tagNovels and NovellasVirtual Slavery Ch. 19

Virtual Slavery Ch. 19




"Wear the Chinese necklace," he said.

"Why?" Sometimes I wore it; sometimes not. He had never specifically mentioned it again after Saint Louis.

"Because I tell you to."

So the jade and gold necklace hung from my neck as I eagerly disembarked from the Delta jet and hurried into the terminal, where I found only Jefferson, who greeted me atypically with a kiss on the mouth replete with wet tongue and hands roving over my ass that attracted attention from other disembarking passengers.

"He couldn't make it to the airport," was all Jefferson said about Brad's absence on the way to Palos Verdes; but when the Rolls Royce headed up the private drive to the estate, he turned off at his own house and parked.

My assumption that he was merely stopping to pick up something before continuing to the main house was proved unfounded when he came around and opened the door for me.

"What's going on?"

"Brad's in Europe. He'll be back tomorrow. He told me to take care of you tonight."

My disappointment must have been obvious.

"Don't be so sad," Jefferson grinned. "It's dinner just for the two of you tomorrow. And I'll do my best to keep your mind occupied tonight."

Which he did. Methodically plundering my body all night long. Coldly bringing me to orgasm after orgasm with his thick cock and tongue in hole after hole. Waking me from sleep, using his magnificent muscles to drive me into blithering frenzies; then lying back and making me move on top of him or on my knees fuck back on his cock up my ass while he remained motionless, until my muscles were on fire and rubbery with exhaustion.

By morning I felt as bruised as if I had just played in the Super Bowl, and I called Broadthroup's Beverly Hills office and canceled all my meetings and slept all day.


"It was unavoidable. Last minute," he said.

Maria had gone. Dinner was over and we were sitting with snifters of calvados, a bottle of which he had brought back from Paris.

"You could have let me know."

"How? By posting something on your computer that Christopher and everyone else at Broadthroup would read, or perhaps call you at home and leave a message with Winston? Besides you were coming out anyway and I knew I would see you tonight. And Jefferson promised to take good care of you."

"Oh, he did."

"I'm sure he did. To shift the subject slightly, the necklace goes perfectly with that dress."

I was wearing light green linen, sleeveless, neckline curving just below the necklace, which lay against my skin, and matching medium high heels.

"Are you going to tell me why you wanted me to wear it?"

"No. I'm going to do better than that. I'm going to show you."

I don't know if it was something in his tone or in his manner, but I felt my body tense with anticipation.


"When you finish your drink."

I upended the snifter. I took too much and, despite being thirty years old and smooth as silk, the calvados burned.

Brad shook his fat head sadly. "A waste. But since you are so eager, come on."

I followed him into the bedroom area and watched anxiously as he crossed to the bank vault door and touched the keypad, becoming increasingly certain that something important was about to happen as the massive steel door swung silently open.

"After you," he said.

I walked around him and into the vault, hesitating on the stairs while he stepped through, shuddering slightly as the door closed and I knew I was entombed.

"Go on."

My heels tapped down the stone steps, and I gasped as I neared the bottom and saw that the vault was already occupied.

Two naked figures that had been lying on their sides were struggling to come upright, at least to their knees. This was difficult because they were joined together at three points and their hands were behind them, held horizontally in the middle of their backs by black leather cuffs attached to straps suspended from thick black leather collars around their necks.

By the time Brad had made it down, they were on their knees, facing one another, as they had no choice but to do.

"Go ahead. Get closer. Look." he said.

I took a tentative step.

The people were pleasant looking. Both, I thought, a little younger than I, late twenties or early thirties. The woman with short blond hair, and a trim figure, small breasts, good legs and ass, pretty rather than beautiful; the man with medium length medium brown hair, a nice face. If they were standing, I thought they would be nearly the same height, about 5'7" or 5'8", which was fortunate for them because otherwise the locks would have been even more uncomfortable for one or the other or both.

Steel rings pierced both her nipples and both of his. A small padlock secured her left nipple to his right and his right to her left. Lower, a steel ring running all the way through the head of his penis was locked to a similar ring running through the hood of her clit. Even when they moved in unison, the rings pulled, twisted, distending sensitive flesh. Both were completely devoid of pubic hair.

