Slave for Hire

                       SEX SLAVE FOR HIRE

                           Chapter 1

                    My first Day on the Job

     I've been beaten and tortured, had rigid cocks and worse stuffed into me fore, aft, and

topside.  And I consented to it.  I did it for money.

     Do you know what it's like to be without a job, with rent to pay, a family to support?  I

do.  I walked a hundred miles, it seems, trying to get a job.  Even the fast food places weren't

hiring.  I pawned everything of value that I owned, except my bike, which I would need to get to

work.  Finally, I sold my body.  It wasn't such a bad deal.  I'll tell you about it.

     I had responded to an ad from an "escort service."  The guy at the office, a real creep,

asked me to take off my jacket; I was wearing a skirted woman's business suit, the best thing I

had for job interviews.  He looked me over and asked me to remove my blouse.  Instead, I said,

"The ad said that you needed female escorts.  It didn't say topless escorts."

     "Listen, Babe," he replied, "to keep it legal, he pays us for your time as an escort, but he's

gonna expect more, and you are expected to... let's say fall in love with him."

     "You want me to be a call girl."

     He laughed and said, "You a policewoman or something?  I'm not going to solicit

prostitution, no way.  But a lot of your customers may, and if you want to stay employed, and

earn big tips, you should be prepared to keep your clients happy."

     "No, thanks," I said, grabbing my suit jacket and departing in a huff.  I started to ride

home, really pissed.  The thought of some strange man sticking his thing in me really turned me

off.  I rode my bike toward my room.  About the time I got to Page Mill Road, something went

click in my mind.

     I remembered my previous employer, Hank Steele.  There was a man I wouldn't mind...

He was tall, fit, tanned, probably twice my age, and a millionaire.  He was President and CEO of

a small electro-optics company, mostly making stuff for the military.  He had personally fired

me, after I ruined about ten thousand dollars worth of production.  I just don't have the hand-eye

coordination to bond microscopic wires while looking through a microscope in a clean room.

Out of curiosity, I had looked up where he lived, and, it occured to me, his ranch was just over

those hills somewhere, back behind Stanford University.

     So, instead of riding back to my little room in Los Altos, rented illegally in violation of

the zoning codes, I turned up Page Mill Road.  It was a long, uphill ride, and I worked up a

sweat.  When I got over the first range of hills, I pulled off into some trees and removed my

pantyhose and sweat-soaked bra, stuffed them in my handbag.  I hate sweaty pantyhose when I'm

bike riding.  I still had cotton panties on underneath, of course.  Then it was back to the long

haul up into the mountains.  Lots of times I thought I ought to give up, but I had worked so hard

to get that far...  and, if I turned back, I'd have to ride in the dark before I got home.  If things

didn't work out, at least he might give me a ride home.

     It was pretty late when I found his "ranch."  I recognized his big, black Mercedes, parked

by the door.  He was home.  I used the last of my strength, it seemed, to pedal up that long gravel

driveway to the sprawling, one story house, which was almost hidden in the trees.  I leaned the

bike up against the board and batten wall by the front door and paused to catch my breath.

Looking around, all I could see was trees and mountains, no houses, though there might have

been one or two tucked away in the shadows.  Then I gathered my courage and rang the doorbell.

     Mr. Steele, Hank, looked surprized to see me.  "It's...uh...Wunderly, isn't it?"

     "Yes.  My friends call me Wonder.  I've come to ask your advice."

     "Uh, then I guess you had better come in," he said.  He didn't ask me why I didn't just

phone, or see him at the factory, so I didn't bring that up.  He looked as if he had been working

out, barefoot, wearing just some running shorts.  I admired his body, very trim for a man his age.

     I slipped the strap of my handbag off my shoulder and shrugged out of my jacket.  My

blouse clung to my sweaty breasts, and I could see his eyes fixed on them.  "Won't you sit

down?" he said, regaining his composure.  He led the way from the entryway into a spacious

living room, comfortably furnished in "traditional American."  The house was air conditioned,

and the cool air felt good.  I dropped my purse and jacket and sat on a wooden chair, sitting

straight up, the better to show my figure.  I crossed my legs and showed him my knees and more.

I was pretty trim, myself, all that bike riding and never enough, it seemed, to eat.  I could never

afford a car, don't even have a license.  He sat in an upholstered armchair and said, "What do you

need advice about?"

