Perfection-10
Perfecton - Chapter Ten
- by xenaRRa
To Kelley without whom this would have remained only a dream.
All characters in this work are fictional and any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
This work may not be reproduced in any form without the express permission of the author.
Copyright 1989 by K. Xenarra Brown.
- PERFECTION
- by Xenarra
Chapter Ten
"Max."
The word was whispered into the telephone, but Constance could hear Mike's voice in the next room clearly enough. She remained motionless in the bed, listening.
"Max, it's me, Mike. Max, you've got to get me out of this. What do you mean, out of what? You know, that girl you had me pick up at your place a month ago. What's wrong? Everything's wrong. I thought you said she was a submissive person. Well, you're wrong. She's got me jumping through the damndest hoops, just to keep her happy. And she's so sneaky, I never realize she made me do something I don't really want to do until its already done."
"Oh, sure, yeah, I'm happy enough. Sexually, that is. Fact is, she wears me out so often, I'm too tired to fight back. I've never seen a woman with such an appetite for screwing. But fucking isn't everything. I've got a business which is about to go down the tubes because I spend all my time out here, entertaining her. Not to mention other facets of my life, my marriage for example, that are going to hell in a handbasket."
"Well, I'll do the best I can. Yes, I know I was your only hope. But I don't know how much longer I can do this. Yeah, ok. Goodbye Max, but I hope to hear from you very soon."
Constance could hear the gentle click of the receiver as it slipped back into its cradle. Her mind quickly scanned her possibilities. Sex wouldn't work this time. In fact, it seemed to be part of the problem. She could try to use some psychology again, but she was reasonably sure he would see through her attempts at control. Um, hey, wait a minute, what was it Mike had said? Marriage? There was the angle, and what an angle blackmail. He couldn't exactly toss her out if she would tell his wife, could he? Constance settled back easily into the bed, a small, sarcastic smile lighting her face.
Mike slipped back into the room and, seeing Constance still peacefully asleep, slid between the sheets and snuggled up to her. She let him drop into a sound slumber in the glow of the late afternoon sun before she launched her plan.
With the utmost caution, she eased her way out of the bed. Removing his heavy arm from her chest and slipping away without waking him were not easy tasks, but she did them with practiced skill. She had often sat up, planning, while he slumbered. This time the stakes were high enough to warrant some insurance policy. From a drawer near the bed, Constance pulled four leather cuffs she had convinced Mike to buy for her. She had never allowed him to use them once they had been bought, keeping them for just such a moment.
It seemed forever before Mike's wrists and ankles were enclosed in the cuffs. Constance used four of his ties to fasten him securely to the bedposts. When everything was perfect, she removed the covers from his body, and lowered her mouth to his limp penis. She lick and sucked him, drawing him up in his sleep until his need woke him. His dick was hard and erect in her mouth as he moaned his protestations. She paid no attention to him, continuing her artful arousal until he tried to move his hands and feet in response. With a roar he realized he was tied down tightly and that Constance was in complete control.
"Relax, Michael," Constance said evenly as she removed her mouth from his dick. It quivered in the sunlight, oblivious to its owner's predicament. She placed her hand on his nuts and began to knead them lightly. "I heard some of your phone conversation." She watched his face as he cringed. "I think its important that we understand each other, totally, don't you?" She gave a quick twist on his balls, then resumed sucking on his cock. The pleasure/pain was more than he could handle.
"Precious, I didn't mean what I said on the phone. It's just my wife. She thinks I'm running around on her. She's going to divorce me if I don't get out of this pretty quick. Frankly, I can't afford that. So, Max is going to find someone else for you to live with. It will be ok, honey, honest," he finished lamely.
All through his recitation, Constance continued to stimulate his organ while playing more than a little bit roughly with his balls. Although Mike was beside himself with the pain, pleasure and fear of the situation, he did not realize that Constance was merely tuning his body for a future solo performance. By the time he had finished talking, his hips were moving against the bed like a woman's, his balls, dick and entire pelvis screaming for release.