In the reflection from the highly polished metal walls of the vault, I thought I caught a glimpse of something else, and stepped around behind him, moved back a few steps, then behind her.

On the left cheek of their asses was the letter 'B' about one inch high, similar to the way Brad had drawn the initial on me for the pictures he sent to Winston. But these were not drawn. They were permanent tattoos.

The couple kept their heads down, eyes toward the floor, foreheads touching, and did not speak during my examination.

"So, what do you think?"

"I don't know what to think."

"Do you like them?"

"Who are they? What are they? How long have they been here?"

"Forgive me. I have forgotten my manners. That is Tiffany and that is Bob. I am sure you can tell them apart. Tiffany and Bob, meet Lynn."

They raised their heads and looked at me and said, "Hello," as though we were meeting at a party.

"Tiffany and Bob are married. To each other. And they both belong to me. Don't you?"

They both nodded agreement and said, "Yes."

"I bought them at an auction more than a year ago. Bob works for me now at one of my concerns out in the San Fernando Valley, where they live with their two children, Mike, age 7, and Debbie, age 5. A typical all-American family, except for the fact that I own them."

"You really mean it."

"Of course I do."

Remembering the reference that night at Chaucer's, I said, "There are such auctions?"

"Yes. Mostly voluntary, though I know of instances even in this country where the individuals on the block may not be completely willing, and in other parts of the world, the Middle East, parts of Europe, the former Soviet Union, Japan. Well, there are different rules. Sometimes people let themselves be sold for only a few hours, or a single night; sometimes for a weekend or a week or a month. It all depends on their motivation. Some do it for the money; some the thrill. Some do it permanently. A married couple on the block is rare. I only happened to hear by chance from a dominatrix who knew their former owner that Tiffany and Bob were going to be sold . They have proven reasonably satisfactory. I have, of course, put my imprint on their bodies and had them pierced. What else did you ask? Oh, yes, they have been here since about 5:00 this afternoon. Waiting patiently.

"Generally they are quite obedient. But tonight they are to be punished. Partly it is my fault. I have been spending so much time with you that I have neglected them. They are not permitted to have sex, even with each other, or even to masturbate, without first obtaining my permission, which I usually refuse. But they did. Last Tuesday night, after tucking little Mike and even littler Debbie in bed, they retired to their own and, succumbing to overwhelming temptation, fucked. Twice to be exact."

"How do you know that?"

"As much as I would like to rely on the honor system, alas my trust in human nature has too often been abused--though they quite probably would have confessed, wouldn't you, just to be punished? I'll bet there was even an extra frisson to the conjugal pairing in delicious anticipation of the retribution that would inevitably follow. But, no. I don't rely on honor. They undergo a polygraph test monthly. And this month they failed."

"Do you own many other people. slaves, whatever you call them?"

"I don't know about many. Some."

Brad took a long black leather whip, which lay coiled over the arms of one of the metal machines. "You had better step back," he told me.

The man and the woman were still on their knees. "Straighten up." Brad''s voice became sharp. Their bodies trembled, almost it seemed in anticipation rather than fear, as the end of the whip trailed slowly across their shoulders. "The interesting aspect of this is seeing how long it takes before love gives way to self-interest."

The whip flicked out and struck a light blow.

Both of them gave what sounded like a sigh, and pressed their bodies closer together, flattening her breasts against his chest, the inch of his cock forward of the ring slipping between her labia.

For several blows of ever increasing severity, they remained pressed together, motionless. But with the fifth or sixth, one of them moaned, and they both began to flinch. The bodies broke apart, though they could not separate by more than a sliver of space, then contorted. Nipples tugged nipples, cock tugged clit, as each tried to escape the full force of the whip, which of course meant exposing the other to it. They fell onto their sides, rolled, the locked rings tugging until it seemed that flesh must tear, Bob trying to get below Tiffany, Tiffany below Bob.

