, saying, "I know you'll forgive an old lady her kinks, dear," laid her on the floor, and pissed in her mouth. Pipit didn't love gulping down mouthful after acrid mouthful, but the experience did little to dampen her happiness. This was a kink she could live with, if the top was someone as wonderful as Karen, who gazed lovingly at her as she forced down the last of it, and murmured, "So beautiful."

Karen called her a couple of days later, while Master Frederick was at the office, and sent a driver around to bring her to lunch - it was so exciting to roll up Park Avenue in a big limousine! Mouche brought them their food and then Karen sent her away, fucked Pipit with a strap-on, pissed in her mouth again, and invited her to join the household on Park Avenue.

She also told Pipit about the other part of her toilet kink.

"You don't have to worry, dear," she said. "You just throw it right up, and we'll give you some medicine to make sure you don't get sick."

Pipit had never been grossed out by the body or its products. She'd swallowed hundreds of loads of cum in her time, and probably a quart of Karen's piss. She knew assholes, too: she'd rimmed dozens of men and not a few women. How difficult could this be?

She smiled at Karen and said, "No problem."

"Why don't you just consider yourself a part of the household as of right now," Karen said. "I'll fix things with Frederick, and we'll send a man around for your belongings tomorrow."

Pipit was glad to find that she was capable of meeting Mistress Karen's needs, though she knew she'd never love doing it. Mistress indulged her kink at irregular intervals once or twice a week, sometimes summoning Pipit to the playroom and sometimes Mouche. Pipit did what she had to do, pretended to be happy and grateful, and did her best to banish the scene from her memory afterwards.

Master Daniel proved to be genial and easily satisfied. He'd come around for a fuck every few days, and she was glad to oblige, though sex with him was not very satisfying emotionally. Occasionally Mistress would come and watch Master fuck her, but there was no punishment afterwards - and anyway, all their punishments were insipid compared to what she'd been used to. They didn't seem to understand shame. Nor were they in any hurry to share her with their friends, though Daniel said they'd get around to it sooner or later.

Mouche was an annoyance, but Pipit knew she'd been given a superior position in the household and used it to harass her rival, bossing her around, ridiculing her skinny, tatted, pierced body, and criticizing her work in front of Master and Mistress. Within a few days Mouche disappeared. Pipit didn't ask where she'd gone, or why.

In the quieter apartment that Mouche left behind, Pipit started to brood about Mistress's kink, which she now bore the entire burden of. As time went on, the slave found herself more and more preoccupied with vivid impressions of the nastiness of it: the beyond-vile smell and taste, the revolting pasty-wet texture, the terror of waiting, mouth open, as she stared at the end of the funnel that emptied into the head-cage, Mistress straining above. Before long she was in constant anxiety, wondering when Mistress would once again lead her to the playroom.

It finally happened one day, when Mistress had commanded her to put her head in the cage under the toilet seat, that Pipit felt horror rush up inside her, and all at once she knew she'd rather die than do it even one more time. She collapsed into a crouch, held her head in her hands, and wailed, "I can't, Mistress!"

Mistress's voice was stern. "You said you were all right with this."

"I thought I was, Mistress. But I . . . I just can't do it again. I'm so sorry! I just can't!"

"I liberated my other toilet slave because you seemed such a good one. We wrote it into your contract - and now you tell me this?"

"I can do piss, Mistress, as much as you like - "

"I require," said Karen haughtily, "a full-service toilet slave. It appears you are not what you claimed to be. You've broken our contract."

She didn't have to leave right away - they gave her twenty-four hours. Daniel came to her tiny slave room that night and said, "I'm very sorry this happened, Pipit. I really did enjoy sex with you. But you understand, it's Karen who needs a slave, not me."

He gave her a check for ten thousand dollars. Feeling foolishly grateful, she gave him a blowjob and swallowed his cum one last time.

The next day, instead of looking for an apartment or a job, she visited Christopher in his office at NYU. Wearing a loose-fitting belted dress, just slightly see-through, she waited patiently with a little group of students camped out in the hallway. A boy there stole glances but didn't talk to her. Too bad - the mood she was in, she probably would have gone back to his dormitory with him and fucked him there, if he'd let her stay the night.