Constance walked to the side of the room and removed an enormous candle from its holder on top of the bureau. She carried it and a container of lubricant to the head of the bed. It took her two full minutes to grease the homemade dildo thoroughly. She held it so close to his mouth that he could have licked it as she spoke at length about how she would tell his wife, colleagues, clients and the press exactly who was staying in the company house and what was occurring there.
Then she rolled him half way over and, parting his legs a bit, pushed the candle partway into his anus. His breath rushed out in a 'wumph' as he sought to control the suddenness and pain of the intrusion. She went back to sucking his dick as she worked the candle ever so slowly in and out, each time a bit deeper. Despite himself, he grew harder under her touch and began to strain toward her.
Constance watched Mike carefully, marking the slightest changes in his breathing and movements. She withdrew just as he was about to come, frustrating him beyond belief. Poised inches above his swollen cock, she looked him directly in the eye and gave the candle a vicious twist.
"Decision time, Mikey. Do you want to kick me out and run the risk of public and private exposure? Or do you want to come?"
Mike's brain was no longer part of the decision making process. "Anything you want, Precious, anything. Just let me come. Please."
"That's better," Constance answered, and grasping his organ in her hands, brought him off with a few, quick strokes. It was a joyless explosion of warm, sticky fluid which gushed from his dick. But it was relief. Mike relaxed back on the bed for a moment, gathering his strength.
"Precious, honey, you've made your point," his voice was cloyingly sweet. "Why don't you let me up now."
"How do I know you're going to be a good boy?" Constance answered. "For all I know, you might decide to punish me once you get free." From the look which passed swiftly across his face, Constance could tell that he seriously considered the possibility. "Of course," she continued, "if you want me to keep my mouth shut, I would advise you to continue to be my good little boy." She began releasing his bonds. "Now, why don't you run on home and come back tomorrow like a dear. I wouldn't want you to be late and get into trouble with your wife."
Mike scowled at her as he sat up and chafed his wrists and ankles. "Yes, I'll be back tomorrow," he said resignedly. "I guess I've got myself into quite a mess."
"It's not all that bad," Constance said. "I'm still going to be here to answer to your every whim. But now I'm sure you're not going to give me to someone else. You'll see, everything will be just fine."
Mike didn't say another word as he gathered up his clothing and left. Constance felt satisfied by his obvious surrender that she was safe, at least for now. And her feelings proved accurate as Mike continued to visit her over the next few weeks, lavishing gifts and affection upon her. She felt no need to discuss the arrangement any further. This man was so weak that one session with her in control was apparently enough to insure complete compliance with her wishes.
Although Mike had purchased sexy teddies and dressing gowns for her, Constance preferred to flout his obvious wishes and remain nude or simply wrap herself in a towel during the day. Towel wrapped, she was surprised early one afternoon by a stranger at the door. He claimed to be a friend of Mike's, knew enough of Mike's personal life to support what he said, and asked to wait inside. The late autumn sun was very warm, much too warm to stand in for several hours. Suddenly unsure of herself, she let him in.
"Mike probably won't be here for a few hours yet," she started.
"That's ok, I'll wait." The finality in his voice allowed no challenge. He settled himself into an easy chair in the living room and began watching her.
Unaccustomed to strangers, Constance's hands shook as she lit a cigarette. In the process, her towel became undone and slid to her knees before she caught it with one hand. It hung there for a moment as she struggled to move the cigarette gracefully from her mouth to an ashtray while turning her body away from the man's prying eyes. In so doing, Constance exposed more of herself. Fumbling with the towel in an attempt to conceal her nakedness, her face grew red and her eyes dropped to the floor. Nothing worked right. It took three tries before she had rewrapped the towel around herself and was able to pick up her smoke again.
Constance sat down on the other side of the room and pretended to read. Her eyes flicked up from her reading in short bursts as she tried to discover this stranger's motives and devise a plan of action. He had a youthful face, lightly dotted with freckles which matched his cleanly cut, auburn hair. His green eyes watched her closely from beneath their thick brows, never leaving her face or body unobserved. He seemed fit, the bulges of his biceps barely visible against the pressed white cotton shirt, no spare tire hanging over the waistband of his light blue slacks. The man had removed his sports coat and folded neatly over the seat back before sitting down. The high gloss shine on his short, black dress boots and the heavy link chain on his wrist were the only things which distinguished this man from any other.
