An Inquisitive Federal Agent

East Coast Slaver Organization Story - XII

Chapter 01 – Intrigued by the Mystery (or What are You … Umph!)

By: Desert Dog

Special Agent Sam Valiant threw the file she had been studying aside with a sigh of exasperation. She rubbed her aching temples with her fingertips while glancing at her notes displayed on the twenty-one-inch monitor and her desktop littered with piles of files. Despite her headache, her brain kept up a whirl of thoughts and possibilities while she waited for her fingers to get the throbbing to subside. Finally, she returned her fingers to the keyboard where they first moved hesitantly and then began to flicker quickly from key to key. She was becoming excited. “Maybe there is a connection,” she muttered with enthusiasm.

“Shit!” she muttered, angrily kicking out at the desk as her latest thought didn't bear fruit. Sam had been building a complicated set of interconnection diagrams between telephone numbers of possible suspects in a series of drug-related murders in Miami , Florida . The charts tied personalities, phones, locations, and in some cases, taped cell intercepts and wiretaps of conversations. “The problem is,” she griped, “that there is no clear connection between the drug organizations and the team of killers.”

Taking a deep breath, she glanced about the darkened sea of cubicles around her. “As usual,” she complained, “they're all gone. It's no wonder this is driving me nuts; nobody even cares about the deaths of a buncha drug organization thugs and their missing bimbos.” Since the office was clearly empty at nine thirty on a Friday night, Sam safely leaned back and stretched her arms high over her head, thrusting her full D-cup breasts up and straining the buttoned suit jacket she wore nearly to the bursting point. Deciding none of her chauvinistic male colleagues were around, she stood up to remove her jacket and got comfortable with a grateful sigh. “It's a fucking disaster having to work with these Neanderthal morons,” she thought. Sam's heavy-duty bra, built to carry her pendulous breasts, was evident as an extra-wide band of lace under her blouse and camisole top. Her breasts were both a symbolic bane to her existence and paradoxically, one of her most prized possessions.

Sam Valiant, born Samantha Louise Valiant, was twenty-eight years old and a one-year veteran of the Miami Field Office of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Driven and focused, Sam had always known she was going to be a cop. She took local community college courses in criminology while still in high school and then moved on to earn a Bachelor of Science in Criminal Justice Programs at nearby Florida Metropolitan University . After deciding the course work was far simpler than she had expected, Sam raised the standards of her goals significantly and went on to complete her law degree at Florida State University . She easily passed her Florida Board of Bar Examiners test and became a legally practicing attorney. With her intelligence and focused dedication proven, Samantha Valiant easily wowed the F.B.I. interview team and she was accepted as a trainee at the F.B.I. Academy in Quantico , Virginia . As a new agent, Sam spent much of her time engrossed in studies at the Forensic Science Research and Training Unit and the Behavioral Science Unit. Special Agent Valiant's first posting was to an office in her old stomping grounds; she was assigned to the Miami Field Office. Sam's hoped for niche in the F.B.I . was as an investigator because she had little interest in becoming a supervising field agent despite her physical prowess.

When Sam reported for duty in Miami , her physical attributes simply overwhelmed her male colleagues. At the time, she was twenty-six, stood five-feet-eleven-inches tall in her bare feet, and weighed in at one hundred and sixty-five pounds. Solid muscle packed into an athlete's body, Sam found time every day to drive herself to exhaustion with a grueling two-hour workout. Through college, and later working for the FBI, Sam budgeted money for her gym membership and a personal trainer to hold her to her exacting standards. Despite her solid build, Samantha Louis Valiant had a body to die for with wide hips and a perfectly sculpted ass, an amazingly tiny waist, and natural hooters that a Las Vegas callgirl would have paid tens of thousands of dollars to have. Samantha was, in common terms, ‘built like a brick shithouse' and had a body that every man in the field office dreamed of trading their souls to possess, even for a single night. Sam, not even remotely interested in dating or a relationship of any kind, was extremely protective of her privacy and coldly rebuffed any attempt by her horny colleagues to get to know her. Because of her cold attitude, many of the men in the office came to distrust her and fear working beside her, despite her proven track record with solving cold cases. The few professional women and the secretarial staff in the office followed the lead of the males, distancing themselves from what they saw as an overly competitive Amazon, who although rumored to have zero interest in sex, was clearly the kind of woman that could easily pluck any scrumptious catch right out of their hands. Sam was a threat to every woman in the F.B.I. Field Office.

Like all F.B.I. agents, Sam's style of dress was conservative and immaculate. She always wore a dark tailored jacket, usually expensive white blouses, and either a matching skirt or slacks. Sam wore panties, pantyhose, and a camisole top to work every day regardless of her choice of skirt or slacks and she wore footwear that was comfortable at a sprint or during her normal fourteen-hour-workday. Amazingly, Sam didn't own a single set of sexy underwear, alluring eveningwear, or glamorous outfits for the bedroom; instead, she was business personified, focusing solely on work, and taking no time off for vacations or relaxation.

Several things about the clearly related murders and disappearances in her current case were very troubling to Sam. First, only men had been killed in the bloody confrontations; the drug dealers' girlfriends, partygirls, and other women placed at the murder scenes had simply disappeared without a trace. Second, while bodies were found, they were only from a single drug organization and no bodies were ever found from the attacking organization. Third, while the police made a point of heralding the amount of drugs and cash found at each of the scenes, the whole thing was fishy. Sam felt that no drugs or cash should have been found because the survivors of the shootouts would have taken everything. Fourth, while police agents had been on stakeout at one of the sites, no law enforcement agents were killed. The last piece of the puzzle that bothered Sam was that the only females to reappear were members of the very counterdrug task force charged with monitoring one of the drug organizations.

She took a deep breath, pleased with the feel of her large breasts lurching under the expensively tailored woman's blouse. Because of her tiny waist and overly large muscular shoulders, no off the shelf blouse looked right without extensive tailoring. Ignoring Sam's breasts, her chest measurement alone was a solid thirty-eight inches of muscle. Plopping D-cup jugs atop a chest that rivaled a male gymnast, gave Samantha Louise Valiant a whopping 44-D bra size. Actually, it was a point of honor for Sam to squeeze her giant milk bags into the D-cup bra even though she clearly would be more comfortable in an E-cup. The slightly too small D-cups more tightly restrained her mountainous breasts, holding them in place from moving about in a distracting manner during work. She had found that even F.B.I. agents lost at least thirty IQ points when they noticed her massive mammaries. An unexpected jiggle or two and no man in the office could maintain any thread of coherent thought. Sam was tired of the brainless babbling of the twits that worked beside her.

Special Agent Valiant looked again at the listing of dead and missing persons. “The first incident was at the legal office of an attorney suspected of laundering funds for the Oscar Lynden Organization,” she mumbled aloud. “Only one body had been found in the charred remains of the office structure, Nathanial Itzel Archibold, the attorney. His paralegal and secretary were never found.” She traced her fingers across the drug trafficking chart she had built. “Then, just days later, the Lynden Organization virtually ceases to exist. Oscar Lynden, his primary lieutenant James Lee, and at least six of his enforcers die at two different locations in the Miami area.” Her other interconnection diagram had confirmed ties within the Lynden Organization to key area dealers, banking connections, and Mexican, Caribbean , and Colombian connections. “The part that bothers me is that supposedly they had a run in with an expansion of the Arellano Felix Organization of Mexico who released their enforcers, the Las Zetas, on them. There is just no substantiation of that theory. I haven't found a single connection between the Lynden Organization and Arellano Felix, Jamaicans, or Las Zetas. This just looks fishy to me.”

“At the same time,” she continued thinking aloud, “Oscar's bimbo, his lieutenant's undercover girlfriend, a cocaine party-girl-housewife and her girlfriend, and two agents in an undercover surveillance mission all turn up missing. It just doesn't make sense.” Another unproved connection to the demise of the largest crack and prostitution ring in Miami also bothered her. “Next Guy Brent, his trophy wife, his mistress sisters, and three key thugs disappear along with most of the evidence that could have led to the millions he had stashed away.” She took another look at the data and muttered, “In fact, … the forensic teams never found any leads to other drugs, cash, illegal off-shore accounts, or to suppliers and customers. All the off-shore accounts had already been raided by someone.” She frowned again and added, “That's partially why I'm so suspicious of the three law enforcement agents who so miraculously showed up with detailed proof of this supposed failed scheme by the Arellano Felix Organization to take over in Miami.” Even though many arrests and the seizure of drugs and cash followed, Sam thought it was all too weak, too implausible given that no outside evidence backed up the story given by the three female agents.

“It stinks worse than a whore after servicing a platoon of crab-infested Marines,” she grinned at her private humor. Samantha Louise Valiant would never crack an off-color joke except to herself. Her own special brand of wit demonstrated the weakness of males of her species in making lousy judgments when it came to getting their craniums to overcome the smaller brain lodged in the front of their cocks. Sam didn't hate men, their cocks, or heterosexual liaisons; no, she simply didn't want to put up with the childish nature of the men she knew and didn't want to waste time in searching for a better man.