     "Well, Mr. Steele, you've seen my employment application.  What sort of job do you

think I'm suited for?" I said, innocently.

     "Well, as I recall, you've only got a high school education, and you worked a bunch of

unskilled jobs, until you came to us.  You certainly don't have what it takes to do electronic

assembly.  Do you have any clerical skills, Wunderly?"

     "Call me Wonder.  No, I never learned to type or anything like that."

     "I don't know what to say, Wonder.  I suppose you had better call me Hank.  I'm not your

employer any more.  What have you tried?"

     "I've been looking for work ever since you fired me.  I need to pay my rent, and to eat,

and I'd like to make enough to send some to my mother and brother and two sisters.  They live in

Mexico, and since my father died, I'm pretty much their sole support."  He furrowed his brow.

"The only job I seem to be qualified for, maybe, is as a call girl.  Would you recommend I take

it?"

     He looked me over for about twenty seconds, and then he said, "I can see where you

might be good at that, but I wouldn't recommend it.  I mean... well, these days you don't know

what might happen, what you might catch, and it's... demeaning work."

     "So then I thought of asking you," I said, "for a job."

     "I'm sorry, Wonder, but times are tough these days, defense cut-backs and all that.  We're

a small company, twenty-three employees -- I had to let two go last week -- and there's just no

work for you."

     "I thought maybe you need a personal assistant."

     He cocked an eyebrow and replied, "I don't need a personal assistant."

     "You're not married, are you?"

     "No.  Divorced, years ago."

     "No POSSLQ?"  He looked puzzled.  "Person of opposite sex sharing living quarters.

That's what the census calls a live-in girl friend."

     "No."

     "That's a shame.  You're not Gay, are you?"

     "NO!"

     "Then I'm applying for the job."

     "I don't understand."

     "Wouldn't you like a live-in girl friend, one who would do anything you asked, and never

talk back?  A sexy young thing, half your age?  Much better than a wife.  Cheaper.  Wouldn't

sleep around while you are at work.  Just put me on the payroll, at half again what I was making,

and you can have me, all of me."  I shifted in my chair and displayed myself a bit more.  "You

don't have anything catching, do you?   Chlamydia, clap, herpes, HIV?"

     "No," he said, "do you?"

     I knew he was interested.  He was watching my blouse jiggle.  "I'm clean, practically a

virgin.  I fooled around a bit in high school, but Alvin was a virgin, too, so I'm sure I didn't get

anything from him.  And, of course, we used a condom.  Since then I've been pure as the driven

snow."

     "The stockholders would never stand for it, my putting you on the payroll.  And the next

thing you know, the company would be fighting a sexual harrassment suit."

     "Hire me yourself, the way you'd hire someone to clean house for you.  I could clean your

house, along with my other duties.  Perfectly legit.  Pay social security and everything.  I'm not

even an illegal alien."  I took my passport out of my handbag and tossed it to him.  You have to

have proof of citizenship, these days.  I was born in California, before they deported my parents,

so I'm a natural-born American citizen.

     "And you would be like a wife?" he said, obviously weakening.

     "Yes.  Better, because I'd be obedient and faithful.  I wouldn't screw around with other

men, and I'd do what you wanted.  No whining about wanting a career, or children, or expensive

things."

     Hank looked thoughtful, as if he couldn't make up his mind.  "I had a wife," he said.  "It

didn't work.  I've had several opportunities to remarry.  I don't really want a wife, in the

conventional sense."  He paced the floor, turning his head as he walked, so as to keep his eyes on

me.  I stood up and struck a pose.  I know my good points.  My breasts, almost a C-cup, are

nicely shaped.  My face is cute, they tell me, and my hair was cut short, like a boy's, for working

in the clean room.  I flashed him a smile and began to unbutton my blouse, to show some

cleavage.

     He seemed to gather his resolve.  "Would you agree to be my slave?  I could make it

worth your while, straight salary."     He named a figure larger than I thought I'd ever make.  If I

sent most of it back to my mother, in Mexico, my family could live very well.

     "What's involved in being your slave?"  I wasn't sure just what he had in mind, and the

word, "slave", had an ominous sound to it.