Aware of his eyes still on her, Constance had trouble concentrating, either on the book in front of her or on her plan. The ice melted in a forgotten drink, the cigarette went out on its own in the ashtray, but still he stared, and she tried to ignore him. She had no idea what to do, and no ability to work out a possible solution.
Finally, righteous anger removed her indecision. This was her house. She was in charge. To hell with some strange friend of Mike's. To hell with Mike. She could do as she pleased here. She walked across the room and mixed herself another drink. She had been drinking a lot more lately, and smoking had been a new habit born in the past few weeks. They were ways to torment Mike she usually didn't enjoy either. But knowing they bothered him was all the impetus she needed to begin. The joy of serving Mike had been replaced the day she took control with the heartless pleasure of annoying him. And smoking and drinking in front of his 'friend' was nearly as good as bothering Mike in person.
She wandered the room slowly, attempting to put on a good show for the man, to get him aroused. Perhaps he would be as easy to dominate as Mike. Two men to bend to her will were certainly better than one. A part of her wished this new man would make her stop, would be strong enough and wise enough to see through her act and force her cooperation. But that part of her had been diminishing daily and was hardly a noticeable piece of her personality any more.
She affected a bored expression for this outside observer. The ashes from the cigarette in her hand slipped onto the floor and splashed grayly against the carpet as she walked, her eyes never leaving him. Although she wore no makeup, her face didn't appear particularly fresh. Her hair was a bit greasy at the roots, a bit uncombed. Her eyes wandered along with her body, never lighting on anything long enough to show real interest. And she moved her body as expressively as any hooker on a corner could.
The man showed no reaction. Absolutely none. He continued to stare at her, watching her every move. But his trousers stayed smooth and his voice silent. She remained quiet herself, letting her body do the talking. At first she simply sauntered past him, twitching her butt in the simpering manner Richard had demanded of her so many weeks ago. Then she became more brazen, leaning forward at times, and bending over at others to give him a complete view of her natural charms. But the man never moved a muscle save for those eyes which followed her everywhere.
Finally, she challenged him directly. Slowly pulling the towel down past her breasts, belly and pussy to let it drop on the floor, she teased. "What do you make of this, fella?" and flung a bare foot up onto his thigh, spreading her legs and providing him with a perfect view.
"Not much." The voice came from behind her. She whirled around to see Mike standing directly behind her, arms crossed, full of anger. "Uh, uh," she stammered, then regained her control. She turned to face him, crossing her own arms and meeting his stare. "You are early. Why?"
Mike, totally ignoring her, looked at the seated man. "I think you understand why I wanted you to come, Frank," he said.
"Yes, I can see your problem," the man replied, "but are you sure you want to get rid of her? She seems a willing enough slut."
"Willing only when she wants to be," Mike countered. "I would suggest you tie and gag her pretty securely. She's sneaky and slick. I'm sure your customer wants her delivered intact and on time."
"What!" Constance exclaimed; but that was all she had time to say before the younger man had slipped a handkerchief in her mouth and caught her arms up behind her.
"Check the pockets of my coat, would you? I have some things in there I'm going to need." The words coming from behind her were forceful and direct. Constance began to struggle against that voice, those hands which held her. She couldn't lose control now, or she would never regain it.
Something shiny flew from Mike's hands past Constance's face. Frank snatched it from the air with his free hand, and all too quickly Constance felt the bite of steel handcuffs against her wrists. Unable, now, to move her hands, she tossed her head in an attempt to remove the man's handkerchief from her mouth. But it was Mike's hands which brought a tight knit sweatband down her head and over her mouth, securing the gag in place. She kicked, lashing her legs out swiftly, trying to catch him off balance.
Frank blocked the kicks. He caught each leg as it came up and Constance fell heavily on her butt. The men forced her onto her stomach, and the carpet scraped against her bare skin, stinging. She rocked and twisted against their hands, determined not to be bound. Each time she lifted, however, they improved their holds, until they were able to wrap her ankles with surgical tape and bind her feet to her hands, her knees wide apart.
