II
AFTER THE WEEKEND
She had been back for three days and she still ached. Her whole body
ached, but especially her nipples. The right one, which had been burned before
he had put the clamp on it, throbbed with every beat of her heart. Sometimes she
couldn't tell whether it was her heart beating or the steady throbbing that was
keeping her alive. Because she was feeling more alive than she had for a long
time. Because of the constant aching. The residue of the pain.
And the memories.
Gradually, over the days, the pain had subsided. The ache was fading.
The memories would not.
God. She had let herself in for it again, what she had kept at bay for
so long. Her own particular hell. Or paradise.
Both.
And now she was in it, and didn't know if she could get out again.
Or if she wanted to.
She came home from work and went into the bedroom to change. Took off
her blouse, skirt, and bra, reaching for the soft pullover and faded jeans she
would wear for her planned evening at home. But she stopped. The air felt good
on her aching nipples. She was sharply aware of the steady throbbing. Keeping
her alive.
Her eyes went to the little drawer in her night table.
No, she thought.
She was going back to him for another weekend. Not this weekend, but the
next. So she had promised. The thought tightened her throat, made butterflies in
her stomach. She had promised.
Wait till then, she thought.
It seemed like a long time.
Wait.
Her hand went to the knob on the little drawer.
She pulled it open.
There they were. The clamps. The ones he had put on her nipples before
she left. The ones he had told her not to take off until she got home. Or until
she fucked somebody. And of course she had obeyed.
They were so wicked.
No, she thought.
Her nipples were hard.
Throbbing.
Don't, she thought. Wait.
She started to close the drawer. But she didn't.
A tiny whimper came from her throat.
Just one, she thought.
No.
Just for a little while. A few minutes. That's all.
Don't.
She closed the drawer. She was panting. She opened it again.
She picked up one of the clamps. Her hand was unsteady.
Doomed, she thought.
She put the saw-toothed clamp over her right nipple and turned the
little screw.
She turned it until she cried out.
Then she gave it another half-turn.
As he would.
She sank to her knees and bent over, rocking.
The throbbing filled her now.
Filled her with pain.
With agony.
With life.
She fell onto her side and put her hands between her legs.
#
She had stopped coming and was lying on the bedroom floor, trying to
recover her breath, when the doorbell rang.
Oh god.
"Who is it?" she called, making an effort to sound calm.
"Pam? It's Gretchen."
"Oh. Okay. Hold on a minute, Gretch, okay? I'm--I'm in the john."
"Okay."
Long breaths. Swiftly she pulled on her jeans, then the pullover. It
took some effort.
She didn't take off the clamp.
She wiped sweat from her face as she went to the door.
"Hey, Pam, I just came over to ask you about--" Gretchen stopped and
stared at her. "Hey, what's wrong?"
"Nothing," she said. Her voice didn't sound normal, she knew. "Nothing,
come on in."
Gretchen kept looking at her as she entered the apartment. "Pammy, you
look--Pammy, what the hell's going on?"
She started to speak, then just shook her head. There was no hiding it.
Not from Gretchen.
"Wait a minute," Gretchen said. "Did I interrupt something? You got a
guy in here?"
She shook her head again.
"Well, what?" Gretchen said. "It's something. I know you. Oh Christ,
you're into that again, aren't you? You're hurting. Oh Jesus, Pam. You got
something..."
Pamela nodded. She knew the agony was in her eyes. She also knew they
were shining.
"What?" Gretchen said. "What is it, for god's sake?"
Pamela lifted up the loose pullover.
"Oh, Jesus H. Christ!" Gretchen said.
"Gretch..." She was breathless.
"Take that thing off," Gretchen said.
Pamela shook her head.
"Okay," Gretchen said. "I'm leaving."
"No."
"Pamela--"
"Gretchen, please."
"No way."
"Gretchen, remember..."
"Yeah, I remember. No way, Pam."
"You used to enjoy it."
"That was a long time ago. When David was alive."
"You used to like it."
"Not any more."
"Please, Gretch."
"Pammy--Jesus--"
"Please."
Gretchen stared at her as she stood there, still holding the top above
her breasts. Her body swaying, shivering, her breath coming hard. Gretchen
looked at her breasts. After a minute she moved forward and reached out,
touching the breast with the clamp on it. Her hand moved to the nipple and
fondled the clamp. Then her fingers closed around the clamp and twisted it hard.