     "Well," he said, "it's like being a wife who can't talk back to her husband.  You know,

through all of human history, except for this century, a wealthy man could afford a female slave,

or a servant, who would be the object of his power.  If he wanted sex, she couldn't say, 'Not

tonight, Dear, I have a headache.'  Will you sell your body to me, give me that power?"

     Well, I relaxed when I heard that.  I had gone there to sell my body, and I'd already

offered what he described, but I wanted the best deal I could get.  "Let me think about it," I

stalled, "and you can tell me about the working conditions."

     "Come," he said, "and I'll show you the house.  In the middle, where we are, is the living

room, and here the dining room."  He showed me a library, walls of books and a big screen TV,

comfy chairs, good lighting.  We walked into a beautiful kitchen.  "I've been eating in

restaurants, mostly.  Do you cook?"

     "Some, you know, hotplate cooking.  I pawned my microwave.  But I could learn.  I'm

willing."

     "Well," he said, "I suppose I could order restaurant food to go.  I'd expect you to serve the

food, wash up afterwards, of course.  You can get your own breakfast and lunch, if you like,

dinner if I don't come home.  Just tell me what you want me to buy.  During the day, you are on

your own.  I'd want you to keep the house tidy, make the beds, that sort of thing.  From the time I

come home from the plant, until, say, midnight, I would expect you to do anything I ask of you,

without hesitation or complaint."

     "What about weekends?"

     He thought a moment.  "Let me see, let's raise that salary."  He named an even larger

figure.  "You will be on duty at all times, except, of course, I'll be reasonable in my demands.

And I'll want you to spend some of your time in -- shall we say self improvement efforts?  If you

need time off, if you want to go to church, or anything like that...  How's that sound?"

     I was overwhelmed by thought of the money I'd be making, and I'd have no expenses, to

speak of.  "So far, that sounds OK."

     He showed me one wing, one end of the house.  "That's the door to my room, and there

are more bedrooms down this hall.  Here's a guest room that you can have as your room."  He

pushed open a door, revealing a room that would do justice to a good hotel.  "A housekeeper

needs a room of her own, doesn't she?"

     "Yes, of course," I said, already congratulating myself on finding such a good position.

     He showed me the other wing.  It was a barn-like structure, mostly containing a big

exercise room, complete with a hot tub, sauna, gymnastics equipment and exercise machines.

"The showers are in there, and next door is my workshop, where, among other things, I work on

new product designs.  You must never go in the workshop, but the rest of this, feel free to use

the facilities.  In fact, I encourage it.  I'd like you to stay fit."

     The last stop was his bedroom, actually a suite.  He had a big four poster bed, with a

canopy.  "You should make the bed in the morning, and wash the sheets weekly, vacuum the

place, that sort of thing."  He had made up his mind to hire me, I was sure.

     "Sounds OK to me," I said.  "There's a catch, something you are not telling me."

     "Truthfully, I'm not easy to live with," he said.

     "I'm adaptable," I replied.

     "I can be very bossy, demanding, domineering," he said.

     "I can be very obedient, submissive," I countered.

     He led me back to the library and turned on the big-screen TV, one of those home

theaters built in.  He selected a video cassette.  It was porno tape, where a man was chasing a

woman who wore a French maid outfit.  He tied her up and "raped" her.  "Could you put up with

that sort of treatment?" he asked.

     I thought of all that money I could send home, how happy my mother and sisters would

be.  "Well, the actress did," I said.  "I've always wanted to be an actress.  Of course, I would

expect some job security, a proper employment contract, with severance pay, if you get tired of

me."

     "And maternity benefits?"

     "No, I have one of those subdermal contraceptive implants.  It's got three years to go.  By

then, you'll be begging me to marry you," I said.  I knew I had him.  "Shall we draw up a

contract, now?" I added, calculating that, per hour, I would be making lots of money with few

expenses, and I thought I might enjoy the work.  He was, for all his years, a trim and masculine

man, and all millionaires are handsome.  He'd almost certainly be a better lover than Alvin was.

     We went into his office, and he drew up a contract on his computer.  I agreed that he

could call me "Slave", and I would call him, "Master."  I would get paid weekly, with an

electronic deposit in a Mexican bank.  He would provide a room, food, clothes, whatever I might

need.  I would grant him access to my body any time, to do with as he would, but as long as there

were no permanent injuries, no scars.  In the event of illness or injury, he'd pay the medical bills.