Deaths and Missing Persons Under Investigation:

Legend

Missing, presumed dead

Missing, no indication of death

Nathanial Itzell Archibold :	Dead - lawyer, associate of Oscar Lynden
Katria Sjogreen :	Missing - paralegal (26, blonde)
Wanda Alvernon :	Missing - legal secretary (22, brunette)
Oscar Lynden :	Dead - drug kingpin
James Lee :	Dead - drug dealer's lieutenant
Michael Mueller :	Missing, unknown status – accountant, associate of Lynden
June Curl :	Missing - Oscar's girlfriend (25, black hair)
Karen Rigden :	Missing - Lee's girlfriend, undercover agent (24, 5'3", blonde)
Emily Davis :	Missing - trophy housewife (26, blonde)
Pamela Bondi :	Missing - friend of trophy housewife (25, brunette)
Helen Powell :	Missing - Fla. law enforcement rep (27, black hair)
Regina Tyre :	Missing - Fla. Bureau Statewide Prosecution (26, brunette)
Six Enforcers :	Dead - low-level enforcers in Lynden's organization
Guy Brent :	Missing, presumed dead - crack dealer, forced prostitution
Cynthia Brent :	Missing - Guy's trophy wife (36)
Gloria Petrillo :	Missing - Guy's current love interest (23)
Danielle Petrillo :	Missing - Guy's current love interest (21)
Mick Canniffe :	Missing, presumed dead - dealer's enforcer (Irish)
Raul de Souza :	Missing, presumed dead - dealer's enforcer (Brazilian)
Muhammad Poole :	Missing, presumed dead - dealer's enforcer (black)

Agent Valiant made a final tabulation; thirteen bad guys dead or presumed dead and eleven women missing. “What are the freaking odds of that,” she thought. Sam dumped pictures of the women out of a folder. “Hmmm,” she mused, “the only connection is that they are all pretty. In fact, even the trophy housewife who wandered too deeply into cocaine parties had a gorgeous girlfriend watching over her the night she went to buy drugs from James Lee.” Sam's intelligence profile on James Lee indicated that he often got his lieutenants to cull the prettiest customers from the herd and bring them to his home to get them hooked on free coke at his notorious fuck-a-thon cocaine parties. “Emily probably got what she deserved, but I'm not so sure about her friend, Pamela Bondi. Oh, well, … that's the problem with getting too close to fire, sometimes it gets out of control and burns you.”

Despite Sam's certainty that all men were ruled by their cocks, she had difficulty accepting her least favorite, and most unlikely, scenario to explain their disappearance. “Slavers,” she thought with distain, “How is it possible for slavers to exist in the United States ? Sure, … overseas where there is a huge business for third-world women to work in whorehouses worldwide. But, … here in Miami ?” Sam berated herself for even thinking the idea. “No,” she spit, “the women's disappearance has to be tied to something else, and I'm just too dense to see it.” She turned back to her files and tried to think of new approaches.

Sam was truly intrigued by the case and it wasn't that she was jealous and envied the attention and accolades that the three female lawmen had received. No, it was simply that the inability to tie loose ends together in this case offended her. What Agent Valiant didn't know, and was unlikely to discover, was that after novice slaver Aaron Clarke found riches at every turn while establishing his business in Miami , he allowed his conscience to adjust his business model. He still had no qualms about killing or enslaving those he judged evil or guilty of crimes. However, he did arrange for something he called a ‘catch and release program' for those he had already enslaved that were innocents. He first tested this crazy idea (clearly derived by a rapist scoundrel of a murdering slaver) on the three captured law enforcement agents: Karen Rigden, a twenty-four year-old undercover agent from Customs Immigration and Enforcement masquerading as the girlfriend to a drug dealer's chief lieutenant; Helen Powell, a twenty-seven year-old special task force representative from the Florida law enforcement community; and Regina Tyre, a twenty-six year-old lawyer on the special task force from the Florida Bureau of Statewide Prosecution. He arranged for Helen and Regina to escape and kept Karen as ‘hostage' for their good behavior. In his words, “A sort of velvet prison thing; like in the Middle Ages.”

Aaron's plan was that Helen and Regina would leave with videos and ironclad evidence for use by the F.B.I. the widespread criminal enterprises. Helen and Regina had spun an artful tale of Karen's successful undercover operation and the compromise of the investigative task force by an incompetent Miami police force. The fabricated story was that Karen Rigden heroically rescued Regina and Helen and delivered a captured drug accountant into their hands for questioning. Supposedly, while still hidden aboard a fishing ship enroute to Cartegena , Colombia for a load of drugs, they interrogated the accountant who provided key intelligence on the drug trade in the southeastern United States . Karen had to remain behind in an undercover role as confidant and lover to one of Oscar Lynden's key South American contacts in order to finalize the escape. Helen and Regina claimed that Karen covered for them but was forced to disappear with the dangerous drug dealer into the jungles of northern Colombia . Subsequently, the women arranged to share two full-time F.B.I. positions between the three of them, an infrequently employed personnel practice that a grateful F.B.I. was pleased to do for the much acclaimed women. Aaron Clarke also agreed to pay each woman three hundred thousand dollars and promised to continue to feed them intelligence on organized crime targets. The agents were obligated to perform additional tasks for the slaver that would, in each case, result in the arrest of more criminals. Each special act would result in compensation depending upon how much money Aaron made from the shutting down of each criminal enterprise.

--L--A--T--E--R--

Sam stared at the purchase she had made in her latest attempt to find answers to the baffling case she was working on. “It's obscene,” she thought with a quiver of disgust. Ever the clinician, she turned the video camera on to record this crazy forensics test and carefully focused it upon the object that so disturbed her. She had already moved her bedroom television set into the bathroom to display the video feed from the camera, a clear picture of the tiled edge of her Jacuzzi tub. With another quiver of revulsion, she faced herself in the full-length mirror beside her vanity. She saw herself, demurely covered in a floor-length white terrycloth bathrobe. With a sigh at the sacrifices she had to make in furthering her forensics research, she shrugged the heavy robe off her shoulders and admired the exposure of her statuesque form as the heavy robe slid to the tiles below. Sam was naked before her mirror and the quietly running high-quality digital video camera.

“Agent Valiant is an amazing piece of ass,” Sam observed aloud in appreciation. She turned sideways and admired both her jutting ass cheeks and her architectural wonders, the twin peaks of her D-cup tits and the one-inch nipples that capped them. She dreamily thought, “Hooters, … that's what men would call these.” Even her large hands and fingers could never cover the broad expanse of her milk pods. Playing with herself in front of the mirror was one of her favorite pastimes, although, with her normal disciplinary approach to everything in her life, she rarely did it more than once a week. Her face lost its smile of joy and she scooped a glob of thick sex grease from an open container on her vanity. She squatted momentarily, and spread a generous amount of the cool concoction across her labia before standing erect. Still facing the mirror, Sam deliberately rubbed the excess lube off her fingers by rubbing them across her bushy pubic hair. The thick forest of brunette hair that covered her pubic mound was another of her vanities; it was a badge of unconventional honor that she never trimmed the thick jungle of wiry hair. “After all,” she frequently told herself, “it's not like I'll ever wear a two-piece bikini swimsuit or even bikini underwear for that matter.” Even though she shaved her legs and underarms, Sam had always thought a trimmed bush was unnatural looking and decidedly unsexy.

Finished with any possible delays, she stepped into her Jacuzzi with one foot and waddled gingerly forward with her other foot outside the tub to stand over her purchase. Standing over it, she reached over to finish a last task before starting, activating a digital timer set for three hours and three minutes. Refusing to look toward her furry crotch, Sam fixated on her image on the television and reached below her with both hands. The knob she encountered was the size of a small apple atop an obscenely veined fake cock pole attached to the tub below her with a large suction cup. With another grimace of distaste, she lowered herself until the apple-sized cock knob rested outside her outer labia. She rotated both her hips and the fake cock below her, slathering sex lube across the horrid manmade beast nudging against her sex hole. Her fingers also brought some of the excess sex grease down the long bumpy stalk below the head. She sighed aloud and threw her head back before she sunk relentlessly down upon the rubber and plastic phallic post below her. The sigh quickly turned into a drawn out grunt as ten full inches of the monster cock took possession of her seldom-used cunt. Never one to stint on a task, she set her full weight into the chore and the final inch disappeared into her widely-stretched opening. As her gynecologist had told her by telephone the day before in a rather humiliating conversation, “I shudder to wonder why you are asking this question, Sam, … but, at almost six feet tall, you should easily be able to take eleven inches up your vagina without bruising your cervix.” Sam's little grunts of discomfort became louder as her first downward thrust was a little too exuberant and her clit and pubic bone bottomed out on the half-inch ‘clitoral fingers' mounted all around the base of the shaft. Sam gingerly rose up and looked at the glistening black shaft that her pussy lips clung so tightly to on the upward motion. She rotated her hips to straighten out her vaginal sheath, and to get more uncomfortable with the largest object ever to grace her cunt, before sinking all the way back down again, taking the full eleven inches of slightly curved dick meat.

While roaming several adult novelty shops and searching for a large dildo with a suction cup mounting base, the only ones she observed that fit her criteria had been black, an observation that made Sam pause in wonder. She knew from clinical experience that black males were not unique in having large equipment. “Maybe the men and women that buy these things have a fantasy they want fulfilled,” she had thought while searching for her purchase. Daunted at the variety she found, and needing the largest cock she could accommodate for her experiment, she had been forced to call her gynecologist for advice before returning to get her purchase. Visiting an adult store twice in two days had been humiliation enough; sorting through the garish boxes of dildos while a fat and greasy-haired man watched with unconcealed lust in his eyes had been far worse. “Two days in a row,” she had complained to herself, “I had to see that pathetic, wimp of a fish-belly doughboy twice. What a pathetic loser he was.”

Sam looked at her digital timer and found she had thirty seconds before she needed to begin her test. Her plan was to see if she could approximate the damage seen on the abused pussies of the two federal agents that escaped from the drug dealers, supposedly after a long, drawn-out gangbang. Not believing the story, Sam needed to prove photographically what type damage a gang rape could inflict given that nothing in her forensic references came close to the damage she had seen in the pictures. Visits to local rape crisis centers had not resulted in any rape cases with remotely similar damage. The timer wound down to a full three hours remaining and Sam rose her body up a full ten inches on the fake cock before slamming herself back down onto the nubby fingers at the base of the cock. Her grunt of discomfort was louder this time. Undaunted, she held her position for a full second or so and then rose up again until she felt the fat apple atop the cock trying to escape her cunt lips. She drove herself down again, even harder than before. Her mouth opened like a fish and she grunted again as her full one hundred and sixty-five pounds fell upon the bruising fingers arrayed around the base of the monstrous cock. An athlete that never gave up on a goal, Sam grimly focused on the television screen and watched her breasts bounce up and down with each equally energetic downward rape she made onto the unfeeling dildo. “Fuck,” she moaned, “three freaking hours. God! Samantha Louise Valiant, this better be something of value, else you're liable to have made yourself a cripple for no good reason.” Sam grunted again as she fell down hard on the cock, feeling the fat apple-sized knob rub the full length of her inner sheath. Grimly setting her mouth, she sped up the pace, keeping an eye the whole time on her wildly bouncing mammaries.