Pamela screamed loudly and fell to her knees.
"You bitch," Gretchen said.
"Yes, Gretch. Yes. Yes."
Gretchen reached down and slapped the clamped breast with all her force.
Pamela screamed again.
"Fucking twisted cunt."
"Yes," Pamela whimpered.
Gretchen took the belt out of the jeans she was wearing. Then she took
the jeans off. Then her panties. She spread her legs wide, then took hold of
Pamela's hair and pulled her face into her crotch. As Pamela began to do what
she wanted, she raised the belt and brought it down on the moaning girl's back.
#
"I'm going to get you for this," Gretchen said.
"For what, Gretch?" They were lying naked on the bed, both spent and
languorous. She had taken off the clamp. The throbbing was worse, there were new
aches, and she was still alive. "For giving you pleasure? For giving you a
chance to do what you love to do? For making you feel better than you probably
have in years?"
"For dragging me back in," Gretchen said. "Maybe you want to let this
sickness take over your life again, but I don't. It's like I was sober for
years, and you gave me a drink. That's evil, Pam. And I'm going to pay you
back."
She felt like laughing. She was almost giddy. "How are you going to do
that, Gretch? What can you do to me that I won't enjoy?"
"I know where Brad Golub is," Gretchen said.
There was a long silence.
"So what?" Pamela said at last.
"I'll tell him where you are," Gretchen said.
Another silence.
"Go ahead," Pamela said. "Tell him."
#
He was waiting for her that Friday when she came home from work.
When she turned on the lights and saw him she almost fell down. But she
forced herself to appear cool. "Hello, Brad," she said.
"I hear you're back in the game, Pamela," he said.
Cool. "In the first place, Brad, it's not a game for me. It never was.
In the second place, I'm not back in anything. But I am involved with someone.
So I'm not available, if that's what you're thinking."
"Sure you are, Pamela. Don't shit a shitter. You're a shit-ass piece of
pussy who'll crawl over ground glass to eat my turds. Isn't that right, crud
cunt?"
"Go to hell, Brad," Pamela said. She knew he could see how his words
were making her breathe faster.
"If I do, you'll come with me, shitface," Brad said. "But don't worry, I
don't want to own your filthy ass. I just want a little good dirty fun with you,
like your fucking fart brother wouldn't let me have. You remember that, turd
breath? He'd whore you out to every fucking guy in school, but not me. And you
know why, don't you, pig tits?"
"Brad--"
"Sure you do. Because I could get to you like even he couldn't. I could
take you away from him in a fucking heartbeat, I could make you do things he
couldn't even imagine. Isn't that right, you fucking whore cunt? Isn't it?"
"I'm not doing this," Pamela said as evenly as she could. "I'm not
getting into this with you, Brad. I'm not."
Brad smiled.
"I'm seeing someone else," Pamela said.
"Strip for me, Pam," Brad said.
"He is my Master, all right? I'm seeing him again next weekend. I'm not
available, Brad. Please understand."
"Come over here and stand in front of me and take off your clothes,"
Brad said. "Then get down on your knees and take my cock out. Then ask me if you
can suck it for me. Then do it very slowly. And when I come, pull it out and
take my come all over your face. Then clean my cock off with your hair. Then
kiss my feet. And we'll go on from there. Do it, whore."
"No," Pamela said. "Please leave, Brad." She went into the bedroom and
closed the door behind her. She sat on the bed and closed her eyes and hugged
herself tightly, rocking on the bed. She sat there for fifteen minutes. Then she
got up, went to the door and opened it. Brad was still sitting in the living
room. She went over and stood in front of him. Then she took off her clothes.
All of them. Then she went down on her knees and took out his cock. She asked
him if she could suck it. He made her beg for it before he said yes. She sucked
him as slowly and as skilfully as she could, and when he came she took it all
over her face. Then she cleaned off his cock with her hair, and then she kissed
his feet.
And they went on from there.
#
She awoke to the sound of screaming.
It was loud, female, and obviously agonized. It assaulted her eardrums
and made her head ache. It was coming from her living room.