I insisted on a limiting clause, no group sex.  Hank wrote a closely worded section which

specified that I must not object to being a slave in the presence of others, or being photographed,

as long as the others did not have sexual contact with me.  We also agreed to confidentiality; if I

left his employ, which I could do on two weeks notice, neither of us would talk about what had

gone on between us.  There would be no lawsuits.  If I felt I was wronged, my only recourse was

to quit the job.  "And what if you are dissatisfied?" I said.  "What if I stole something from you,

or disobeyed your orders?"

     "As your master, Slave, I would either punish you or dismiss you, possibly both.  If I

dismiss you, you can have a month's pay, as severance pay."

     "OK, that seems fair," I said.  He printed two copies, one for me and one for him, and I

signed them both, sliding them across the table for him to sign.  Lacking a witness, we also

affixed our thumb prints.  "But," he said, "no one will see these contracts, certainly not a lawyer,

right?"

     "Right, Master.  I guess maybe if you died, and you, your estate, owed me back pay..."

     "Slave, I'll pay you weekly, and I'll leave your severance pay in an envelope with your

name on it.  No lawyers!"

     "Yes, Master," I said, "you have my word on it.  If you die, I'm out of here, and no one

need know about us."

     "Yes, Slave," he said.  "Now sign these."   I signed a few more forms, which he said were

routine, for taxes, proof of citizenship, and such.

     "Well," I said, "when do I start work?"

     "Now?"

     "OK."  I took a deep breath.  The moment of truth had arrived.  I stood there, waiting for

orders.

     He took my hand and led me to the living room.  I stood there, at attention, awaiting

orders.  He came close and touched my hair.  "Maybe you should let it grow," he said, "or should

we shave it off and have you wear a wig?"

     I shuddered at the thought of having my head shaved, but I replied, "I would have it any

way you want, Master.  Perhaps, until you are sure of your preference, it would be best to leave

what hair I have.  I could still wear a wig."

     He smiled and nodded.  He ran his finger along my jaw, down my neck, exploring his

new purchase.  I'll bet he couldn't really believe he had me, all of me, at his command.  Then he

unbuttoned my blouse, and when all the buttons were undone, and the blouse was pulled out of

my skirt, he slid it back across my shoulders.  I stood at attention and let him pull it off over my

straight arms.  I stood there, in the middle of the living room, like a statue, or a Las Vegas

showgirl, my bare breasts on display.  You understand, I wasn't in the habit of showing off my

boobs; Alvin saw them twice.  But I had psyched myself up to be the perfect slave, and it was

kind of exciting to have that handsome, rich man admiring me.

     He fumbled a bit with my skirt, and I stepped out of it as it fell around my ankles.  He

knelt down and removed my shoes.  That left me with only my cotton panties, high cut at the leg,

hardly more than a triangle covering my pubic hair.  He seemed to stare at my crotch for a long

time, though I suppose it was only a few seconds.  At a time like that...

     Well, finally, he tugged at my panties, slid them down my legs, and I stepped out of

them, too.  I was totally naked.  Never, even in a doctor's office, had I ever stood naked in front

of a man in a well lit room.  Alvin and I had never found a place for that sort of thing.  We felt

ourselves lucky if we could get away to a clump of bushes and fool around a bit, or borrow a car

to park in.  Hank, his muscles rippling, circled around me, looking, appraising.  I tried to see if

he was sexually aroused.  I don't think he was.

     "You haven't had sex since high school?" he said.

     "No, Master."

     "But you masturbate, play with yourself."

     "Yes, sometimes, Master."

     He stood very close, towering over me, his hairy chest almost in my face, and I felt him

run his fingers through my pubic hair and slide a finger along the cleft of my labia.  I forced

myself to stand, rigid, expressionless.  The smell of my sweaty crotch got stronger.

     "Do you give head?" he asked, softly, hardly more than a whisper.

     "Master?  I'm not sure I understand."  I'd heard about that, and some of my friends in high

school boasted about being good at it.  Sheila Barrazotto said she'd sucked off the whole first

string football team.  "If that's what I think it is, I've never done that," I said, truthfully.