An engineer would have noted that Sam found her heavy boobs' natural harmonic frequency in that she reached the precise up and down fucking motion that triggered the wildest possible flailing and gyration of her multi-pound tit orbs. They moved so quickly and so far around in repetitious circles that it appeared the flying boobs were defying gravity. Like a carnival ride out of control, her wondrous breasts looked as if they were going to zip off from her body, ripping any connective tissue to her shoulders. Each hurling orb stretched out impossibly long in the motions, making her breasts appear longer and fatter by far then was truly the case. Sam became mesmerized by the thumping, hurtling masses and continued to mindlessly fuck herself oblivious to anything except her breasts and the need to maintain their wild flailing. Only later, when she reviewed the tape on her larger living room television would she become truly appalled at how many orgasms she had announced in wailing, grunting, animalistic yowls to the recording eye of the video camera as her sweaty, groaning and moaning form fucked robotically away. Only the repeated dinging of the timer, heralding that her three hours was well finished, was able to awaken Sam from her trancelike state. When she pulled herself off the bumpy surface of the cock, she discovered that a sea of blood had dripped onto the monster cock's base and across the tiled surface of the tub.

Fearful she was going to bleed to death, Sam had quickly douched herself with a refreshing rinse. Instead of relief, she had rolled around her bathroom floor in agony as the vinegary solution scorched her shredded vagina. The pain lingered, but at least the bleeding had stopped. Sam gingerly patted herself dry and then waddled toward her bed with a damp cloth in hand. She had fallen exhausted onto her sheets and slept the night without stirring once.

At work the next morning, Sam walked carefully in order to disguise her nearly crippled state. Her swollen pussy lips were five times their normal size, looking more like a cauliflower rather than the entrance to a feminine pleasure cave. A thick feminine pad was tucked between her sensible white panties and her swollen crotch to absorb the near constant flow of tiny bloody clots and clear fluid coming off her bruised inner flesh. She sat gingerly at her desk, unable to fidget because of the intense itching and dull throbbing pain from between her legs. Thankfully, the desk's privacy screen hid her decidedly unladylike leg stance with her knees wide apart. Her first order of business was to lay out the pictures taken when Helen Powell and Regina Tyre ‘escaped' from their kidnappers and torturers. She set down two eight by ten glossy photographs of each abused pussy and then added two that she had taken of her own labia before coming to work. “It doesn't look like the damage on my pussy is anything like that on Helen and Regina ,” she thought. She pulled out a magnifying glass and carefully compared tears in the flesh, swelling, bruising, color, and puffiness.

Unable to make a connection between her photos and those of Helen and Regina , she hesitated and then picked up the phone and asked for a favor from one of the medical technicians specializing in human body forensics. “Christine, do you have time to look at some photos and give me an informal read on what you see?” she asked.

Within thirty minutes, Christine Taylor, a forty-two year-old Forensic Technician pulled up a chair beside the stunning Special Agent. The bespectacled matronly woman looked carefully at the pictures and asked for a rundown on the facts and suppositions about the events that caused the damage to the three pussies. She pointed to the unlabeled pictures of Sam's own cunt and asked, “You mean this is the sex organ of a prostitute that had been in a gangbang for three hours the evening before?”

Sam barely managed to keep from blushing and nodded mutely saying, “Yes, that's what she told the police.”

“Well, girl,” Christine answered with a grin, “you clearly don't know your way around a hooker's sex organs. If you look closely, you see that her anal star is clearly visible. That alone should tell you what inconsistency in her story that I'm going to point out. In fact, the unshaved mass of pubic hair is another indicator of the falsity of this streetwalker's claim.”

Mystified at what Christine was getting to, she once again nodded as she saw her own light brown anal star clearly staring from between the meaty cheeks of her ass and the wild jungle of pubic hair. Then she shrugged her shoulders in confusion.

“You see,” Christine continued, “this is certainly no seasoned whore. In fact, whoever this pussy belongs to, it probably didn't even see a gangbang. If anything, she had three hours of plain old vanilla sex with a lot of men. My informal opinion, … this is either a spinster or a sexually inexperienced housewife that got in over her head with a group of relatively well-behaved men, probably from a social club of some kind.”

Sam looked at the technician in amazement. “How the heck did you come to that conclusion?” she asked.

“Elementary, my dear,” Christine beamed, enjoying putting one over her normally savvy co-worker. “If you look at her anal ring again you will note that there is no damage at all. In addition, the rectal sphincter is thin and a beautiful light brown indicating that it has rarely, if ever, experienced anal sex. Lastly, note the unruly pubic hair that has never seen a pair of sexy panties. None of this matches the profile of a prostitute, whore, or even a normally sexually active adult.”

Sam was stunned that Christine had so quickly poked holes in her story about the comparative photos.

“In fact,” Christine teased, “if I had to guess, I'd say that you were closer to matching the profile of this woman than any sex worker in Miami .”

Not realizing how close to the mark she'd gotten, Christine abruptly giggled and punched Sam in the side. “Only kidding,” she laughed. Suddenly businesslike, she turned to the other four pictures and said, “Your problem is that you've exclusively focused on only one aspect of the injuries these women have received.” She pulled out the remainder of Helen and Regina 's pictures and started pointing out specific details, “Lookie here, … both women show signs of being roped at wrists, ankles, and above the elbows by a rope aficionado who had plenty of time to torture them – note the parallel bruises made by symmetrical rope coils. Also, … look at the whip marks across their backs, legs, and belly, … these are all parallel and clearly done in a cool, calculating way to inflict maximum pain and localized bruising without causing long-term scarring. Their bloodwork analysis indicates serious trauma and some internal bleeding, confirmed by these massive bruises on their abdomens and faces. But, … and I think this is significant, … all the trauma team had to do was clean and protect all these superficial wounds from infection. They had no broken bones, not even their noses, and needed no stitches; subsequent medical exams show no scarring.

Christine spent a few more minutes reviewing her option as to the causative factors for the extensive damage done to each woman. Finally, not making any further progress, she said, “Well, that's all I can do for you on this case. Good luck, babe,” and returned to her office. Undaunted by the lack of progress, Sam returned to her work.

No amount of forensic evaluation and detective work would ever show that in order to provide irrefutable proof of their abusive treatment by the drug dealers, Aaron Clarke had made each woman agree to be beaten. The two 5'6” women had bravely stripped themselves and locked their own ankles into ankle cuffs. Regina Tyre had been the most timid, standing as if shell-shocked; not ready to willingly participate in getting ready for her own torture. As a young prosecutor, she was less prepared to face such a wretched physical fate than was Helen with her field experience. Regina had trembled in fear and hesitated before she leaned down gracefully to lock her ankles into the already waiting leather cuffs chained to the floor. Her breasts jiggled enticingly as she stood erect and awkwardly latched a wristcuff onto her left wrist. Aaron had tried to reassure Regina while he cuffed her other wrist by saying, “What follows is necessary and will be as dispassionate as possible. We will avoid any further humiliation than is required to protect your cover story.”

Aaron had cupped a hand on one shapely ass cheek, and while he knelt down to check the security of her leg cuffs, sniffed the tantalizing whiff of womanly odor wafting from the frightened woman's pale brown patch of pubic hair. Aaron barely resisted the impulse to bury his face against her tempting pussy. “Hmmm,” he had told himself, “it sucks to have to stand by my promise to limit the humiliation of this session; especially since Regina Tyre has such a willing and talented pussy.”

Under orders from Aaron Clarke, their colleague Karen Rigden and Aaron's slave Ingrid Gaviard had donned leather punching bag gloves. Karen started on Helen's left thigh with a viscous punch. The meaty smack was followed instantly by a deep grunt of pain. Karen continued with measured right- and left-handed blows to the woman's left leg. She worked silently for more than five minutes as she covered the woman's calves, thighs, ass cheeks, and pussy mound with a flurry of painful blows. Finally, she stepped back and wiped sweat of her brow with the back of one wrist. After this first round, Ingrid and Karen switched places. Ingrid and Karen repeated their attack against the women's lower bodies, only now working on a different victim. The third and fourth rounds of beatings concentrated on the women's torsos and deeply bruised their abdomens, ribs, breasts, and kidneys. Each would piss blood in their urine for several days and they would require rib bandages to ease the pain of breathing.

Aaron alone administered the last part of the session. Ingrid stood behind the first victim, Helen Powell, and tightly clasped her black hair in one hand while her other steadied the back of her head. Aaron carefully struck blow after blow with his leather-covered right fist only. He started with the woman's forehead and eyes, moved to her ears, and finished up on her nose and mouth. Aaron wanted tissue damage and bruising, but no broken noses. As expected, his final blows split Helen's luscious lips superficially in multiple places. Aaron signaled Karen to move the now unconscious woman away while he and Ingrid turned their attention to Regina .

Thirty minutes later, Helen and Regina were side-by-side, secured similarly belly-down on low black leather ottomans. Their arms and legs were tightly strapped down, each with their delectable ass and pussy helplessly upthrust. They were ready for the next stage of abuse. None of the women knew what was to transpire. Aaron made final adjustments on two mechanical fucking machines. Each girl's thinly stretched pussy lips were wrapped around a fat, nine-inch rubber cock with deep ridges. The twin cocks glistened with a thick layer of slithery-slick sex lube. Aaron turned the machine on and observed the hydraulic rams silently and remorselessly fuck the women with deep in and out strokes. Helen and Regina were too tightly bound to wriggle their hips either to ease the fucking strokes or to evade them.