Brad, she thought. He was still here. Had he brought another woman into
her house? At this hour? And was he doing to this woman the things he had done
to her last night? Pamela closed her eyes as she remembered last night. Not that
she could have forgotten. Every part of her body ached and throbbed, and she
could barely move. She was a little surprised to find that she wasn't bound. But
she might as well have been. Every attempted movement brought new pain to some
part of her. She lay as still as she could, absorbing the pain, remembering the
night, and listening to the screams.
Oh god, what was he doing to her?
And then Brad was standing in the bedroom doorway, grinning at her.
While the screams went on, unabated.
"Good morning, fuckmouth," Brad said, over the noise. "Enjoying the
music?"
She was confused. She opened her mouth, but nothing came out. She had to
swallow and clear her throat several times before she could speak.
"Brad...what...who..."
His grin broadened. "Don't you recognize that, pig tits? It's you!
Sounds real good, don't you think?"
Understanding came to her. "You--last night--you taped it..."
"That's right, piggy. Preserved for posterity. Entertainment for some
lonely night. Or to share with others who might be interested."
She didn't even want to think about what he meant. "Are you staying?"
she asked flatly, wondering what she wanted the answer to be.
"Maybe for a while," Brad said. "We had fun last night, didn't we, whore
face?"
"You did," Pamela said.
"And you loved every minute of it. Didn't you, baby bitch? Come on, you
know you can't lie to me."
"Oh god," Pamela said. A tear rolled out of her eye.
"You don't want to give that up, do you, slutmouth? Not when we've just
found each other again."
She labored to keep her voice steady. "Brad...I told you...I'm
already..."
"Yeah, yeah, I know. You got some guy out in Nowheresville you said
you'd go back to next weekend. Well, we'll have to see about that, Pammy cunt.
If I'm not tired of you by then, you might just wanna stick around."
The screaming was still going on.
"I never get tired of this," Brad said. "My dick has been stiff for the
last half hour, listening to your music, Pammy slut. Come on inside and suck me
for awhile."
"Christ, Brad," Pamela said. "I can't even move right now."
"Sure you can, fucktoy." Her eyes flew to his at his use of that word.
All the words he used for her, all the abusive names he called her had an effect
on her, and he knew it. But this word went deeper. David had called her fucktoy.
Did he know that? Of course he did. "Now get out of that bed and come inside.
You don't have to walk. You can crawl. You know I like to watch you crawl." And
before she could say anything else he turned and went back into the living room.
Fire shot through her body as she slowly and laboriously eased herself
out of the bed. Sliding herself over the edge until she could reach the floor
with her hands, resting on them, the lower half of her still on the bed. Every
muscle, every joint, everything she had seemed to radiate pain. With a great
effort she pulled herself along until she was clear of the bed, her knees
cracking against the floor as her legs fell free. Slowly then, she began to
crawl across the room on her hands and knees. She was breathing hard and making
little whimpering sounds of pain.
And her crotch was wet.
Brad was sitting in the chair in which she had seen him when she had
come in the night before. His fly was open, his cock sticking up. The screaming
on the tape was louder in here. Had she really screamed that much, that long? He
must have started the tape over, she thought. He must have. God, it sounded
awful. And it had been. Awful and wonderful. Tears fell from her eyes again as
she made her slow crawling way across the living room, crawling to Brad's chair,
crawling between his legs.
His head fell back and he closed his eyes, smiling contentedly as Pamela
bent her head to him and sucked him off to the sound of her screams.
#
"Yeah, last night was nice," Brad said. "But that's just not gonna do
it, shitlicker. Pain is easy. Besides, you like it too much. That's not what I
looked you up for."
"You looked me up because Gretchen told you where I was," Pamela said.
Her voice was muffled because her head was still buried in his crotch, held
there by his hands tangled in her hair. Now he pulled at that hair so that her
head came up, her eyes meeting his. Holding her that way, he calmly and
deliberately spat in her face.
"That's how I found out where you were, not why I decided to come," Brad
said. "I came because we have some unfinished business, Pamela cunt. And that
fucking brother of yours isn't around any more to interfere."
Tears came to her eyes. They were caused partly by the sharply painful
pulling at her scalp as he forced her head back by her hair. But not completely.
"You don't...have to talk...about David that way," she said, fighting for
breath. "I...I loved him."