The fight had not yet left her, and Constance continued to struggle in her awkward pose. The thick crop of pubic hair, so recently regrown, protected her delicate mound from the worst of the carpet burns, but the rest of her skin began to feel the irritation. The tight bonds, the roughness of the carpet against her nipples and belly, and the rude comments of her captors awakened old feelings Constance had thought were long buried. She rocked against the ground with more vigor, her little used pussy dripping with juices, her face burning with the shame of her need.
"She's a nice piece, Mike," the other man commented. "Only one thing wrong that I can see," he added and Constance could hear the soft sounds of a belt being removed. "This guy she's going to doesn't want merchandise that he can't rough up a little. This girl has no marks on her. That's going to discourage my client and possibly even bring the price down."
"Well, Frank, you're going to have to do what needs to be done yourself. If I could have done it, I wouldn't be selling her to you now."
Mike's words startled Constance from her dance on the floor. He was selling her. And he was letting this Frank character beat her even before she was officially his. The belt slapped down on her inner thighs too quickly for her protests to fully form. The blows were not the hardest she had ever felt, but they were certainly enough to leave the desired marks. Her ass was spared due to the position of her bound legs; but Frank soon turned her face up, propping her in a semi kneeling position, and went to work on her sex and thighs.
Mike had no stomach for the beating and turned away until the sound of the belt stopped. He chose not to hear her muffled cries or to see her tear streaked face as he took the money from the other man. Frank rethreaded his belt and left to move his car into the garage. In his absence, Constance tried in vain to appeal to Mike, to prevent the inevitable. Mike turned a deaf ear to her and walked into the other room. That was the last she saw of him as she was lifted from behind and carried like so many potatoes to the waiting car. Frank lifted her into the well padded trunk, pointing out the carefully drilled air holes which would prevent her suffocation. He released her feet from her hands and brought her hands in front of her, but did not release the bonds from each.
"Take a nap," he told her and closed the lid. The force of her panic was amazing. She wanted to cry and thrash about in protest, but both avenues were closed to her. The car began to move, and Constance became convinced she would die of carbon monoxide poisoning. Her pulse raced and her breathing came in long gasps against the gag. The flow of clean air across her face gradually calmed her. She closed her eyes and let her mind float freely. She imagined she was back in her old apartment, bound and waiting for her first Master to return. The memory was so old, so friendly, that she fell into the past and relaxed her strained muscles into sleep.
Rough hands were picking her up, she was floating through the air, she was lying on very hard cement. A strange man's face appeared over hers, then began touching her breasts. Fingers traced the fresh welts and a voice murmured appreciatively. Constance watched the man with total detachment, her eyes nearly closed. She was floating, she was still in her own closet, and this was all a bad dream.
"Why did you beat her up? It'll be days before her butt's healed enough to tatoo," a low voice said.
"It seemed necessary at the time. If you still want her, let's see some money," Frank said.
"Not so fast," Ron responded. "I want to make sure I'm getting what I think I'm getting. I'm not interested in any of those surgically adjusted men. This piece of property had better be a real woman."
"Would I cheat you?" Frank asked.
"I certainly hope not. Get her up on her feet."
Frank lifted Constance up and turned her to face the new man. She kept her eyes closed, afraid to see her new captor. She felt the smooth, cool blade of a knife slip between her legs and cut the bindings at her ankles. Hands on her shoulders guided her backwards until her butt met the chilled edge of a table. New hands, bigger and calloused knocked her legs apart. She felt vulnerable. Massive fingers pawed at her sex, mashed her clit, and penetrated her cunt with a force that made her scream into her gag.
"So far, so good. Let's try the flip side," the deep voice said.
The men pulled her away from the table and turned her around. With her hands still cuffed behind her, she had to balance herself carefully as they spread her legs again and bent her over. The fingers again entered her pussy and worked it until the natural juices had begun to flow despite her pain. A lubricated finger was then forced against the tiny rosette of her anus. As it pressed past the sphincter and moved deep within her, she screamed again.
"Fuckable. Very Fuckable."
The men released her and she fell to the floor. They let her lay there as the men wiped their hands. It was then she knew it wasn't a dream, knew her Master wasn't coming to save her, knew that her reality was about to become incredibly unpleasant, and she began to cry, sobbing long, ragged moans into her gag.
