The Rivalry Pt. 01

Janey had no such restraint. Her next idea was to build on my (supposed) humiliation—whenever her father was at home and her mother was not, she would order me to prostrate myself before him and beg, in the most graphic of terms, to be face-fucked, screwed, and reamed thoroughly. The only problem about this for Janey was that her parents would never allow her in the same room to witness her dad's exposed member; although she could hear my begging, she had no idea that both the master and I were grinning lasciviously at each other. He softly petted my hair as his dick expanded down my throat; I don't know what HE was thinking, but I had a bad case of slave crush, dreaming about my mature lover ravishing every area, every opening of my body every day. Unbidden, an image leaped into my head—I was lying on my back, his scrotum hanging down into my open mouth like a teabag and my hands pressing my boobs together while his saliva-coated prick slid in and out of my clearage—I did say I had developed a crush on him, didn't I?

When the vicarious pleasure of pimping me to her father paled, Mistress Janey decided to take matters—well, me, actually—into her own hands. Two weeks after my deflowering, she acquired a strap-on harness, some water-soluble lube, and several large dildoes that fit the harness. Well, "large" is a relative term—none of them was larger than Mr. Bower's dick, but it's difficult not to be intimidated when such a monster is pointed directly at my face. Although it was humiliating to fellate that plastic rod, I learned to be thankful that Janey insisted on my saliva coating it, not to mention my fingers awkwardly spreading lube inside both of my lower channels. Sucking her strap-on was, as I said, demeaning and embarrassing, but having her pound it in and out of my birth canal or colon was incredibly difficult to endure, even after a month of wearing a tail plug. You would think that, as a woman herself, Janey would be concerned by the discomfort she inflicted—but you would be wrong to think so. Night after night, my owner would rotate that shaft from my mouth to my slave cunt to my butt, all while bruising my thighs and buttocks with constant and frantic sawing in and out, jeering at me as if I were some submissive guy she was pegging. Occasionally she would even climax from the procedure, but that was not her main goal—she wanted to demean me to the maximum possible.

She certainly succeeded in that, although the strap-on sessions helped me to survive the post-graduation party she threw. Somehow, she persuaded her parents to spend the night out of town (as I said, they had spoiled her terribly but still wanted plausible deniability), although they did insist that their daughter be responsible about drunk drivers and not allow her friends to damage the slave (me)!

At first, it seemed as if Mistress Janey had heeded her parents' warnings. She even had me wear a metallic red bikini as I helped Rosa serve the guests. It provided very minimal cover, of course, being mostly thin cords that held up three tiny triangles over my nipples and vulva (the rear side was covered only by a small butt-plug, held in place by the vertical floss of the G-string.) Of course, every time I bent over to set down some drinks, my erstwhile classmates ran their eyes and sometimes their hands down my cleavage. To ensure I played my role fully, the afternoon before the party Janey gave me a bootleg shot of Horny Juice so that the evening had a feeling as if I were in an erotic dream. As I walked around carrying a tray and swinging my hips wantonly, I felt a LOT of stray hands between my thighs, goosing my butt plug or tracing the brand on my left cheek. Still, most of the people were friendly to me, especially the nerds and geeks I had always been polite to in school.

Then it hit me—why had the princess of popular, Janey Bowers, invited every brainy, pimply-faced, socially-inept class member to her party? Twenty minutes later, I got my answer.

Mistress Janey didn't stop with simply ordering me to strip naked in front of 40 or more of my former peers—no, she had me lie face down over a table, then wrapped straps around my back and my bent legs, leaving my three openings "conveniently" at waist height. Next, she installed a ring gag, holding my mouth wide open so that I could neither speak nor bite down on an intruding dick. And THEN she announced that I was "open for business" to be used by all my ex-classmates. She even called out by name several nerds, urging them to be the first to ram their pricks into me. In moments, I had a cock down my mouth and another one that first occupied my birth canal but soon found its way into my winking starfish. Within minutes, there were lines waiting to use me, with the next two persons "on deck" getting warmed up by my hands (which worked as well on dicks as they did on labia; in case you're wondering, I got to lick and fondle a lot of nerd pussy that evening. Some of those girls acted like me pre-slavery, as if they'd never had a real climax before!) (Because they were seniors, all of my "partners" were over age 18.)

In recounting my story above, I may have given the reader the impression that I enjoyed being fucked, and that was true up to a point. Now, however, I wanted to ask how come nobody could take a joke? Except for brief squirts of water into my mouth, I got no relief for what seemed like an hour; my stretched lips were dry, my tongue was tired, and there were random strings of cum in my hair and on my face. Despite Janey's strap-on play, my cunt and ass were soon in pain. I've no idea how many orgasms I induced in my classmates, but they certainly gave me a number of them.

Throughout the entire ordeal, Janey was cackling, insulting me, and taking photos that she threatened to post on social media. She kept encouraging the nerds to use me, claiming it was the only chance for sex, especially sex with a cheerleader, they would ever get.

If there was a head nerd in our school, it was Jimmy Orbey. Three inches shorter than me, thick glasses, no hand-eye coordination, and social ineptitude—got the picture? But that night Jimmy was a hero, at least to me. Apparently, he had arrived late at the party, but once he realized what was going on, he strode to the head of the line and shoved aside the current people toying with me, reminding them how kind and considerate I had always been. Janey tried to intervene, claiming he just wanted to f___ me himself. His response was memorable:

"If Leslie voluntarily wanted to kiss me, I would be in seventh heaven, but even nekkid and in a slave collar she's more of a lady than you are, Miss 'My-crap-don't-stink' Janey Bowers. I understand that you own her, but even for slaves there is such a thing as animal abuse. Not to mention I see enough beer and wine around here to get everyone under the age of 21 arrested and your parents in trouble. So what's it going to be, princess: are you going to release this woman and end the party quickly, or do I need to call the police?"

By this time, after two months of tormenting me, Janey had fallen into the habit of thinking that she was all-powerful and that I somehow "deserved" whatever ill treatment she gave me. She was outraged that a despicable grind would dare intervene, but Jimmy, bless his heart, refused to back down. He removed the ring gag from my mouth, gave me several drinks of water and then, when Janey continued to rage against him, pulled out his cheap cell phone and loudly asked,

"What number do I need to call? Oh, that's right, nine-one-one."

Janey capitulated before he actually dialed, after which Jimmy got several of the nerdy girls to release me, insert sanitary protection, and help me back into my bikini. Already, the more cautious teenagers were making their excuses and leaving the party. By this time, even Janey realized that she had gone too far and would undoubtedly hear about it from her parents if not the police. When the crowd dwindled down to just a few nerds, Jimmy quietly advised Janey that I needed a shower and sleep, followed by a visit to the Samson Emergency Room. "Please let me know tomorrow what her condition is," he asked, which was a polite warning to her not to retaliate against me. Jimmy and his friends spent ten minutes picking up the discarded trash and straightening the furniture around the pool, and then they were gone.

I was apprehensive about what my owner might do to me, but she just told me to shower and go sleep on the dog bed she had allocated to me. I was exhausted and soon fell into a deep slumber. Heaven only knew what would happen to me tomorrow.

(To be continued)