"Yeah, you loved him, you cunt." He gave a sharp tug at her hair,
bringing a small cry from her. "And you hated me. But you know fucking well who
you belonged to, deep down. You know I could make you tie yourself into knots
for me, you worthless piece of shit. I could take you places your shit brother
never heard of. And you were dying to go there, but you chickened out and let
him run me off. Well I'm back now, turd tits. And this time I'm gonna take you
places even you might not wanna go to. But you will, won't you, fucktoy? 'Cause
you can't help yourself, and you fucking well know it."
Pamela felt sick. Little involuntary moans were coming from her mouth,
and the juices were flowing between her legs. But she felt sick.
#
She was glad it was Saturday, because she would have been too stiff and
sore to go to work that day. Although Brad had lightened up on the physical
abuse over the weekend, she was still stiff on Monday as well, but Brad insisted
she go in. "I'm tired of looking at your face, shitpuss,* he told her. "Go to
your fucking job. And bring back some food, for Chrissake. There's nothing but
shit to eat around here."
Part of her was surprised that he wanted her to leave. She had half
expected him to keep her there by force for however long he intended to stay.
How did he know she wouldn't run off, hide someplace? Or even go to the police?
No. He knew she'd come back. And so did she.
When she was dressed for work and about to leave he stopped her. "Hold
it, pig tits. You don't think you're going out like that, do you?"
She looked down at her tailored blouse and slacks outfit. "Yes, of
course. What's wrong with it?"
"Take it off."
"Brad, I'm--"
"Take it off, turd breath. Now."
She took off the slacks and the blouse.
"The other stuff too."
She took off her bra and panties and stood naked before him.
"Now," Brad said. "Go get that stuff you wore to that restaurant last
weekend."
She stared at him. She had told him the story, of course. At his
request, she had told him all about the weekend, every detail. Between screams.
He had particularly liked the part about the dog. "Hey, that's a new one
even for you, right, Pammy twat?" he'd said. "Old David never made you do that,
did he now? This old guy sounds like he knows what he's doing. What's his name
again?"
"I don't know his name," Pamela had said truthfully. "He never told me."
And for that Brad had made her scream again.
Now she stared at him. "I can't wear that to work, Brad," she got out.
"It--it's just--"
"Why not? Afraid you'll get raped, Pammy poop? Hell, you'd enjoy that,
wouldn't you?"
"Brad, look--"
"Get it," Brad said. "Put it on."
"Can I at least..." she indicated the bra and panties.
"No," Brad said.
The costume was as bad as she remembered. Worse. Her nipples were
swollen from the things Brad had done to them, and they stood out even more
conspicuously, more boldly against the tightly clinging pullover top, as did
every curve of her breasts. The skirt seemed to have shrunk even more, if that
was possible; it barely hid her crotch. She bit at her lip as she looked at
herself in her bedroom mirror.
He'll ruin your life, she told herself. That's what he wants, after all.
To ruin your life. You don't have to let him.
She turned and walked into the living room.
Brad whistled and then grinned when she came in. "That's perfect," he
said. "Have a good day, baby."
"If I wear this I'll get fired," she said flatly.
"You? You think they would fire a nice sexy girl like you?"
"Yes, if I--"
"A sweet luscious piece of ass like you? A fine, willing little
cocksucker, who can--"
Pamela's face changed. "Brad--"
"--who can make them happy with her--"
"Brad, no."
"Tell you what you do, Pamela."
"No. Brad. Stop right there."
"If your boss gives you a hard time..."
"Don't say it, Brad. I don't want to--"
"If he complains about what you're wearing..."
"Stop, Brad! Please. Please!"
"Just tell him you'll take it off," Brad said.
"No," Pamela said. "No. No."
"And then do it," Brad said.
"I won't do that," Pamela said.
"And then tell him you'll suck his cock for him. I bet he won't fire you
then."
"I won't," Pamela said, tears in her eyes. "You bastard. I won't."
Brad smiled. "Let me know how it goes," he said.
#
You don't have to do this, she told herself, all the way to work. Doing
her best to ignore the staring eyes, the turning heads, the remarks made to her
by men on the street, on the subway. You don't have to ruin your life. Not
for Brad, for god's sake. You can stop it right now. Just say no. Go back and
change your clothes. Or even stop into a store, buy new clothes to wear to work.