I looked up from their writhing forms. Brad's face remained calm, interested, observant, as his arm rose and fell as methodically as a pendulum. They began to beg him to stop, they howled promises of obedience, they promised anything. Tears spilled from their eyes; Bob's first.

When Brad finally stopped, their backs were crisscrossed with red streaks from shoulder to thigh.

"Move apart," Brad ordered.

Tiffany sobbed, "You know we can't"

"As far as you can."

On their sides, Tiffany on her left, Bob on his right, they wiggled a few inches apart. I was surprised to see that Bob's cock was rock hard.

"Make him come," Brad said.

"Who, me?"

"Who else?"


"However you want, but I can't see any way other than with your hand."

They tired to help by pulling their legs back as I knelt between them and circled Bob with my hand, squeezing the shaft just below the ring, which felt strange as I bumped it with each stroke. As did the flesh of his hairless groin. It took only a few movements before he gasped through his tears, shuddered, and spurted hot fluid onto my hand. Tiffany gasped as some hit her clit, which had, of course, been tugged and stimulated as I masturbated him.

"Now her," Brad ordered.

I moved my fingers to her mound. The hood pushed back. I rubbed Bob's goo into Tiffany. The whipping had also brought her so close to release that I wondered again if there were people who could come just from being beaten. I wondered if I could. She cried out and thrust forward, pinning my hand between her and her husband.

I stood. Bob's come still sticky and hot on my hand. And turned to Brad.

"Whip me," I demanded.


"Why not?"

"Because I agreed not to mark you. And there is no way I can guarantee to keep that promise once I start."

"I don't care."

"But the conditions you insisted on are that Winston and the people at Broadthroup not know."

"You know as well as I do that your hold on me doesn't have anything to do with Broadthroup any more, and hasn't for a long time. I want you to beat me. Harder than you did them. Harder than you have ever beaten anyone. They belong to you more than I do. And I don't know how many others do as well. I want to be more yours than anyone is or can be."

"Totally. Categorically?"

"Yes." Then in a seeming non sequitur, "You have been to Madrid?"

"Yes, but--"

"And you no doubt went to the Prado?"


"Well, I will tell you what I most remember about the Prado: the intricate hellish fantasies of Hieronymus Bosch, of course; how amazingly insipid were the early decorations of Goya; and, most vividly, the late painting by Goya of a wild eyed, mad eyed, bloody mawed Saturn devouring his son, whose already headless torso he clutches like a penitent a cross. Devour me."

"Come on." He spun away and started up the stairs.


"I said to come on. Do what you are damn well told."

Confused I followed.

The vault door swung open after he tapped in the code. Moving with unusual urgency, he waddled across the room to the vast desk top on which sat an open Cartier case, a laptop computer, and, incongruously and inexplicably, the ash blond cheap whore wig. The case was full of video cassettes.

"There are all the tapes of you. Even the one Rex made. No other copies exist. The rest, everything, images, emails, everything is in the computer. Look."

Leaning over, I saw that on the screen a file labeled 'Lynn' was open. In a window beside it the DELETE box was highlighted.

"All you have to do is click. Take the case. And go."

"Is this it? Is this the end?" I heard my voice quaver.

"The cage door is open. You are free to fly away."

"I don't want to fly away. I don't want to be free," I cried.

He stood silently and studied me for a long minute. "Last chance."

"I don't want a last chance. Devour me."

"All right."

He scooped up the wig in one hand and my hand in the other. Totally bewildered I was half dragged back into the vault and down the stairs. I don't even know if the door closed behind us.

Tiffany and Bob looked up curiously from the floor, but were ignored.

"Put this on," Brad ordered, handing me the wig.

While I did so, using the walls as mirror, he pressed a button and a steel chain descended slowly from the ceiling.

"That's good enough." His voice and manner were abrupt, as though he were struggling with something within himself. He grabbed my wrists and secured them to the chain with leather cuffs. The hushed murmur of a hidden motor. The chain retracted, lifting my arms. When they were high over my head, pulling my body to full stretch, the chain stopped.

While Brad set up a digital video camera on a tripod, I felt as though an icy wave were breaking over me with the first glimmer of understanding.