When it was her turn to see the professor, she closed the door and stood in front of it, one hand on the knob behind her as if she thought she might have to flee. But Christopher gestured her into a chair and waited patiently while she spilled her story.

"I'm not surprised," he said. "It's a rare kink, coprophagia, and most people can't do it. The expression 'Your kink is not my kink' applies double with that one. Are you going to be all right?" He took a checkbook out of his jacket pocket. As they talked, he started to write out a check with painstaking care.

"They gave me five thousand," she said, eying his hand as he wrote out the check. "It'll keep me for a little while. I really need a Master, though. I need . . . certain things - emotionally. You were the best, Master Christopher."

"But I'm not the Master for you now," he said, pushing the check across his desk. She let it lie; picking it up would be admitting defeat.

"I was a good slave for you," she said. "You said I was beautiful, and I did everything you wanted. The things we did were good for me, too. I loved you. I do love you."

"I've learned," he said, "that it's possible for a soul to be more beautiful than I ever imagined. Your body is beautiful, Jennifer, but you need to work on your soul."

A wave of anger washed through her. "She's not coming back to you, you know," she said, "that skank with the tattoos."

"I wouldn't be so sure of that," he said, standing. "She chose a naïve schoolboy; he can't satisfy her for long. I'm the only one who's ever appreciated her true beauty, and she knows it."

Pipit stood and picked up the check. She couldn't keep herself from glancing at it - it was made out for five hundred dollars. She slipped it into her purse and said, "Fuck you, Christopher."

"Good luck, Jennifer," he said.

She walked over to Mamoun's Falafel and sulked over her lunch. It wasn't fair. She had as good a soul as anybody, and her kinks and Christopher's had been a great match. So what if she was a slut? A slut was what he needed, and she was the best around.

She spent the afternoon drifting among the stores and then stopped in to a Just Salad, but couldn't eat much. Afterwards she found Frederick alone in his apartment. He stood in the doorway and stared at her coldly.

"I came to apologize," she said.

"Don't," he said. "They gave me fifty thousand for you, and it was a good bargain." Then he relented, stood back, and said, "You'd better come in."

He waved her to a sofa and sat across the room in a chair.

She said, "It was bad, what I did . . ."

"You know better, of course, than to ask if I'll take you back," he said.

"I loved you," she said. "I could love you again."

"There was never any love in you," he said. "I was an idiot to think there was."

"And I suppose you think that cunt Famula loved you?"

"I know she did," he said. "I think she still does, and someday she'll understand that."

"And come back to you?" Pipit laughed.

"I can see it's a mistake to talk to you about this kind of thing," he said. "You have no understanding at all of the more refined emotions."

"I was good to play with, though," she said.

"You were. You didn't like the pain, but you put up with it anyway. As a sadist, I found that appealing."

Pipit stood up and undid her belt. "Give me some pain tonight, Master," she said, pulling her dress over her head. "Make it worse than you ever have before. I'll hate it, I'll scream and cry, but I won't safeword. It'll be the best night of your life."

She kicked off her shoes and pushed down her panties. She sat down again and put her feet up on the cushions so her pussy fell open. She could see the lust in his eyes; she touched her clit and ran a finger down into her dampness to make him want her.

"You liked my pussy, Master: you can spank it and turn it pink. You loved my skin: you can cane me and raise welts."

He licked his lips. "You're beautiful," he said, "and I've paid a high price for your beauty, but I won't be suckered again."

Suddenly she felt obscene and whorish. She closed her legs.

"Give me some money, anyway," she said. "You got enough selling me."

"What did Daniel and Karen give you?" he asked.

"Ten thousand," she said, knowing she couldn't get away with a lie. "You know how far that'll go in this city."

"Have you been to see Christopher?"

"Yeah. He wouldn't have me either."

"What did he give you?"

"Two thousand," she said.

"I'll give you the fifty. I don't want to make a profit off you."

She almost thanked him, but thought better of it. He fucking owed it to her, and he probably didn't want to be thanked anyway. He disappeared down the hallway towards his study; she dressed, then sat on the sofa and waited for him. He was tucking away his phone as he came back. He handed her a check and a slip of paper on which he'd written "Mistress Ai" and an address.