Something.
Anything.
At work the stares continued, but this was worse, because here she knew
the people who were staring at her, and they knew her. Even those who tried to
be tactful and not to stare couldn't help stealing looks at her when they
thought she wouldn't notice. And not everyone was tactful. There were whistles.
And comments too. "Damn, you look sexy today, Pamela!" "Hey, Pam, really letting
it all hang out there, aren't you?" The women regarded her either with outright
disapproval or unbelieving wonderment. Walking around, she couldn't keep her
breasts from jiggling obviously under the snug top, and hunching her shoulders
to make them less obvious didn't seem to help at all. Seated at her desk, she
pulled her chair as close to it as possible in an attempt to hide the skirt that
constantly threatened to ride up over her naked crotch. The fact that that
crotch was moistening the chair beneath her did not lessen her sense of
humiliation and shame.
The day crawled by, and it was four o'clock when the thing she had been
dreading happened. She was called into the office of Mr. Posner, the office
manager.
She became aware that she was shaking slightly as she walked across the
floor toward his office. You don't have to do anything, she told herself. Just
be polite, apologize, say it was an aberration or something, say you won't do it
again. That's all. The hell with Brad. The hell with him!
She went into Mr. Posner's office and, without being asked, closed the
door behind her.
Posner was a plump, pleasant-looking man in his mid-forties, with
thinning hair and a small mustache. He smiled at her, a little nervously, she
thought, and he seemed to be making an effort to keep his eyes on her face. "Ah,
Pamela," he said. "Um--sit down, please."
Just apologize, she told herself again, sitting in the chair across from
his desk. A lapse in judgement, a silly whim, won't happen again, sir, I'm
sorry. Seated, she folded her hands over her nearly visible crotch and tried not
to breathe too deeply.
"Um," Posner said. "Pamela, you--ah, how long have you been with us now,
Pamela?"
"Two years," she replied. "A little more."
"Ah. Yes. And you are--you have always done a good job for us. We,
ah--we value you as an employee here at C&H. I hope you know that."
"Thank you, sir. I try to do my best."
"Which is fine. We have no complaints. Except--" he hesitated.
She waited, saying nothing.
"Well, it's just--the way you are dressed," Posner said. "Today, I mean.
It's just--it's a little--well, it seems a bit inappropriate, shall we say. For
an office environment. It's, um...distracting, and--well..."
She nodded, as if agreeing with him. She felt tense. Okay, just say
you're sorry, that's all. Smooth it over and get out of here. The hell with
Brad. Don't think about Brad. He'll just ruin your life.
"I understand," Pamela said. "I'm sorry. I'm really sorry." She paused.
"These clothes...are a mistake," she said. Then she stood up. "I'll take them
off," she said. And before Posner could react she had grasped the bottom of the
pullover and peeled it up, over her breasts and off over her head, dropping it
onto the chair.
Posner's mouth was open, his eyes wide. "P-Pamela!" he gasped.
"What--what--"
She didn't pause. She couldn't, because if she thought about what she
was doing she might as well kill herself. She undid the catch on the skirt and
let it drop around her feet. Naked, she stood there.
Posner wasn't even trying to say anything now. He just stared at her.
I'm sure to get fired now, she thought.
The remainder of Brad's instructions burned in her brain. `And then tell
him you'll suck his cock for him.' No, she thought. No. This is enough. Oh god,
isn't this enough?
"Mr. Posner?" she said. "I'd like to suck your cock for you."
His face was blotchy, his eyes popping. She wondered if he was going to
have a heart attack. That's it, she thought. Brad just said to tell him that. He
didn't say I actually had to do it. Did he?
No.
But that was what he meant.
No.
Of course it was.
I don't have to. I don't have to do any of this. Screw Brad. Screw him
all to hell.
Oh god, the door's not even locked, she thought as she moved around the
desk and knelt in front of Posner's chair. Anybody could come in. Posner could
only gaze at her like a deer in the headlights as she opened his fly and brought
out his penis, which was hard, and surprisingly large.
Oh lord, I am shit, she thought, and took him in her mouth.
"Oh, Jesus Christ!" Posner cried out, so loudly that she was sure his
words could be heard outside the closed door. Pamela shut her eyes and began to
suck him deeply.