The recording light came on.

Brad let it record me for perhaps a minute. Cold sweat soaked my upraised armpits.

"You know, don't you?"

"I think so."

"Do you want me to stop? There is still time."

When I did not speak or move, he came around the camera and pulled the wig from my head, then retreated, letting the camera record me unadorned. The necklace was, of course, always clearly in view.

"Tell me," he said.

"I'm yours."

And he pounced, grabbing the neckline of my dress, ripping, tearing down. Something, the zipper, scratched the length of my back. Involuntarily I cried out in surprise. The chain tightened, lifting me higher. The toes of my shoes scrambled at the floor, then encountered only air. Ten or twelve inches up the chain stopped. Brad stripped the ruined dress from me. One shoe fell off. The dress caught on the other, until he stooped and threw it and the shoe to the side.

I saw my reflection in the walls, dangling suspended, completely naked and helpless,

Brad unthreaded his belt, a wide brown leather strap, from his waist. I understood that this was more personal than a whip

The moment the belt was free, he struck. I had expected the first blow to be light, as it had been with the others. Momentarily I could not even remember their names. Tiffany and... What did it matter? But the belt fell with brutal force, exploding against my breasts, curling around my back, sending a white hot shock to my brain and starting my body to sway and twist.

There was no let up. Blow followed blow, the belt whistling through the air, until they all became one. My body was drenched: tears, snot, drool, sweat, blood. Pain built on pain. Became unendurable. I screamed. And screamed. Not for him to stop. Just screamed an animal scream. I did not want him to stop. I wanted to be overwhelmed, absorbed, totally consumed, to become one with the monster, to live in the belly of the beast, to be lost, shattered, destroyed. There was nothing but pain. And the woman I was, the Lynn I had been for thirty-six years, disappeared, vanished, I know not where: but the woman who, with the slackening of the chain, collapsed into a delirious heap on the vault floor, was not the same, was someone else, completely.

That woman screamed when her naked welt covered legs were torn apart and a great, crushing weigh fell upon her, forcing her slashed back against the floor. A thick angry cock thrust up her. A body fucked her, slamming in and out, oblivious to any but its own primordial male needs, while she cried out in agony. Her mind visualized the huge cock, could feel and see it swelling as its selfish orgasm neared, wondered dispassionately from a great distance if it might become so engorged it would split her before it shot out spurt after spurt of thick come, filling her, filling her completely, filling her to overflowing; and she thought what joy it would be to have such a bestial coupling result in impregnation.

She could not move, had no will to move, did not try, even after the crushing weight lifted. She must have descended into unconsciousness, because the next thing I knew, whoever I was who once had been Lynn, I was being lifted and carried up the stairs. From over Brad's shoulder, I saw two naked bodies lying face to face on the floor, staring up at me in awe and in fear.

Numb, I felt nothing. Mercifully, at least briefly, the pain was gone, the gift of an devastated nervous system.

He lay me on the bed, propped up against the pillows.

"Here," he said.

When I remained in a stupor, he slapped my cheek.

"Here, Lynn. Focus. For a minute. Then I'll get something to help you sleep."

And he pushed the laptop computer into my hands.

Instantly I was shocked to full awareness. I knew what I would find. There was the image of me in another lifetime hanging suspended wearing the wig; followed by me without the wig, the wig that had been so prominent in so many past images; then me naked, my body unmarked, waiting. A gasp at an image of my body caught in spasm at the instant of the belt's impact, partially hidden by Brad's shoulder, my mouth open in a silent scream. Crumbled, destroyed, obliterated on the floor. Then barely visible on the floor below a hairy naked back and ass. Then legs spread, cunt lips spread, body covered in bruises and welts and come. Bruises that will take weeks to heal, I thought, if I am not permanently scared. And in all the pictures, the beautiful, unique Chinese necklace was crystal clear.

The email was addressed, as I knew it would be, to Winston.

"What will happen?" I asked.

"I don't know," he said. "That is what makes it interesting.

Without being told, I clicked on SEND. And instantly a great calm descended over me.

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