"Just slap her when she does that," commented Frank as he accepted a thick envelope from the stranger. At his words, Constance stifled herself. "She's a pretty fast learner. The last guy she was with didn't ever control her. If you don't take control from the start, she'll get you over a barrel as quickly as she did him."
"Not to worry about that," the man replied, "I've had a few of these girls before. Trouble is, I usually wear them out too quickly."
"What you do with her is your business, as long as she stays alive."
"Don't be ridiculous. I'm not going to make any more snuff films. It's just too damn wasteful. Cuts down on the profit margin, too. Not much of a resale market, you know. Besides, I've done my time once for murder and don't really relish the thought of returning to the joint. What we're going to do here . . ."
"I'd really rather not know," Frank interrupted. "Do you have something to tie her hands with? I need my handcuffs back. I've got another girl to pick up this evening."
"Yeah, sure," the man replied and whipped a length of thin cord out of his pocket. "This is a little thin, but she won't wiggle much, kind of cuts into the wrists, you know." He fastened it tightly in place of the handcuffs Frank removed. Constance moved her wrists against the binding and felt the truth of the man's words as the cord cut cruelly against her flesh. The men shook hands, Frank pocketed the handcuffs, and Constance watched his feet walk away, out of the room and out of her life. Fearfully, she turned to study her new captor.
The man who towered over her, fists planted firmly on either hip, was probably the largest man she had ever seen. He stood at least six and one half feet tall and weighed a good three hundred pounds, most of it collected at his ample middle. It was his face, however, which held her attention. His hair was black and curly with random silver highlights. Dark eyes were set deeply under black eyebrows which met above his nose in a solid line. His nose, cheeks, and lips were round and full, colored dark by the more than occasional drink of good scotch. Clenched tightly at one side of his mouth was an unlit cigar.
"Alright, Amanda, listen up." Constance looked up, puzzled. "All my girls are Amanda. Saves me from remembering a bunch of fool names and hurting somebody's feelings when I get them mixed up. My name is Ron. Call me that or Sir. Nothing else. Had a girl once who tried to call me Ronny. Didn't last long, that one. But I digress."
"I run a quiet little poker game for a very select clientele. They like their luck good, their drinks strong, and their women hot. I have to keep the game basically honest or my clientele evaporates. Or I evaporate. Most of these gentlemen, and I use the phrase loosely, are not good losers when they suspect cheating. I remember one time, about twelve years ago, when one of these boys thought I was trying to pull a fast one. He was about to get ugly when I caught him by surprise and jabbed the lit end of my cigar into his left eye. Poor chap didn't see very well after that, I'm afraid." He smiled, and Constance shuddered. "I had to give up smoking a few years back, but I still like the taste of cigars. They remind me of that night. I get a smile just remembering the look on that boy's face as I put out one of his lights with one of mine." Ron laughed a rich, warm laugh at the memory.
"Well, anyway, your job is to keep me happy. And the best way to do that is to wiggle that ass of yours in front of the men that come to play while you serve them drinks and sandwiches. The idea is to distract them from their cards just enough so I win most of the hands. The winner of the hands I lose gets to pick between the pot and you. So the hotter you are, the more money I make. Oh, and keep me in fresh cigars. I never know when I might need one again." Ron's smile lit his face again.
"Um," Constance began, afraid to speak.
"Questions already? Ok, better ask them quick, the first players will be here soon."
"What did you mean when you said the winner could pick me?"
"He can pick you. You know." Her blank look requested an explanation. "I thought that Frank said you were quick. Fuck you. He can fuck you. Or have you blow him. If he picks you, you both go into the back room and you show him a good time. Or he might want to get a blow job while he's playing the next hand. That's the best. Really distracts the other guys. You wiggle your butt and bounce your tits and really moan while you do it. The hand goes to hell, but none of them seem to care. And I rake it in."
"You see, you can be a big help to me. And if you don't perform, I'll give you away at the end of the night to the biggest winner and get another girl. No big deal. Any more questions?"
"I, I think you're the most horrible man I've ever met," Constance replied. "How could you use your fingers to hurt me like that? In front of that Frank, too. And now you talk about me turning tricks for you like a common street hooker just so you can win poker hands. You're just horrible."