     "I can see you are going to need instruction, and training," he said, taking me by the

hand.  I followed him to the library, where he put another porno tape on the screen.  This one

featured a blonde actress, her head about three feet tall on the screen, slurping on a big dick.

The guy pulled out of her mouth and came all over her face.  She wiped it off with her fingers

and sucked them clean.  "The verb is to fellate, the noun fellatio," my master explained,

patiently, "and of course, it would have been simpler, but less showy, if she had simply

swallowed when he came in her mouth.  Any questions?"

     "No, Master," I replied, wondering what I had let myself in for.  I tried to tell myself that

I had eaten hot dogs and bananas, licked ice cream cones.  I could do it, if I tried.

     "Would you like a drink?" he said, unexpectedly.  "You seem a little tense, or is it too

cool for you?"

     "It's not too cool," I replied.  "I am a bit thirsty, after the long bike ride up here.  Could I

have some juice?"

     "Of course," he said, "but wouldn't you like something stronger?"

     "I don't drink alcohol," I said, "not yet twenty-one."

     He made a face and said, "Well, since I own your body now, I think I'll put some

antifreeze in it.  Tomato juice agreeable with you?"

     "Anything wet and cold would be fine, Master.  Technically, you know, you don't own

my body.  You have a lease on it, but you can be evicted if you don't maintain the premises, or if

you try to sub-let them."

     "Yes, of course," he said.  "but let's pretend I own it."  I followed him into the kitchen,

though every room seemed to have a wet bar and refrigerator, and I watched him mix Bloody

Mary Mix and vodka.  "You'll be called upon, as hostess, to serve drinks.  You might as well

learn now."  He stuck a stalk of celery in a big glass and filled it with the red stuff.  "Drink," he

said, handing the glass to me.  He poured himself a glass of white wine.

     "It tastes good, Master,"  I said, draining the glass.  He filled it again.  Before I had

finished the second glass, I was beginning to feel the effects of the alcohol on my empty

stomach.  My master topped off my glass again, saying he didn't want to see what was left in the

pitcher going to waste.  He watched me as I forced myself to drink the stuff. 

     He led me to his room, holding my wrist and towing me along.  I was very aware of my

nakedness, and I kept thinking I should be embarrassed, should be trying to run away, but

actually it was kind of exciting.  I didn't know what was in store for me, but suddenly I didn't

care.  I knew it would be something I had never experienced before.

     His bed was a huge four-poster, with a canopy.  "My wife's choice," he remarked, "former

wife."   It faced another huge-screen TV.  Off the bedroom was a bathroom that was bigger than

my bedroom in Los Altos.  "Take a shower and do whatever you have to do," he said.  "Leave the

door open."

     The toilet, I noticed, had a padded seat.  I had to use it, and he watched me pee.  I gave

him a dumb smile and tried to look unconcerned as he watched me wipe myself.

     Then I got up and staggered into the shower.  I had hardly got wet before he joined me in

the shower.  I was feeling a bit unsteady on my feet, and I didn't mind at all when he took the bar

of soap from me and started to slide it all over my body.  It felt good, especially when her rubbed

my breasts.  He rubbed the soap between my legs, working up a lather in my pubic hairs, and he

slid the bar up and down my vulva, parting my outer lips but not actually fucking me with it.  In

my befuddled state, I just stood there and enjoyed.  He turned me to face the wall and soaped my

back and ass, running the bar of soap up and down the crack, fingering my tight little asshole.

No one had ever touched me there, and it made me shudder.

     Then he turned me around and handed me the soap.  He made me soap him all over, front

and back, and between his legs.  I had touched Alvin's cock, but this was something else,

actually washing his penis and balls.  There were four shower heads, two of them on hoses.  He

unhooked one of the hand-held showers and made me rinse him off, a little at a time, with the

spray hard and close.  Then he rinsed me, and the almost stinging needles of spray sort of woke

me up from my alcoholic dreamy state.  He spent a lot of time washing the soap out of my

crotch, and at one point he set the thing to pulsating and aimed it right at my

vulva.  I thought I was going to faint.

     We dried each other with huge, soft towels.  "You really are very attractive, Wonder," he

said.

     "Thank you, Master," I replied.