Mistress Ai was well known to her, having several times fucked her while Christopher looked on, and she was one of the few women Pipit considered to be as beautiful as herself. Pipit respected and feared her.

"Mistress Ai is expecting you tomorrow morning at ten," said Frederick. "I've asked her to advise you, and she's agreed. Believe me, her advice will be far more valuable to you than that check."

"Okay," Pipit said. "Well, thanks."

He saw her to the door. "Good luck to you," he said. "Don't come back here."

It was almost ten. She walked over to Second Avenue and hailed a cab to take her to midtown, where she went into one of the big hotels and found a bar. She sat and ordered a glass of chardonnay. Before long a glossy young man approached her and said, "Are you with someone?"

She looked at him briefly and said, "I'm waiting for a friend."

Several more men approached her before she got one she liked, a man in his fifties, not unattractive, though a little soft. But she hadn't been studying the men so much as her own responses to them, and now she felt a little emotional tremor, part thrill and part fear - not strong, but enough. She let him sit and buy her a drink.

He was in town for a sales convention, something to do with medical devices. She didn't listen all that closely, and he didn't ask about her.

At length he said, "Are you, um . . ."

She said, "I'm not a prostitute. Just a girl that wouldn't mind getting laid."

She went with him to his room and watched him closely while she undressed. She liked the look of wonder on his face - sometimes being beautiful wasn't so bad. She went to him, loosened his tie, and undressed him, the way she thought a whore might do it. His cock was already hard as she slid his underwear off. She pushed him onto the bed, crawled on top of him facing his feet, and sat on his face. He squirmed under her as she stimulated herself on his lips and nose.

She leaned back, supported herself on her hands behind her, and scrubbed his face with her pussy and ass, listening to his sharp gasps, "Uh! Uh!" in the moments when she let him breathe, watching his erect cock strain towards the ceiling. When she sensed the tension building in his body, she climbed off him, knelt beside him, and looked into his eyes.

"Oh, God," he said, "you're - "

"I'm a bitch," she said, smiling. "I'll fucking walk all over you if you let me."

When he hesitated, she grabbed his balls and squeezed.

She made her voice soft and high and said, "But be my big stern Daddy and take what you want, and I'll be your sweet little girl."

Her throat got tight as she saw comprehension dawn in his face. She was taking a stupid risk, inviting this stranger to play Daddy, but some desperate need was driving her on and making her careless.

He sat up and stared at her. His eyes seemed darker now. He said, "What's your name?"

She'd dropped her purse on the nightstand. She reached for it now, fished inside, and brought out a condom packet, which she waggled in front of him.

"Call me Little Girl," she said, "and fuck me."

"Okay, Little Girl," he said. "You want to come to Daddy?" He reached for her, but she shied away.

"You can't be Daddy," she said. "Daddy doesn't ask. Daddy takes."

She opened her eyes wide and looked into his so he could see the fear in her. Need radiated from her belly all through her body. She wanted to touch her pussy but restrained herself.

"Okay," he said slowly, taking his time to think. Then he moved suddenly, up on his knees, and shoved her down on the bed with his left hand while he reached for her pussy with his right. Two fingers slid into her easily, she was so wet.

"Yes, Daddy!" she cried as he finger-fucked her using all the muscles of his arm and shoulder, shaking her whole body. "Oh, fuck me!"

Now he was rolling the way she wanted him to, letting his body think for him. He straddled her face, and she flung her arms around his legs as he pushed into her and started to thrust, fucking her mouth, which filled with thick saliva and overflowed. She listened to the liquid slopping of Daddy's cock in her throat and sensed his arousal building; and when she felt the explosion almost there she raised her knees and pushed off hard with her feet so she scooted between his legs, so far his cock was waving over her belly.

She still had the condom packet in a fist; she held it up and said, "Daddy's Wittle Girl need a fuck."

He took it from her and tore into it. He rolled the condom onto him and repositioned himself between her legs. Kneeling, he started to ease into her, but she said, "Daddy fuck Wittle Girl hard," and he slammed in the rest of the way.