Ron laughed, then his face became deadly serious as he caught Constance's head and forced her face to within inches of his. Her eyes watered from the putrid smell of his breath.
"For a piece of property, you think a lot of yourself. You've been bought and paid for, and you're mine." Ron reached over with one hand and opened a closet door. Tacked to the inside of the door was an irregular object which resembled old parchment. The word 'Amanda' was written in bluish ink along one side.
"There is another reason all my girls are Amanda. The first girl I ever used was named Amanda. She did fine until the night she refused to cooperate. She made a scene and ruined the game for me. I don't put up with that kind of bullshit at all. This is all I kept of her, just the skin from the right side of her butt. Its here as a reminder to you. You don't like the way I inspect my property? You don't want to entertain the guests? Pick a wall. I could use another decoration."
"Oh, and you can stop looking horrified. This is fairly routine. Its not like I traffic in babies for their meat potential. Or sell little boys to the Japanese and Arabs." He chuckled ominously. "There was a lot of money in that for a while. After all, little boys are almost like little girls they can be lots of fun if taken in the right light. You only reduce your options from three to two."
"Everything has a profit value. If you aren't living up to yours, I guess you might not continue living. We'll see."
Constance shook her head, stunned at the explanation. Ron then cut the cord at her wrists, helped her up, and led her into a bedroom where he began to "pretty her up."
He helped her into a black lace bikini and crotchless panties, neither of which covered much. To this was added a garter belt, seamed stockings, and heels so high Constance had difficulty standing, much less walking. Her own hair was then covered with a frizzy wig. Ron gave her makeup to apply, but was not satisfied with the result she achieved and set about to do it himself. When he finished, she looked in the mirror to find a stranger. A face with blonde fuzzy hair, heavily made up eyes complete with purple eye shadow, bright smears of rouge on each cheek, and scarlet lips stared back at her. Even her own mother would never have recognized her.
Ron shoved several pictures of women in front of her. "See, you're Amanda, just like these girls were." Constance looked closely at the pictures. The women, with very small variations, looked exactly like the stranger in the mirror. She looked up, wanting to ask about the others, but Ron was already rushing on.
"Now, Amanda, most of these men like to see a woman who is in a state of happy bondage." Constance stared bewilderedly at him. "They want to see you physically bound, but serving them with a smile on your face. If you don't look happy, they'll think you don't want to be doing this. Most of them don't want to take an unwilling woman, they want a woman who is always willing to be taken. Do you catch the difference?"
Constance nodded, unwilling to speak for fear of losing control and crying again. Her world had changed so completely in the past few hours that she was constantly near the breaking point. She sat motionless as Ron began to fit various binding straps over her skimpy clothing. He pulled the quarter inch leather straps tight, and when he finished, her figure had taken on new definition.
A single strap running behind her back linked her elbows, pulling them slightly back and pushing her chest forward. Her arms were still very mobile, but only from the elbow down. Straps running from each side of a thin throat collar circled under her breasts, lifting them high and free, before returning to fasten at the front of the collar. A thick belt encircled her waist, locking in the back with a padlock. Before fastening the lock, however, Ron passed another strap, this of very smooth leather, from the collar, down her back, through the hasp at her waist and secured it with the lock. He then ran the strap between her ass cheeks, over her clit, and brought it back up between her tits to fasten to the front of the collar. The strap was so tightly drawn, it actually vibrated with a sound when he plucked it.
The bindings marked her unmistakably as a slave, yet only enhanced the total effect Ron had created. The straps also had an effect on Constance. Her breasts swelled a little against the straps, making their delineation more apparent. Her clit began to grow moist as the rubbing of the strap against it drew forth her need. Despite herself, she was rapidly becoming the randy wench Ron desired.
Ron had barely shown her where the sandwiches and liquor were kept when the first of the men arrived. Before she knew what she was doing, Constance was acting the perfect hostess, wiggling her pert bottom and rubbing against the men at every occasion. She tried hard not to shy away when they pinched her nipples and wove probing fingers under her bonds. By the time the game had begun, all of the men had problems sitting still, their enormous hard ons creating tents in their pants.