     When we were more or less dry, he dimmed the lights in the bedroom and sat on the edge

of the bed.  "Fellate me," he said.

     I knelt between his widespread knees and  picked up his limp penis, the way I had seen

the blonde do it in the video.  I licked it a couple times and put the end in my mouth, where I

could swirl my tongue over the tip.  It didn't seem dirty or anything; after all, I'd just washed it

myself, and it still smelled faintly of soap.  So did I, all of me.

     In seconds, it seemed, his prick had grown big and stiff, so I almost choked on it.  He

pulled it from my mouth and lifted me to my feet.  The next thing I knew, I was on my back on

the big bed, and his head was between my widespread knees.  "Oh, Master," I gasped, "what are

you doing?"  My clitoris was all I could think of, as it sent electric-like thrills though my belly.

     He raised his head.  "Cunnilingus," he said.  Suddenly he lunged forward, and his

shoulders pushed my knees up and apart as his hands squeezed my breasts.  I felt that hard penis

pushing into me, and things happened so fast I could hardly keep track of my feelings.  It was

thrilling to have him assault me that way, almost painfully rough, but exciting.  He plunged into

me, then halfway out, then in again, bumping against my belly and pubic bone.  My breasts felt

as if they were going to explode, and he stretched my vagina as Alvin had never done.

     I could tell when he exploded inside of me, and his whole body went limp, so he lay on

top of me, mashing my breasts.  I could hardly breathe.  I knew I had been had, but good.  Hank

was a real man, a real master, and I knew I was going to enjoy my slavery.

     The best was yet to come.

     He lifted himself off me and sat back on his haunches.  I straightened my legs, so they

were either side of him.  I couldn't see, but I'm sure my stretched cunt was gaping open in front

of him, and I thought I felt seminal fluid dribbling out of me -- another first, sex without a

condom.  After Alvin, when I was eighteen and independent, I got the contraceptive implant,

anticipating the day when I could "shake hands without gloves on."  But the guy was a loser, and

I dumped him before he ever got it in me.  I'm glad he didn't.  Until that night with my Master,

the only good the implant had done me was to make my menstrual periods practically disappear,

just a little spotting some months, sometimes nothing.  That night, when my master had filled

me with his little wrigglers, millions of them trying to make me pregnant, I thanked myself for

being prepared.

     "I enjoyed that, Slave," he said.  "I had forgotten how much I needed a woman."

     "I knew," I said, coyly.  "Master, you are some lover."

     "But you didn't have an orgasm, did you?"

     "No, Master.  I enjoyed it.  I don't think I've ever had an orgasm with a man.  Alvin was

as virginal as I was, not very skilled.  Not like you."

     "I'm going to have to train you.  I won't keep a car which doesn't go when I want it to.  I

don't want a slave who won't come when I want her to."

     "I enjoyed, it, Master; really I did," I said, with genuine enthusiasm.

     My master got up and went to a closet.  He came back with four silk neckties.   He tied

each of my ankles to a bed post, and since it was a king-size bed, I felt like a wishbone, about to

be wished on.  Then he tied soft ties to my wrists; the silk was soft and didn't hurt.  He had to

pull to get them tied to the posts either side of the headboard, and I flashed on a picture I had

seen of a heretic being stretched on the rack in some ancient dungeon.  Then he stuffed a pillow

under by butt, which pulled me a bit more taut and raised my pubes up off the bed, so I was even

more obscenely exposed.  He took one of the damp towels and draped it over my head, so I

couldn't see.  He left me there, while he went to look for something.

     Lying there, stretched taut, utterly exposed, I knew I was truly enslaved, completely at

my master's mercy.  Even though I didn't have an orgasm, I had been very pleasantly aroused.

Now, I was coming down off  that peak of arousal, and I was feeling strange, kind of frustrated.

Under other circumstances, I might have fingered my clit until I came, but of course, stretched

out as I was, I couldn't touch myself at all.

     Suddenly, I felt a needle prick, right on my exposed vulva.  "How many?" he said.

     "Master?  I don't understand."

     "How many needles did you feel?"  There was another sharp pain, not pain, really, but,

you know, how else can I describe what it feels like to have a needle stuck into a very tender

place.

     "One," I said.  "That hurts."

     "How many?"

     "Two... One...Three...Two...Two...One."