She didn't have to coach him after that. He fucked her hard and deep, banging against her cervix, shaking her, till she cried out, pretending to come. Sensing he was close, she whined, "Daddy come in Wittle Girl's mouf," and he pulled out of her, straddled her head again, tore off the condom, and fucked her till his semen pumped over her tongue and filled her up. She swallowed it. You always swallow Daddy's cum.

She didn't want him to hold her; he didn't feel like Daddy anymore - he never had, really. But she let him do it and cuddled with him. They said little; they were strangers with nothing in common, not even sex.

When she sensed him getting restless, she said, "Can I sleep here tonight? I . . . I don't have a place . . . to stay." It felt horrible to say that. It made the reality of her situation crash in on her, and the horror of what she'd just done.

He hesitated. She could tell he wanted her to go. But she had no credit card, only a little cash, and three big checks which would do her no good till morning. She couldn't get a hotel room; she was homeless.

"Okay," he said. "No problem." She took a shower, then he did, and they went to bed. She listened till his breathing became deep and regular, then quietly got up, went into the bathroom, and closed the door. She got into the bathtub, sat, and leaned back. She didn't run any water.

She spread her legs wide and touched her clit with one finger. "Sorry," she whispered. She put two fingertips in her mouth and wet them with a little saliva; she massaged her clit with a circular motion. "Sorry . . . so sorry." She'd just fucked a man for a place to sleep - could she have sunk any lower? Arousal building, she could feel her clit swell under her fingers, sensation spreading out from there. She lifted her legs and let them rest on the sill of the tub. "I'm sorry, Daddy," she sobbed, tears running down her cheeks. She drew her left leg way up so she could reach her pussy with her left hand; she slid two fingers into her damp hole, wishing she had a dildo. It wasn't her fault - it wasn't fair - but still she was sorry, sorry, sorry. She rubbed faster and fucked herself harder, pleasure and shame becoming one. She thought she could still taste the man's cum, fatty and nasty. She put the fingers she'd been fucking herself with into her mouth to drive out his taste. She whimpered "Sorry" around her cunty fingers and rubbed her clit hard till she came, breasts heaving.

She slid down to the bottom of the tub and lay quietly. Christopher, Frederick, and Karen - they all hated her now, almost as much as she hated herself. It wasn't fair . . . She closed her eyes and let sleep take her.

She woke up early in the morning, shivering in the air conditioning. She went out into the bedroom and saw the man still sleeping. She dressed quickly. His pants lay puddled on the floor at the foot of the bed. On an impulse she picked them up and searched the pockets. There was a wallet in a back pocket with some money in it - maybe eight or ten twenties. She took the money and dropped the wallet and pants on the floor. She picked up her purse and looked to make sure the checks were still there, then let herself out.

A clock in the hotel lobby told her it was six thirty. She hurried out onto the street, found a Macdonald's, and ate half an Egg McMuffin. She lingered over her empty coffee cup for as long as she dared and then took the subway down to the Village. She wandered the streets until the banks opened at nine. She went to the one where she had a dormant account left from her college days and deposited the checks.

She walked to Washington Square and sat on a bench facing the fountain. She watched the people as a way to keep from thinking about herself and her problems. There were couples everywhere on this mild summer day - some talking animatedly, some holding hands, some walking side by side. She wondered what it would be like to be in a vanilla relationship, faithful to one boyfriend. She'd never had that experience - maybe she'd like it. She closed her eyes and constructed for herself the image of a man who'd love her devotedly and wouldn't want to lend her to friends, leash her like a dog, whip her, or shit in her mouth. All he'd want to do was fuck her. The image warmed her, but she wasn't aroused by it.

When she opened her eyes, there was Famula not twenty feet away, just passing the fountain, stupid rose vine sprouting out of the neck of a black T shirt. Seeing that cunt was all she fucking needed to make a bad day even worse. Famula was walking rapidly, trotting every few steps to keep up with a long-legged, slender young man with short brown hair and a lean, handsome face. This must be the storied Andrew, who'd won her in that auction Daniel and Karen had talked about so much. Slave Bitch Emily. Her body was turned a little towards him, her head tilted up so she could see him. He was looking straight ahead, face set, saying something through tense lips. She answered briefly, gesturing. They rounded the fountain so Pipit couldn't see their faces anymore. She smiled at their backs. They hadn't seen her, and she'd found out something about them.