Half way into the first hand, the doorbell rang. Ron motioned for Constance to answer it, and she minced her way to the door. Two men entered; one was a regular, Phil, greeted by the others. The other, slightly shorter, was introduced as his guest, a business guest. Constance stared at him, her mouth open in horror. It was Jim.
Jim stared back as though trying to place her, then turned to the game. "Who's the stuffed fish?" he asked, drawing a laugh from the men.
"That's Amanda," one of the others explained. "She's always here. She gets you what you need, if you know what I mean." He laughed a dirty chuckle and the table roared. Constance flushed beet red and fled to the kitchen. Ron snapped his fingers, and she was forced to return to again act the part of willing hostess.
In the early stages of the game, everyone won a few hands, and most elected to take Constance to the back room. She sucked and licked so many different dicks that she lost count. After a while it no longer mattered whose cock was in which part of her body she merely put on an appearance of enjoyment and the men used her to their satisfaction. While her body was occupied with the unending flow of penises, her mind was interested in one prick Jim. She was sure he hadn't recognized her, and she struggled with her emotions every time she passed him. She couldn't afford to give herself away.
It was toward the middle of the evening before he won his first hand and elected to take advantage of her natural charms. After silently running his hands up and down her body for a few minutes, savoring her soft skin and enjoying the flinch caused when his fingers pressed her welts, he sat on the bed, roughly pushed her to her knees and brought out his cock.
He gestured to it where it hung limply between his legs, "Well, A man da, get him hard so I can screw you." The words and tone were so familiar that Constance shook as she took him. She ran her tongue over and over his flaccid dick until it finally firmed in her mouth. "Ah, that's more like it," he said, and winding his fingers in her wig, began to move her head, imitating intercourse. As his prick grew harder and the rhythm more intense, Constance had increasing difficulty suppressing her nausea. Finally, when his thrusts pushed his dick against the back of her throat, she forced herself away. He held on tightly, however, and the wig came off in his hands.
They both sat and stared dumbly at the mop of hair in Jim's hands for a moment. Then he really looked at her, and a spark of recognition lit his face. He began to laugh, great huge bellylaughs. Frightened, Constance turned to flee, but his hands held her firmly, forcing her to stay on her knees.
"Oh, this is choice. This is just too much," Jim choked through his laughter. "Here I spend all this time trying to pry you out of that dog ranch and lose you. Then I track you to that mansion, but miss you by a day. And now here you are, right under my nose, when I least suspect it. Oh, God!" his laughter exploded again.
The fight or flight instinct deep within Constance took over, pumping her full of adrenaline and bringing with it bravado. "Get your fucking hands off me, you bastard," she said, pushing herself away. "I don't belong to you. I never did."
"Listen, slave," he responded, "you belong to everyone here. Now keep your voice down or you'll be in deep shit."
"You are so wrong," Constance whispered fiercely. "I have a Master. Ron. He owns me. Nobody else. He bought me. I may be a slave, but I have to be bought to be owned." She punctuated her statement by spitting in his face.
With deliberate calm, Jim took a handkerchief from his pocket and removed the spittle from his face. Constance shuddered at the expression on his face. She had seen the calculated cruelty which lit his eyes before. She was sure to have to pay severe consequences for her burst of anger.
"You'll be mine before the evening's over, Barbara. Then we'll see who makes the rules." Her given name had been so many identities ago, it took a few seconds for his words to register. When they finally did, tears welled up in her eyes and her lower lip began to quiver. She knew crying would only worsen the situation, but she couldn't keep the tears from splashing down her face. She was truly lost.
Suddenly she remembered what Ron had said. She had done a good job so far. At least most of the men were choosing her over the cash. He didn't have any cause to trade her in; in fact, if she could keep up her act, she might be too valuable to trade or give away. She steeled herself to face Jim. "Yes, we'll see about that," she said, looking him in the eye. She rose with dignity, recovered and replaced her wig, and left the room with a grace calculated to amaze the man she left behind.