Aaron sat in his comfortable chair, alone and silent, while he observed the beginning action of this session. He had ordered the other women away to other duties, half afraid they would object to this round of abuse and intervene. Aaron knew that he had to inflict significantly more damage to their tender membranes than a lube-slick dildo would generate. He grimly reminded himself that obvious signs of repeated rape and torture were needed in order to maintain full believability of their accounts of what occurred.

Beside the silently observing man were a vicious-looking cat-o-nine-tails with heavy whipping straps and a bucket of coarse crystalline children's play-box sand. The sand was a last-minute addition brought in from a local lumberyard. Aaron dipped one hand into the bucket and brought up a fistful of the white sand. Not fully certain how the next part of the session would damage the girls, he let a few grains escape to sparsely scatter along the length of the glistening shafts.

Neither girl reacted as the increased friction on the shafts started to pull the pouting pussy lips out along the shaft on out-strokes and drag the quickly swelling lips into the pussies during the in-strokes. The increased friction and abrasive effect went unnoticed by the women due to the strong topical numbing agent Aaron blended with the sex lube. The girls would be unaware that the thrusting cocks were ‘sanding off' sensitive flesh in and around their assholes and cunts. Aaron let more sand dribble down to more fully coat the fake cocks. Sand also soon coated the pussy lips and pussy mounds of each woman; becoming increasingly red and swollen from the gritty fucking.

As the relentless fucking continued, Aaron pinched Regina 's slowly undulating ass cheek and eased a needle into the captured mound. The syringe plunger sent a powerful muscle relaxant into her system. She would be unconscious before her abusive assfuck started.

Aaron turned off the hydraulic pump and exchanged the bloody nine-inch cocks with clean six-inch ones better suited for anal sex. He eased the first inch of the slippery dildo into Helen's tight anal ring and remembered her fondness for rough anal sex. As the hydraulic ram started another relentless fuck, he turned to Regina and inspected her bloody pussy lips that clung limply to the sandy shaft still embedded in her pussy. Soon a slenderer and shorter cock was gliding in and out of her asshole.

Aaron picked up the whip and stared again at the now sandy assholes. The inward strokes of the punishing cocks made the brown anal sphincters disappear deeply into the rectums. “These are gonna hurt so bad tomorrow,” Aaron muttered as his arm swept back for the first whipping stroke he would administer. Even in her nearly unconscious state, Helen's back had arched up at each stroke of the whip. Aaron carefully left deep wheals of red stripes across their backs, sides, asses, and legs without once breaking the skin. He attempted to preserve their flawless skin and not leave any permanent scars.

Well before dawn the next morning, Aaron drove them to a quiet beach site near the highway stretching south to the Florida Keys . The two law enforcement agents stumbled along the rocky shoreline to a nearby parking area with a working pay phone. The penniless agents simply dialed 911 and waited for medical and police assistance.

Sam was still doggedly sifting through her case files trying to find a new angle when her phone rang. It was Christine Taylor.

“Hey lady,” Christine started cheerfully, “I've had some ideas that we should talk about during lunch.”

“Hmmm,” Sam replied guardedly, “I usually eat in so I don't waste too much time.”

Christine's voice took on a decidedly bossy tone, “Look, Special Agent! You're stuck in a rut on this case and we both know it. If you want help, grab your notepad and meet me in fifteen minutes in the Federal Building 's cafeteria. Ciao!”

Before Sam could reply yes or no, Christine hung up. Stunned at the abruptly ended conversation, Sam sat unmoving for several minutes before she shook her head and busied herself straightening her desk

Sam strode confidently into the cafeteria, enjoying the feel of the slight motion of her heavy breasts moving ponderously from her springy step. It was easy to spot her matronly looking lunch date and Sam headed directly there, noting that Christine was busy writing something on a sheet of paper laid beside her full lunch tray. Before Sam could greet her coworker, Christine hurriedly slid the paper into an official case folder and primly placed the folder in her leather satchel. Sam stopped by the table and cocked an eyebrow high while archly declaring, “Being a little loose with your document security rules?”

Christine beamed a cheerful smile and altogether too happily for Sam replied, “Yes, I suppose so. However, this file is one of the things we will be talking about over lunch. So, forget about it for now and sashay that pretty butt of yours on over to the lunch line to get your food.” Christine then ignored Sam and started taking her food off her tray and arranging the plates, silverware, and her iced tea on the table.

Sam and Christine spoke of innocuous things while they ate their lunch. Finally, Christine decided it was time to get down to business. “Sam,” she started, “I've been thinking about all the angles to this case that you mentioned earlier and I have some ideas.”

“It's about time,” Sam thought.

“Well,” Christine started, “I'm only gonna share these thoughts on your case because it seems you are extraordinarily committed to this one and you'll never make any progress alone.”

“Jesus, woman,” Sam was thinking, “tell me something I don't already know.”

“You don't have enough background knowledge in the prurient aspects of this case to fully appreciate the few pieces of evidence hidden in your files. I pointed out some of the obvious things to you this morning. Don't get me wrong, I can't solve the case, but I can point you in a new direction. I've taken the liberty of contacting a ‘friend' who has agreed to free up some time for you. If you are careful in how you handle him, you will pick up some new angles on this case and you oughta be safe enough.”

Sam was nodding through this commentary thinking, “Yes, maybe I do need some outside help on this case. But, … what does she mean, ‘safe enough'.”

Then, Christine's next statement threw her for a loop when she said, “Who knows, if you decide to turn him loose, you'll get the best sexing of your life.”

“What-a-minute!” Agent Valiant interrupted, “What the hell does that mean? Who is this guy and how did you come to fuck him?”

“Honey,” the homely Forensic Technician smirked, while she patronizingly reached out a fingertip to rub across the back of the much prettier woman's wrist, “to meet good men you have to have outside hobbies or special interests; and, believe me, I've got a helluva special interest going. I may be twice your age, and not have a fraction of your beauty, but, … I've had more earth shattering sex than you'll ever have at the rate you're going. You're stuck in a rut with only your work to show for your life. But, … as I said, I'd never give you this research clue except for what you showed me this morning. The man I've found, Robert Morgan, is an expert at the ugly parts of life that put those women in their awful state. He is into the ‘scene' if you know what I mean. But, … my warning about you being careful is very real, watch your step so you don't get in over your head.”

Special Agent Samantha Louise Valiant was getting a little tired of the condescending attitude from this frumpy old biddy. “You bitch,” Sam sputtered, “how dare you talk about my personal life like this, … and, … I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself.” Her anger was fueled as Christine Taylor kept smiling back in her superior way.

A surprisingly strong hand shot out across the table and pinned Sam's gesturing right hand down onto the tabletop with an audible thump. Pain shot up Sam's arm and before she could respond, she heard the woman quietly hiss back at her, “Shut the fuck up! You have the big city street smarts of a fourteen-year-old virgin from the backwoods of Missouri . You've forced me to make a point with you about how fast things will spin out of control if you're not careful. Take a look at this you silly cunt.”

Sam's surprise went up a notch when Christine's free hand somehow plopped down the official government file she had been working on earlier and a single sheet of paper slid out. “It's got my name on it,” she thought with an uncharacteristic lack of observation, her mental processes jumbled from the turn of events.

Christine's eyes locked onto her confused look and she smirked again as she flipped the paper over. The blood drained from Sam's face and she nearly peed herself right there in the cafeteria. “It's my photo from this morning,” she cried to herself in fear. “She stole it from my desk, … worse, she's marked it up with bodily identifications.”

“I take it you recognize your unruly pubic bush and nasty little pussy from this morning's discussion. God! You're so fucking naïve. Sam, do you realize how dangerous this photo is to you. I've worked the F.B.I. for years and I've never seen an official photograph without any reference markings or captions. You obviously printed this from your workstation after scanning it from a home photo. Photographically, it's nice and crisp, but it's not even printed on photo paper. I've highlighted some of your pussy's identifying features so we can confirm it's you. Believe me; this would make nice water cooler fodder for the men in our office.”

Samantha had never lost control of any situation like this in her life. She was speechless and unable to come up with a reply. Her only thought was the incongruous one of, “My brain just shorted out like the male bimbos at work that I so despise.”

Sam felt something cold snap against her wrist and her body was abruptly hauled up out of her chair by the much shorter woman she was with. None of her F.B.I. training clicked in to help her as she was turned and her other wrist was also handcuffed behind her back. Before she even knew what had just occurred, she was being force marched past the few tables between them and the ladies' restroom. When she finally broke out of her daze, she was being pushed backward into a toilet stall to thump hard onto the lowered seat of a toilet. Soft, fatty bosoms pushed into her face as Christine fumbled behind her back at her wrists. Another click heralded the imprisonment of her wrists to the toilet plumbing behind her back. Sam finally opened her mouth to angrily protest the inappropriate and highly illegal handling of her body.

Something awful tasting thumped hard against her teeth and the heel of Christine's hand pushed it into her with a twisting motion, viciously countered by a hand holding the back of her head steady. The large round object slipped past her front teeth and Sam belatedly realized that the frumpy lab technician had just gagged her; her over-stretched jaws already ached with a deep pain. Special Agent Valiant heard the faint swishing of the woman's skirt as she spread her legs widely to straddle Sam's own skirt-covered legs and sit down on her lap. The woman fumbled around the back of her head, tightening the gag's leather holding straps, and her hot ragged breath whispered in her ear, “You just settle down like a nice little bondage newbie and I'll explain what's going on. You're investigating a case where a bondage expert well versed in inflicting pain on women was able to capture, bind, torture, and interrogate three law enforcement agents. I think this man was likely active in the Miami BDSM scene and I'm sure you have no fucking idea what any of this means.” Sam's left nipple exploded in agony as the woman grasped it through her bra with her fingertips, tightly pinched it between sharp fingernails, and twisted it halfway around. “This is nothing like the correction you will get if you fuck up with Robert Morgan, the man I've contacted to teach you what BDSM means. You want insight into this case, … well now you're gonna get it. God help you if it's not what you want, cause it's too fucking late.”