     "You wonder why your master is doing this, slave?"

     "Yes, Master."

     "I'm testing to see how sensitive you are, how far apart two needles have to be before you

can identify them as two, not one."  The testing continued for what seemed like a long time, and,

strangely, I began to be turned on by it.  I couldn't get my mind off my cunt, because every

second or so I would get stuck by one or more needles.  Finally, that stopped.  I lay there,

wishing for something to happen, anything, down there.  I wanted to feel something!

     I did.  Something slapped my lower lips, a stinging slap, not enough to really hurt, but it

sure did get my attention.  Several seconds went by, as the sensation faded from my tender

vulva, and my mind was focused on what was, really what wasn't, going on.  Slap.  I was almost

happy, even though it wasn't, by itself pleasant.  Slap, slap.  I tensed in expectation, but no slap

came.  My cunt tingled.  Slap.  I must have screamed or something, because my master said,

softly, in his beautiful, resonant voice, "You must be trained, Slave."

     "Why are you punishing me, Master?" I whined.

     "If I ever feel the need to punish you, Slave, I guarantee it will hurt more than this.  This

is just testing you, establishing a baseline for further training."  He began to slap me regularly,

about once a second.  I learned later that he used an ordinary wooden ruler, twenty-nine cents at

a school supply store, but it seemed to me a diabolical torture instrument.  My sensitive lips,

repeatedly hit on just the same spot, grew incredibly tender, so that each slap seemed stronger

than the last.  Even though my clitoris was pretty much protected, each slap jiggled it, stimulated

it, until it screamed for relief, sending shivers through my belly every time the stinging slap

tortured my vulva.  Each blow seemed to ratchet me higher on a peak of sexual excitement, until

I was moaning, "Master...Master,

please.. Fuck me!  Fuck me!"

     The rhythmic blows continued, like a prick stroking in and out, except there was nothing

at all inside me.  I was whimpering and straining at the ties which bound me when, suddenly, the

periodic slaps stopped.  I was stuck there, at a peak of excitement, feeling nothing, except the

fading sting in my bruised vulva.  "Ahh!" I screamed, as I felt a hard pressure, the heel of his

hand, perhaps, mashing my tender, bruised lower lips, and then he moved back and forth,

making my tortured clit explode with senastion, and in seconds my insides were churning, my

womb was beating like a heart in my belly, and I had a crashing orgasm, saw stars, heard

thunder, lost my mind.  I think I screamed something in Spanish, but I can't remember, as I was

only aware of the explosions in my belly, blasts which seemed to reverberate through my body.

     And then I was coming down, feeling hot, flushed, aware that I had pulled so hard

against the ties that my wrists were chafed.  I wasn't allowed to relax, however, for now he began

to torment me with a feather, stroking my erect nipples, touching the sensitive skin of my inner

thighs, making circles around my navel, tracing the creases of my breasts as they lay sprawled

across my chest.  He even slipped it between my spread legs and tickled my anus.  It wasn't

exactly sexy, but the sensation, when I couldn't feel or see or hear anything else, drove me to

distraction.

     I felt Master sucking my right nipple, as he stroked my other breast with the feather, and

then he sucked my swollen tit into his mouth and rasped his tongue against my tender skin. "Oh,

please," I moaned, and he answered me by slipping two fingers into my sopping vagina.  "Oh,

yes," I sighed, as he moved his fingers in and out.  He hooked his fingers against the back of my

pubic bone, while he pressed my clit with his thumb.  I strained at the ties and moaned and tried

to rock my hips and, God, I came again.

     My  master tortured me thus for hours, making me come again and again, until I ached

with fatigue.  The cunnilingus thing worked best, when he sucked my swollen clit between his

lips and savaged it with his tongue.  It was like fellatio, in miniature, and if men feel anything

like what I felt, I can see why they like it.  I was almost continuously aroused, had countless

orgasms, felt as worn out as if I'd run five miles.

     At last, I heard the big clock in the living room strike twelve times.  My master, who had

been using the feather, stopped and began to untie me, not easy, as my struggles had pulled the

knots tight.  Finally he cut me free.  "Your shift is over," he said.  I just lay there, exhausted.  I

felt him pick me up and carry me to my bed.  I remember him tucking me in, like a child, and

then I must have fallen asleep.