Jim followed, swearing softly under his breath. They both resumed their roles as if nothing had happened, but a careful observer could tell that the stakes in the room had just increased. Constance fought for her freedom from him with every strategy she could manage. She had never been so bold in her life. She rubbed her cunt against every man's hand, "for good luck"; she fondled herself, masturbating to near climax, then begging the men to finish her; at one point she even brought a belt from the back room in her mouth and offered it to the winner, begging to be beaten.
All this was not lost on Ron. He cracked crude jokes, took a turn at making her come by driving his hand deeply into her cunt, and even got her below the table to suck the men off one at a time in turn. And he continued to collect the money from the others at a rate which would have alarmed them had they noticed. Before long, the others had dropped out, but stayed to watch the action. Only Ron and Jim were still playing.
Then Jim began winning. And winning. And winning. Ron's face became increasingly red as the pile of chips in front of him decreased. After one particularly expensive loss, Ron turned on the shorter man.
"Sir, I believe you have been cheating!" he accused Jim.
"That is a very dangerous accusation, sir," Jim responded. "I hope you can prove that."
"Not now, I can't. But fortunately, I don't have to prove anything. I'm out of chips and cash. The game is over."
"You have dishonored me, sir, and I demand that I be allowed to prove you wrong. Don't you have anything you'd like to wager on one hand, so I can clear my good name once and for all?"
"I tell you what, mister. I understand your predicament, if indeed you are simply lucky tonight. Let's have that one hand, simple five card stud, nothing wild. If you lose, you divide our winnings evenly between everyone here. And if you win, you may take Amanda home. But I certainly hope you lose. As you may be able to tell, Amanda is a very valuable asset." Ron draped his arm protectively about her waist and bent her head to his.
"Don't worry, you've proved yourself to be worth much more than the money at stake," he whispered. "I'm going to win this hand one way or another. But light me a fresh cigar, just in case, would you?" He patted her on the butt, and she relaxed at his forceful words. She would be protected. He would fight for her if necessary.
Ron dealt the cards deliberately. Each man studied his. Jim did not exchange a single card. Ron changed three. There was no betting the stakes had been set. Jim spoke first.
"I'm not so sure I want to do this, are you?"
"Absolutely. Unless you want to back out and leave all the money on the table. No one will fault you for poor cards."
"Well, I guess I'll just lay these down and take my chances," Jim answered. He lay the cards down one at a time: King, King, Ace, Ace, Ace.
"Sir, I believe we have a problem here," Ron said as he lay down an identical hand. "I've never known a deck of cards to have six Aces."
"Not a problem," Jim answered as he pulled a pistol from within his jacket. Ron reached quickly across the table with his lit cigar, and received a bullet in his shoulder for his trouble. "Anyone else have a smart idea?" Jim demanded.
"Jim, what are you doing?" queried Phil, the man who had brought him to the game.
"Just taking back a piece of my property, Phil," Jim answered and rose slowly, his eyes never leaving the man who lay on the floor, clutching the wound in his shoulder. "Get over here, Amanda, or Barbara, or who ever you are." Constance moved to the far corner of the room and cowered, whimpering. "Get her," he gestured with the gun to one of the men. The man tried to force Constance to her feet, but she went limp, refusing to cooperate. Ultimately, she was lifted onto his shoulder and carried from the room.
"I had heard that no one ever got the better of Ron Hernandez," Jim said. "It appears that this is no longer true. Too bad." He rubbed his jaw with the barrel of the pistol as if contemplating his next move. "Maybe I should kill you here." Ron glared up from where he lay on the floor. "Naw. I think it would be much better to let you live so you can savor your defeat. Have fun now kids." Jim left immediately, his silhouette brandishing the gun visible against the light coming from the open door.
Unwilling to participate further in what amounted to a kidnapping, the man dumped Constance on the ground next to Jim's car. Bound as she was, she struggled to her knees and tried to crawl away. Her knees were scraped bloody by the pavement before Jim caught her. He lifted her to her feet and pushed her forward roughly until they returned to his car. Unlocking the both doors, he shoved her onto the back seat, relocked the door, and jumped into the front. Gunning the motor, he pulled away from the curb. Constance clambered into a sitting position just in time to see Ron stagger out of the house, shouting threats and obscenities and shaking his good fist, the lit cigar trickling sparks off into the night.
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{{Stories by xenaRRa}}