Sam was still as a statue as the woman leaned back and fumbled in her oversize purse. Still thinking with a muddled brain, Sam could only wonder that the woman had been able to overwhelm her and get her into the restroom without help and still manage to have brought two purses and a file folder along as well.

Christine pulled out a piece of white medical tape she had precut into a two-inch circle. With the Special Agent watching in fascination and fear, Christine peeled it off a protective backing, set a ball of cotton in the middle of it, and stuck it squarely over Sam's left eye. Blinded in one eye, handcuffed with her hands locked behind her back, her legs tightly retrained on the toilet seat by the woman on her lap, ballgagged, and with a nipple that felt like it had been half torn from her body, she could only sit placidly while the final piece of tape and cotton took away the rest of her eyesight. This time, Sam did piss herself; hot urine flowed uncontrollably from her urethra, soaking quickly through her pantyhose, panties, and expensive suit skirt.

Her tormentor's voice laughed quietly in her ear and said, “Good! You deserve to find out you're no different from the rest of us. I bet those three women felt the same way when they were captured and immobilized despite their vaunted special training. Lesson number two; caution newbie because you are putty in the hands of a BDSM expert. Look what a novice like me was able to do.” Then her voice continued in a dry manner, “And, … obviously lesson number one went over your too-pretty head; don't fucking lose control of any situation when you're dealing with Robert or any BDSM Master, else you might be in this position permanently.”

Sam felt the woman move off her lap and heard her fumbling around, “Probably hanging our purses on the purse hook,” she thought smugly somehow taking a small pleasure from this disastrous situation by figuring out one small detail.

Actually, Christine Taylor was doing just that. However, what Sam had no way of knowing was that a very expensive and high quality digital camera borrowed from the F.B.I. lab had just been taken from Christine's purse and was now being focused on a full-body shot of the trapped and gagged F.B.I. Special Agent. Christine grinned like the wolf that had just swallowed Little Red Riding Hood and focused her next shot on the amazing torpedoes protruding from the heaving chest of the woman before her.

Christine quietly hung the camera strap over the shoulder straps of the two purses and straddled Sam's shapely legs once again. This time, each of her hands took partial possession of a bra-encased fun bag before she leaned in to breathe into Sam's ear, “Don't worry honey, I'm not gay.” Then she licked her way up Sam's neck and hissed, “But, … even I can appreciate true art when I see it. And, … make no doubt about it, … these are some masterpieces, baby!” With that said she squeezed her grip tighter and rotated the huge orbs around in half circles. “Yeah, baby, … whatta set of hooters.”

“Can it get any worse?” Sam asked herself. She never considered herself anything except helpless in the hands of this woman who had moved so devastatingly against her. Her role as helpless submissive in her hands was only reinforced when, for the first time in her life, a woman latched onto her breasts and kneaded and manipulated them like toys before hurting them with too vigorous twists. Then the voice spoke into her ear again, “I bet you think BDSM is all about sex. You will learn much in the next week but I'm sure that nobody will ever have to remind you that BDSM is always first and foremost about loss of control, obedience, and humiliation.” The hands left her throbbing breasts and gently took control of her forehead. Sam felt Christine's lips softly kiss her on the forehead and cheeks before she continued, “Lesson number three; nothing is free in life and money is never the currency employed to pay off a BDSM debt. Despite your fears and your piss-filled panties, you owe me big-time for what I'm doing to teach you to protect yourself. Also, there's the matter of the tutor I've found you.” The soft lips returned to kiss away a tear at the corner of each of Sam's eyes before she continued a little more gently, “Anyway, … those are your debts. For the first, you owe me a little autograph on the front of your nice little self-portrait to protect me from any retaliation for this little episode. The second debt is equally easy to pay; I want your underwear for a souvenir.” The fingers returned to grasp and punish each of her tender nipples this time. Sam grunted into her gag like a hurt pig and then listened in tearful silence as Christine hissed angrily, “And, … you better follow directions or I'll really let you know what pain is.”

Sam became a very obedient and compliant victim as she raised her butt off the toilet on command and her co-worker zipped the tight waistband of her skirt loose to get to her disgusting panties and pantyhose. Sam's now bare feet felt the cold tile of the bathroom floor as she held her ass up and she was repulsed at the idea of standing barefoot on a filthy bathroom floor. Once again, Sam's dazed brain was slow to realize that it was her bare ass that plunked down upon the body-temperature toilet seat and that her skirt had been slipped off along with her wet panties and pantyhose. Her grunt of disapproval halted immediately when a warning hand settled over her left nipple. Tears were now flowing freely at her near naked state in a semi-public bathroom in the Miami Federal Building .

While Sam was feeling sorry for her predicament, Christine was being a good little Forensic Technician; she had carefully bagged the soaking panties in an evidence bag and carefully written on the label, “Soiled panties from unidentified female prostitute and alleged rape victim, Miami Dade Prison, Criminal In-processing Unit.” The pantyhose went into a second clear bag that was labeled, “Soiled pantyhose from unidentified female prostitute and alleged rape victim, Miami Dade Prison, Criminal In-processing Unit.” Christine then grabbed her camera and kicked her victim's legs out enough to clearly display her hairy gash above the contrasting white toilet seat cover. After a zoomed-in photo was taken of the bare pubic area, Christine continued to hold the camera in place while she reached in with a pair of scissors to photograph them nestled in amongst the thick and wiry thatch. Setting the camera down for a moment, Christine hummed happily as she reached in with a left hand, strongly grasped a hunk of pubic hair from just below the horrified woman's bellybutton, and cut off a handful to be safeguarded in yet another evidence bag. This time the careful marking was, “Pubic hair from unidentified female prostitute and alleged rape victim, Miami Dade Prison, Criminal In-processing Unit.” Christine then carefully annotated a date from two months prior and printed and signed the name of a well-known lesbian prosecutor recently fired in a public furor for using her job position to curry sexual favors from arrested prostitutes that she hired as maids and cooks in her extensive Miami mansion. She had already labeled a folder as case jacket for the fabricated case of a prostitute arrested and processed at the Miami Dade Prison Intake Unit. The falsified records would show that the woman had been repeatedly gang raped just prior to her arrest at a bachelor party gone out of control. Other evidence bags were already prepared for the set of photographs being taken as well as the fingerprint card, a set of vaginal swabs, and the blood sample that Christine would take later on. Christine Taylor was a very through and efficient Forensic Technician.

Done with Agent Valiant's lower body, Christine knelt down by her victim's ankles and fed a loop of heavy binding cord behind the ceramic base of the toilet. Thinking how wonderful it was to have some of her self-bondage toys handy at work, Christine was getting very wet and stimulated from overcoming her co-worker so effectively. “Robert Morgan will be so very proud of how I've handled this,” she thought as she eagerly reviewed how she could garner his praise, “And, … maybe a round of sex from his so amazing sex organ,” she added happily as she quickly captured a trim ankle in a looped end of the bondage rope and roughly captured its twin, forcing both ankles far under Sam's body, almost all the way behind the toilet base.

Christine Taylor now sat down on the very naked and very widespread legs of her captive student in BDSM. She whispered into her shocked victim's ear, “Thanks for the panties and the hose. I've thoughtfully set your skirt and shoes aside so you can dress when we're through here.” Christine looked back over her shoulder at the ruined remainder of Special Agent Valiant's skirt. Two thirds of its length was now missing because she had carefully trimmed off the bulk of the skirt's material. The skirt was now officially a miniskirt; thankfully, Christine had not gone further and made it a micro-miniskirt. However, the agent's comfortable black footwear had been replaced with a glistening pink set of size ten ‘fuck-me-heels' with four-inch stiletto heels. Two sizes too small for her large feet, Special Agent Valiant would be pained in more than one way to wear such sluttish footwear.

Sam once again heard the now hated voice of her tormentor just microns from her ear, “Almost finished paying off this part of your debt my little toy.” Sam tried to grunt her disapproval of the humiliating term when a handful of her pubic hair was painfully yanked to an fro. Taking the obvious hint, Sam shut up while the voice sweetly continued as if it had never been interrupted, “Yes, little precious, I still want that bra and camisole top and the only way to get there is to cut it all off. So, … you better hold still or my scissors might slip and mar those proud beauties you are so proud of.” Sam felt her jacket slipping down her shoulders and she felt the cold steel of the scissors touch her neck. She tensed and then froze in place at a warning hush. The scissors snipped and their way through the thicker material of her blouse and then sliced through her camisole top with a quieter, almost hissing sound. The ruined material was tugged away from her torso, leaving her with heavy-duty bra exposed. Christine tugged the bodiless sleeves of her blouse down to her wrists and then cut them away. This move once again pushed her captor's matronly boobs against her face as the woman struggled to get scissors behind her back to remove the sleeves.

Christine once again stepped back to get a series of pictures. With some anticipation of pleasurable masturbation sessions over the graphic photos, she told herself, “Most of these will go into my personal collection at home. Only a few will go into the fake set of records that show this bimbo was arrested for prostitution and them freed by her lesbian lover and county prosecutor. Except for the lack of an official identification of the prostitute, the set of files can easily be used to prove who the arrested prostitute was, a local F.B.I. Special Agent with the morals of an alley cat caught while working as a callgirl for her nighttime job.” She grinned wolfishly down at her half-naked victim and thought, “Boy, whatta bimbo this one would make!”

Christine then straddled Sam's lap once again and spoke in a slightly louder voice, “You better hope nobody comes in here and finds you. That would be kinda difficult to explain wouldn't it? You're lucky I asked you down to lunch at the tail end of serving time when it's likely only the janitorial staff might come in here to clean up things.” Christine then leaned forward again and pulled the pins out of Sam's tightly wrapped hair bun. She combed out the tangles with her fingers and spread the agent's long brunette hair out over her shoulders and carefully hid the woman's taped-over eyes.