#
"Well, how did it go?" Brad asked as she came home that evening,
carrying several bags of groceries.
"I didn't get fired," Pamela said. "Yet. But I still might."
"Well, don't worry about it, shitface. You can always go out on the
streets. You can wear one of those signs like the out-of-work bums do. `Will
fuck for food.' How's that?" He grinned at her. "Hell, I'd like to see that.
You'd never starve, I guarantee you that."
"You're a bastard," Pamela said tiredly. "But you know that, don't you?"
"Well, you've told me enough times," Brad replied. "And yet here we are.
Did you do what I told you with your boss?"
"With one of them. Yes. The office manager. Yes, I did it. I took my
clothes off for him and I sucked him off. I don't know why, but I did it."
"Because I told you to, fuckmouth."
"Yes. Because you told me to." She had put the bags down and now
collapsed into a chair. "But Christ, you don't have magical powers. I don't even
like you."
He grinned again. "That's what makes it so nice," he said.
"For you," she said. "All right, yes, I'm sick, I'm twisted, I'm a
freak. I can't help getting turned on when I'm hurt or mistreated. We all know
that. But Jesus, I've got a brain, I've got some choices, I don't just go around
doing every damn thing everybody tells me to do. I must have some
self-preservation instinct, or I'd be dead. Why should I let you ruin my life?
Why?"
"You think too much, Pammy poop," Brad said. "Just accept it. You'll
jump off a cliff if I tell you to. That's how it is. I own you. Body and soul."
"I can't let you," Pamela said, almost to herself.
"No? Tell you what, fucktoy. I think you need a little refreshment to
cheer you up a little. Go into the bathroom and drink the water out of the
toilet."
She closed her eyes. "Brad--"
"Do it," Brad said.
"Brad, please. Don't--"
"Do it, fucktoy."
"I don't want to," Pamela said.
"I know. Do it."
"No," she said. "I won't."
Brad just waited.
She used all the will power she had to keep herself in the chair. He
couldn't make her do anything she didn't want to do, she told herself. He could
use physical force, he could hurt her, but that wasn't what this was about, and
they both knew it. She gripped the arms of the chair and planted her feet on the
floor and ordered herself not to move.
Then, with tears in her eyes, she stood up and started toward the
bathroom.
"Crawl," Brad said.
#
After that he had her drink the water in the toilet bowl every day.
Sometimes he peed in it first. Sometimes he pushed her face down into the bowl
as she was drinking, soaking her hair and holding her there for long moments,
until she almost wondered if he meant to drown her. She knew he wouldn't, but he
became adept at keeping her head in the water right up to the point where she
couldn't hold her breath any longer. It always made him hard to see her there on
her knees, her bent body jerking spasmodically, her hands wildly fluttering,
trying to find something to grasp at. And when he finally pulled her out, he
loved to jam his cock into her mouth as she was still gasping and panting and
gulping desperately for air, and make her suck him off that way.
Meanwhile she had lost her job. Brad had made her wear that same outfit
the next day, telling her to repeat what she had done with Posner with anyone
else in authority who admonished her. And if that's not enough, he had said,
fuck him too. Pamela had been too weary even to make a show of objecting. What
if it's a woman? she had asked him. So what? Brad had replied. Nobody's gonna
pass up the chance to fuck you, sweet tits.
And nobody had. Although none of them were women. On the second day she
had been called into the Personnel office and threatened with dismissal, and she
had stripped and sucked off the Personnel Manager, and had thus been let off
with a warning. When she wore the same outfit the third day, the matter came to
the attention of the president of the company. By then everyone there had heard
about what had happened in Posner's office (his cries had indeed been overheard,
and besides, he had been unable to refrain from telling people about it), and
the president was no exception. So he was not surprised when she stripped for
him, but he wasn't satisfied with a blow job. So she had fucked him, sitting on
his lap in his big chair and moving up and down on his cock while he squeezed
and mouthed her breasts. After that he said he would give her one more chance,
but she must dress properly in the future. When, on Brad's insistance, she wore
the same clothes again the following day, she was fired.
Brad actually made a sign saying `Will Fuck For Food' and talked about
making her wear it on the street. But that idea was soon pushed into the
background by another.