Thoroughly enjoying herself, Christine now turned her attention to the massive structure of the agent's bra and wondered at her own so much tinier, almost-C-cup boobs. “Nobody deserves such a bountiful set of knockers,” Christine thought with a growing jealousy. Reluctant to destroy such a wondrous bra, Christine ran admiring fingers around the heavy material of the side bands and then along the reinforced bulkheads supporting the massive mammaries above. With a sigh, she slipped the scissors under a shoulder strap and cut it, watching with wonder the rebounding action as the ends sprang away from the scissors. She grinned and watched with anticipation as the remaining shoulder strap was severed to fly away. She laughed aloud and said, “Tension, baby. These rascals are under some significant tension. Wow whatta set of jugs. You'd make that supposed rape victim hooker jealous with these milk makers! Wow!”

Christine was stricken speechless at the sight revealed when she cut through the center swath of cloth between the monster tits. The stretchy material had flown back like a rubber band snapping, exposing a more perfect set of tit flesh than Christine could have ever imagined existed. A veteran of many soft-core BDSM sessions, she had seen many topless women; none came close to rivaling the firm, milky white, flawless mounds before her eyes. No longer compressed tightly under the bra, the breasts had instantly appeared to expand as if alive. It looked as if the fingertip-sized nipples were launching themselves at their owner's tormentor. Christine had almost fallen backward off the toilet in amazement.

The Forensic Technician almost pissed herself in barely repressed excitement as she desperately fumbled around for her camera. “These will be perfect,” she thought. The first flash captured a relative close up of breasts, nipples, and the red ballgagged mouth above. A long string of drool dangling from one corner of Sam's grossly extended mouth was captured. She quickly flashed more shots, first down to cunt level, and then full-body shots. “I can crop these any way I want,” she panted to herself in lust. Despite her claim to be one hundred percent heterosexual, Christine had long ago accepted that as a submissive, she might as well enjoy whatever she was forced to do. As a result, the thought of sexually taking advantage of this woman didn't bother her in the least. Christine stood back and reappraised the situation. “Pay attention to your plan, you horny bitch,” she told herself cheerfully, “Don't blow things now by going so far that she'll never believe this is a lesson. Maybe I can get my friend Robert Morgan to let me have her later on after she's fully broken in. He will certainly owe me big-time for this favor.”

Under control once again, Christine leaned down and whispered, “OK girl, you've now fully paid for your hardest debt to me. Get dressed in your clothes and come up to my office for your final, and easiest debt to pay. You can take your time cause I'll be working late tonight on a case. Then I'll give you the contact information on Robert Morgan.” She ran a hand gently down Sam Valiant's cheek and whispered another lie to the naïve woman, “I hope you don't hold this against me but this is the only way I could see to impress upon you how grave your danger could be if you don't use your full training in dealing with this man. If you become fearful that you're in over your head, call me and I'll try and intercede.” She reached down and stuck a handcuff key in Sam's sweaty palm. “Hope you remember your handcuff training from Quantico ; else, the cleaning crew might find you here. Oh, … yes, … I forgot to tell you that I've kept your garage pass and given you a visitor's building pass, so you can't leave the compound without either going to my office or explaining all this to the Federal Protective Police.”

Christine Taylor opened the stall door and took a final look at the near-naked woman trapped on the toilet. The handcuffs and suite jacket pushed down her arms threw her chest forward, marking her pronounced breasts even more prominent. “The sight just about makes you break out in a cold sweat,” Christine panted to herself. “But that bitch's furry patch has got to go.” She did take one more mercy on the captive woman and used a quarter from her purse to lock the stall door latch from the outside, safely locking Sam in.

Special Agent Valiant held onto the tiny handcuff key for dear life. She slowed her terrified snorting and wheezing through her slobbery nostrils and tried to regain control of herself. She was mostly worried about the immediate threat of discovery and needed to be calm and quiet before she started to work herself loose. Sam methodically built up a picture in her head of what a pair of handcuffs looked like. From her practical exercises at Quantico , she knew this was going to be difficult and that if she dropped the key, she was royally screwed.

The first thing that Sam did with her freed fingers was to fumble desperately with the buckles behind her head to get the awful ballgag off. When it plopped free, her first wheezing breath felt like it was her first in weeks. It seemed more important than anything to get her breathing back to normal so she sat there in darkness for almost two full minutes while she sucked in as much refreshing air as she could while blowing the accumulated snot out of her nose. Only then did she peel off the eye patches that had blinded her so completely. Even alone, Sam needed to get her breasts covered and she shrugged her jacket back up over her shoulders and wrapped it around herself. She dealt with the ropes around her ankles last of all.

Sam leveraged herself up from the toilet seat onto a very shaky set of legs. That was the point at which she began to discover the full extent of the cruel joke that Christine had played upon her. She knew she had no choice about wearing the skirt that was cut so unfashionably short. “Oh, no!” she moaned aloud in true distress after she stepped into the remainder of the skirt and pulled it up her shapely legs. “The bottom of the skirt is only an inch or so below the bottom of my jacket. If I lean over, my ass cheeks will pop out on full display.” The distress over her skirt vanished instantly when she discovered that the only two remaining items of clothing were the outrageous pair of whore's shoes and a matching neon pink tube top. “A medium,” she muttered, “I haven't been able to wear a medium since my boobs started to grow.” Getting the stretchy top up over her hips was a daunting task; getting the dreadful thing over her mountainous boobs was nearly impossible. The top mashed her tits down across her chest and molded itself obscenely to her contours. She staggered out of the stall and threw purse, handcuffs, and rope down on the vanity with a clatter before turning to inspect herself in the mirror. Her first thought was that her hair and face were a disaster that would take all her skills to repair. The unaltered jacket kept her from looking exactly like a common streetwalker as long as it was buttoned down all the way. To hide the horrid pink top and the broad expanse of exposed belly under it, she moved to button her jacket and discovered that all three of its buttons had been cut free. “Shit! She only way to hid this is to hold it closed with one hand. I'm gonna kill that middle-aged bitch.” She dumped her purse out on the counter to get to her makeup and hair brush; what fell out of the curiously light purse was a loose jumble of condoms; otherwise, her purse was empty. She angrily piled condoms, the two sets of handcuffs, and the bondage rope into the purse and did the best she could with cold water, paper towels, and her fingers. Still somewhat wild looking, she straightened her ‘Escort Only' visitor's pass on her jacket lapel and started to move toward the bathroom exit and what she hoped was a nearly deserted cafeteria. She paused for a last glance at the time and realized that it was only 3:15 in the afternoon. “The building is still full of people. I can't wander down to the basement and cross all the way to the other side of the building without seeing far too many people. Anyone who sees me is supposed to stop an ‘Escort Only' visitor and take them to security. With a remarkably calm sense of fatalism she sighed and accepted her fate; she meekly returned to her toilet stall to wait out the remainder of the afternoon.

--- To Be Continued ---

 Author: Desert Dog ****** E-Mail: Desertlickingdog at yahoo dot com

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An Inquisitive Federal Agent

East Coast Slaver Organization Story - XII

Chapter 02 – Miss Wriggle and Grunt (or The Interfering Bitch)

Aaron Clarke was furious. No stranger to stress, Aaron had carefully nurtured his meager anger management skills over the last few years to be sure he made calm and rational decisions while under considerable pressure. Unfortunately, this situation struck so close to home that he couldn't hold it back. “That slutty, fucking whore!” he hissed, “She actually passed on information about me to someone else, … and a freaking F.B.I. Special Agent at that!” Aaron was fuming because he had just hung up after a very happy, and absurdly smug, Christine Taylor had called to ecstatically inform him that she had been able to coerce a co-worker into ‘studying' the local BDSM scene with him.

The reason for Aaron's anger is that he had carefully compartmented his activities in order to protect himself from any connection to the kidnapping, raping, extorting, murdering, and enslaving activities that he happily engaged in as a slaver. Aaron never used his own name; instead using a fabricated identity, Robert Morgan for most things he did in Miami and the U.S. Michael Moore was the identity he used for his activities in the British Virgin Islands . Similarly, he used the identity John Rice to cover his actions in the American Virgin Islands. Lastly, out of concern that too many people knew of his Robert Morgan identity, he had started to use a newly created identity, Justin Drake, to eventually replace the overused Robert Morgan identity. “Maybe this is this final straw that might mean the end of Robert Morgan for good,” he thought, taking a little consolation in the situation.

“Oh, Master,” she had gushed, “you will find her such a huge-titted, naïve, and delicious morsel. I am positive that you will enjoy the chance to turn her research into a truly humiliating and sexually liberating experience.” When Aaron hadn't immediately replied to her enthusiastic description of how much fun this would be, she added in a wheedling tone, “Please, Master. Take her as a gift from me. I only hope that you'll reward me with another session.” Her voice had become more excited and breathy as she got to her punch line, “Oh, please, … just play with me. I miss your attention so much!”

One reason for Aaron's anger was that the nymphomaniac bitch had designated herself as his part time slave despite his refusal to formally accept her as anything more than a bondage toy for occasional use to take the edge off his horny cock. That uncaring attitude about her feelings had further cemented her need for domination by the muscular Dom and his amazing cock. Addicted to his personal brand of sexual abuse, she was willing to do anything to earn another of the meager sessions that he parceled out for her. The small part of Aaron's brain that wasn't overwhelmed with anger thought it incredibly ironic that the professional woman with such prim and proper workday behavior so mindlessly begged to become his slave. That she unknowingly promised herself to a real-life slaver who could very quickly change her rosy perception of reality was especially delicious. “If she was younger, … if she was prettier, … and if she wasn't an F.B.I. agent with lots of delicious uses, I'd have done something permanent about her long ago,” he mused as he envisioned her awakening one day in real slavery. He would never admit it, but a large reason he occasionally topped the whore that could never match his high standards for beauty was the thrill of skirting so close to discovery. That thrill of potential discovery made his dick throb at the thought of falling between her oh-so-round-heeled legs even more than the potential payback from controlling a federal agent.

Certain that the only thing he could do at this point to mitigate any damage was to follow alone with the misguided cunt, Aaron asked her to bring everything she had created on the fellow F.B.I. agent to a rendezvous at a local hotel. She was to call his cell phone when she arrived at the hotel and get his room number. Aaron tried to calm himself as he considered what to do. “At least the horny bimbo only knows the first false identity that I created here in Miami ,” he thought. “We met anonymously at the B&D club and only one person who knows about me knows her real identity.” He sat and mulled through what his best options were for reacting to this unexpected news.

Soon after Aaron arrived in Miami to establish his expansion franchise of a west coast slaving enterprise, he had discovered the bondage club as an enjoyable place to unwind occasionally as well as a chance to occasionally break in and humiliate a new slave that had particularly angered him for some reason. An energetic and outgoing club waitress, Denise George, had introduced him to the club owner and manager after Aaron paid her to take him around to meet several of the club's staff members that worked the club both as a hobby and to garner specialty business. She took him to meet three of the staff members (the club's piercing expert, the resident tattoo artist, and the club doctor (Doctor Joan Miller)) before she brought over Todd Mitchum, the bear-like owner and manager of the club for an introduction. The two became wary friends after Todd figured out that most of the guests Aaron brought in were unwilling participants. It was important to the club owner that Robert Morgan (as he thought of Aaron) wanted to remain low key and intended no harm to his club or its members. It was Todd who one night pointed out that he had discovered that one of the club's aging, and overweight, subs was actually an employee of the F.B.I. One of Todd's reception girls had seen her gun and badge being stowed in a locker when the woman, Christine Taylor, was changing from street clothes into her slutty sub attire. “I checked her membership application and compared it with her ID documents in her locker. Her name is Christine Taylor,” Todd told Aaron in a complete breach of the club's confidentiality rules. He continued by explaining, “She is a frequent sub here at the club, although she never comes with a Master. In fact, we only let her into the club as an unattached sub if she turns herself over to our entertainment team who decide what to do with her. It's the only way we let in unattached women that want to play out their fantasies without committing to a Master or Mistress. Even though she isn't much to look at, naked or in street clothes, we keep her around because she is an energetic slut, willing to take on just about any kind of abuse you can think of, and I can testify that she is a top-notch piece of ass, a regular energizer fuckbunny. I had no idea that she worked for the F.B.I. or that she was stupid enough to use her real name in registering.”

Todd had explained that Christine was required to call ahead to let them know she was coming in for an evening of subbing. “When she gets to the club, my staff immediately puts her in bondage and then we tell her what role she has been assigned for the night. Christine is never given an option as to her preference; we assign the tasks randomly and since she is already cuffed and gagged, she can't complain.” Todd had grinned and added, “After all, … she knows the rules … if she doesn't like what we make her do, then she can stay away from the club. She is usually gagged, unable to complain or beg for mercy. She has been a topless waitress, a cigarette girl, bondage sculpture, a cock-cleaning receptacle in the men's room, and soon we plan on breaking her in as a featured painslut in the Charity Room where our hardest core players are let loose on helpless submissives.”

Aaron remembered the first time he had ‘used' Christine. Upon his own recommendation to the club manager, Todd Mitchum had directed his staff that the next time the plump federal employee came in she was to have her debut in the Charity Room. Pre-warned about her arrival, Aaron had stood there with his cock throbbing on a Friday night as the club's enforcers stuck a leather dog chew toy into the woman's wild-eyed face. A large crowd had already gathered and they were appreciatively watching as Christine tugged helplessly at her bonds. Christine was completely naked less a tiny black mask that guarded her privacy and enough bondage to hold her tightly in position. She was anchored in place by two chains clipped to a heavy leather waistbelt that held her ass up high while a single chain to her thick leather collar pulled her torso down to a horizontal position. Ropes around her wrists held her arms horizontally outstretched forward while ropes wrapped around her ankles kept her legs widespread. The result was that her ass and pussy were exposed to abuse while her mouth was busy holding in the rawhide chew toy. Her down-hanging pillowy breasts and pouched out stomach swayed gently about as Christine attempted to escape her bonds.

An announcement on an entry area board told arriving members that a newbie sub was to undergo her first ‘testing' in the Charity Room. She had ‘volunteered' to wager one thousand dollars from her own savings that she could keep a rawhide chew toy in her mouth through two hours of spankings anywhere on her body below her neck collar. Club members could buy spankings for a dollar apiece with the proceeds going to a local children's charity. The ‘winner' would be the one that made her drop the toy. In addition to paying the one thousand dollar penalty, Christine owed the ‘winner' unrestricted sub time for the remainder of the night. Aaron intended to be the winner who would take private advantage of the F.B.I. agent to ‘take her for a test ride' to see if the club manager's assessment that despite her shortcomings in age and appearance, she was a great cock-draining fuck.

Dominate after Dominate swung hard or soft open-hand spankings at the whimpering sub, raining thousands of blows on every inch of her body. Aaron watched as her flawless and pale skin began to first take on a rosy tint and then began to glow with an angry red color. “She's gonna have some amazing bruises to hide come Monday,” Aaron thought as Christine completed her first hour of the punishing spankings. A staff member counting spankings announced that she had earned twenty-two hundred dollars, approximately forty spankings a minute.

Christine would never forget her first round in the Charity Room. She remembered being in a confused world of pain and humiliation. She distantly heard a man announce that she had earned twenty-four hundred dollars and completed an hour of her spanking endurance task. During the ordeal, her teeth had sunk deeply into the slowly softening rawhide dog toy as her slobber loosened it. She had long ago realized that some sort of doggie treat filled the interior of the hard spiral-wound rawhide toy. “Tastes like shit,” she thought with forced focus. “Anything to keep from concentrating on the pain.” she added to herself. Dull-witted from the difficult bent-over position she was in and the constant aches that radiated from everything below her collar, it took her a moment to realize that another man had taken up a position behind her. Risking a quick look, she saw only a burly man gracefully easing his muscular form down onto a small stool he had set between her legs. “Huh?” she wondered, “What is he up to?”

A soft snap across her pussy got her attention. Puzzled, she wiggled about as best she could to see what was going on. Another snap vibrated across a cunt lip. Finally, she figured it out after another quick glance down between her swaying tits toward her pussy. She had seen the masked face of a man staring intently at her cunt from just inches away as he flicked his middle finger against her most sensitive flesh. She sensed the man's breath against her sex as the snapping impacts sped up to rain a series of slightly painful taps around her labia and gapping pussy hole. Her head arched back in the first glimmer of pleasure in the session as an errant tap touched her clitoris.

Aaron's unconventional spankings had started a murmur of consternation among the bondage club spectators that slowly turned to comments of appreciation as they realized his intent. Intrigued, they crowded closer to watch as Aaron ensured that his only contact with her sweaty flesh was as his middle finger flicked off his thumb to thump all around her glistening sex. The staff member counting spankings gathered in close to accurately assess the number of one-dollar blows that this unconventional Dom would take against the helpless pussy.

Christine whined aloud as the previously all-encompassing waves of pain and humiliation changed to little stabs of something between pain and pleasure. Her grunts around the slimy dog toy brought renewed feelings of humiliation. She knew from personal experience that lust and humiliation were the two critical keys that could trigger her uncontrollable climaxes. She reflexively tightened up her pussy muscles as if to protect herself from the one thousand dollar mistake she might have made by coming here to the club this night. “Just hold off till he gets bored and another takes his place,” she told herself desperately.

Where the hurtful spankings had driven away any feelings of desire, these little slaps were moistening her pussy and she was sure she felt her sex hole opening like a blossoming flower under the never-ending finger blows. She tried to move her hips away from this devious attack. “I think I coulda held off another hour of spanking,” she thought fatalistically with another drawn-out groan. At first, she thought this new strategy would be easy to survive; however, the growing heat emanating from her traitor of a pussy clearly spoke of an impending climax. Desperately in hopes of blunting the rising pleasure she was feeling, she ignored his acts and tried to focus on the painful throbbing still coming from her breasts and her ass. Then, she made the mistake of shifting her attention to the old pain in her crotch where the growing waves of pleasure almost took her breath away as she admitted to herself that it felt wonderful. Only the sticky nature of the softened rawhide held the toy against her teeth as she opened her mouth to grunt at the pleasure she now fully embraced. Stricken, she clamped back hard on the toy, keeping it from slipping free, but allowing some of the liver-flavored filling to crumble into her mouth. The funky taste helped Christine focus once again on resisting the pleasure from her crotch.

Christine heard the counter clearly declare the count to be two hundred pussy snaps when the continuous pattern beating against her sex organs paused and then resumed more strongly than ever. “He's changed hands,” she thought with a shrill whine that only she could hear. Unconsciously her hips started to shift slightly in an attempt to redirect his strikes against her clitoris rather than the lips guarding her vagina. “Slut!” she accused in a hiss that even Aaron and the man counting the blows could clearly hear. “Whore! Slut!” she continued in a mantra that only the three could hear.

The useless attempts of the captive to change Aaron's attack to her most sensitive organ were witnessed by a grinning Aaron Clarke. “Nice little cunt,” Aaron praised, “You're gonna get off just like the bondage whore that you are. Wriggle and grunt! Come on little piggy. Squeal like a sow in heat and drop that nasty chew toy. Wriggle and grunt! I wanta see you cream on my finger like the horny bitch that you are.”

A particularly sharp blow directly on her clitoris brought Christine's face snapping up high, snot flipping back across her brow. She grunted and fought to gain her breath back as her throaty gasps started to sound like a train engine hauling a full load of freight. The blows returned to strike on the soft junction between her labia, the tingling on her clitoris became a throbbing of arousal. Christine stared intently at a long strand of drool hanging from her mouth almost to the floor. She started to think that as long as the strand stretched down toward the floor, she was immune from an orgasm. Encouraged with this line of thought, she tried to focus all her thoughts upon the shining strand. Abruptly the strand broke and the snapping taps against her sex fell into a constant rhythm. She immediately began to snort again in shorter bursts as the heat of arousal spread through her groin. “Of, fuck!” she thought, “I'm gonna cum. I'm gonna cum. Ahhhhhh!” she moaned. Her petite orgasm rocked through her body and somehow the now sticky chew toy stayed in her mouth. Unable to move the remainder of her body, Christine rocked her head up and down, grunting like a pig, while retaining some control of her body during the enjoyable orgasm.

Unfazed by this first failure, Aaron brought his other hand up and commenced thumping simultaneously with both his left and right middle fingers. The digits pulsated against the woman's slithery sex in perfect unison. Aaron watched the sensitive flesh begin to jiggle in rhythm from the attack of the coordinating digits. He grinned as Christine's breath caught in her throat, triggering an uncontrolled hacking cough.

Christine had almost thrown up as her orgasm ended and the attacks against her cunt intensified unexpectedly, triggering the release of something in her throat that caused hacking spasms that almost tripped her reflex to vomit her air passage clear. Faint-headed and wheezing to regain her lost air, she was overwhelmed by the combination of stimulations; her fun and enjoyable orgasm exploded out of control and she lost herself in seemingly unending waves of pleasure that swept her being. When she returned to her senses, she groggily realized that the room was empty. The man that had worked behind her butt was now seated in a chair beside her staring intently at her helpless form, a topless club waitress kneeling beside him. She recognized from the bouncy D cups that it was Denise George. She knew that the bubbly twenty-three year old was a kinky piece of work that loved her job and would do anything for the hefty tips she got from grateful club patrons. Her eyes narrowed in realization and then she gasped in a raspy voice, “Fuck me! I've dropped the toy.”

Christine saw Denise look up with a predatory grin from where she was tying six-foot lines to the ends of the slimy chew toy. Her grin confirmed that Christine had indeed lost the contest. At the moment her least concern was about the one thousand dollars she had just lost. She watched with trepidation as the topless woman approached, huge hooters swaying. The warm breasts pushed against her shoulder and Christine felt the wet rawhide forced between her teeth once again. The waitress tugged hard on the lines, jamming the toy deep into her mouth, and then tying them off behind her head. Christine felt the lines lay down across her sweaty back where the waitress tied off the lines to her waist belt. As Christine watched the pleased brunette walk away with exaggerated hip motions, her head was brutally yanked back. She gurgled in pain and told herself, “Reins, … the bastard has me in a bit and is tugging on my reins.” The thought made her pussy clench at the humiliation of being treated like a naked mare, presented to her stud for breeding. The daydream was interrupted by relentless pressure against her fully lubricated cunt. “Ohhh,” she moaned aloud as a fat cockhead slipped past her labia and began to lip deep into her core. “Ahhh,” was her pleased moan as she realized that the man had a monster of a cock. “Yeth,” she spoke through her chew toy gag, indicating her pleasure at being mounted by her temporary Master.

When Denise slipped back into the room just five minutes later, Aaron was pounding deep into Christine's cunt with every bit of his strength and every ounce of his weight. She paused in admiration as his abdomen and balls made wet slapping sounds against the captive woman's body as he fucked into her like a demon. Without missing a beat, Aaron took an icy Pacifico Beer from her tray and guzzled it in one long swallow. He threw the empty bottle aside to fall into an empty couch and held out his hand. Denise was waiting and she slathered the man's hand with gobs of slippery sex lube.

Christine never even noticed that her exuberant lover was lubricating her asshole. The novice sub was still an anal virgin and she thought his fumbling was only to provide her extra stimulation. She was vaguely aware of the woman standing beside her; it added to her excitement to be bound and unable to avoid a sound fucking with a woman standing beside her. “Ahhh,” she cried as the chew toy pulled her head back even more savagely. “Hore!” she yelled though the gag. Christine felt the flush of increased sexual heat as she begged for more. Increasingly vocal, she cried, “Huck he hore! Harher!” as she tried to shout for more fucking and harder thrusts.

Just as Aaron felt pulsating waves of Christine's belly and vaginal muscles clenching around his hard-thrusting dick, he signaled to Denise, yanked his cock out, nestled his latex-sheathed plum-sized cockhead against her slippery anal sphincter, and jammed forward with all his might. His fucktoy shook wildly beneath him as his cock relentlessly sunk into her no longer virgin ass. Denise had simultaneously jammed both ice-packed hands hard against Christine's sagging tits, adding extra simulation to the fucking and throwing her over the edge. Aaron kept up long slithery strokes into her ass until he was sure she had passed out. Even unconscious, her body kept up its twitching movements as her orgasm continued.

Christine drifted slowly back to consciousness. Completely unaware of her whereabouts, she groggily attempted to capture a remembered memory of fantastic sex. Frustrated at her inability to regain the pleasure she had felt in her dream, she attempted to hunch over to bury both her hands in her pussy. The attempt to move instantly brought aches and pains from throughout her body to her attention and her eyes opened abruptly as she realized that it had not been a dream. This time she was tied spread-eagle on her back over a mattress hastily flung down on the floor of the dungeon chamber in the BDSM Club known as the Charity Room.

“Master, the horny cow is awake,” the respectfully kneeling topless waitress informed the muscular Master sitting beside her. “I think the little Piggie is ready to ‘Wriggle and Grunt' some more.” Christine's face had burned with shame as the woman repeated the shameful comments the mysterious Dom had made as he punished her sex into orgasm. The accusation “Ass-kissing snake,” popped into her mind as the brunette languidly stood and stretched before she bent forward to slip her wispy black panties from under her short black skirt. Christine stared lustfully, and with more than a little jealousy as the woman's remarkable breasts slightly bobbled about as the panties were tugged down to her feet. Christine then watched in open-eyed amazement as the woman stood directly over her and slowly lowered her funky pussy toward her face. Their eyes remained locked against one another as the waitress settled her weight down on the bound woman's face. Crinkly pubic hair covered her mouth and nose and then Christine's vision was blocked when the warm panties were laid across her eyes.

Aaron had knelt between the fucked-out woman's tied open legs and stroked his still-hard cock. He had been more than a little pleased that he had been able to fuck as long and as hard as he had without popping off in the amazingly tight pussy and decidedly virgin ass of his prize. He decided that only the anticipated fun to come had allowed him to hold off spurting a big load of jism. While Denise wriggled her pussy across Christine's mouth and nose, Aaron slipped down between her legs. His lips latched tightly over the federal agent's clitoris and he let his tongue loose to slurp around her dripping snatch. He grinned into the slimy hole when her hips arched up in an attempt to increase the stimulation. The view up the bound woman's chubby little tummy and between her too-soft tits toward Denise's tight little twenty-three-year-old ass was interesting. Still clad in her leather skirt, her widespread posture over Christine's face made the skirt creep up, offering tantalizing views of her winking asshole and the treasure beyond guarded by wispy brunette hair. If he wasn't so busy building a trap so he could potentially exploit a federal agent, he'd have jumped forward and fucked the top-heavy brunette atop the sweaty matronly-looking federal agent.

Instead, he'd reached forward to tap Denise on the shoulder and commanded, “Turn around the other way. I'll pass the pig's legs for you to hold under your arms. She can tongue your ass while I pound her holes.”

Christine's tongue had frozen halfway through its latest swabbing swath through the topless waitress' musky cunt at the man's gruff command. Her pussy clenched in need as his tongue left her and her hips rose fruitlessly to recapture his tongue all the while her brain was denying what was to happen next. Then things began to happen very quickly for the bound woman. The waitress hopped up and spun over her gaping mouth before settling down to seal it shut with her funky asshole. Christine reflexively licked up and then her tongue recoiled in disgust from the sour taste of shitty sweat surrounding the tight hole. Abruptly she felt an ankle freed before it was bent forward toward her own head. An arm tightly grasped her calf, locking her pussy open for view. Her second leg had joined the first. Christine knew that the new position raised her asshole up for use as well as her needy cunt. She shivered at the thought she had no choice which hole the man chose to use. The hips over her head shifted, locking the pussy once again over her mouth, and driving her nose up into the hairy cleft of the woman's asshole. Christine desperately fought for air as the woman forcefully ground down. The slobbering pussy above blunted her grunt of pain when a bar of steel slammed into her upthrust cunt. The very first jackhammer thrust raked the tip of the man's long cock directly over her ‘G' spot. Each successive thrust scraped across the same spot, prompting explosive bursts of stimulation. Unable to move anything to control, or even to slightly change, the man's fucking motions, Christine realized that he was using her as a piece of sexmeat. She could barely hear the sounds of slobbering kisses and moans above her. “That cunt is getting all his attention,” she complained. A particularly deep thrust that hit her cervix changed her tune. “Eiiii,” she had grunted, “I've, ... got, … the, … best, … part,” as she fought for breath between each of his vicious lunges against her cunt hole.

Aaron fondly remembered his wet lips, tongue, and teeth taking possession of the waitress' fat hooters while his hips plunged into the hot pussy below. Just before he came, he stretched his arms forward to clasp the sweaty hair of the federal agent. He yanked her head up into the younger woman's crotch and exploded into his condom. The helpless agent's belly muscles rippled and sucked every bit of jism out of his cock as her climax steamrolled over her. Only when he felt the spasms relax did he roll off, dragging Denise with him. Christine had passed out again, both from sexual overload and the beginning of asphyxiation. Finished with the bedraggled federal employee, he and Denise straightened their clothing before walking out of the Charity Room. Aaron's final questioning thought as the door clicked shut behind him was, “I wonder how long it will be before Miss Wriggle and Grunt realizes how much this night has cost her; financially, professionally, and in terms of loss of control over her life?”

--- To Be Continued ---

 

Author: Desert Dog ****** E-Mail: Desertlickingdog at yahoo dot com

 

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An Inquisitive Federal Agent

East Coast Slaver Organization Story - XII

Chapter 03 – Betraying a Friend (or A Wanton Slut without Morals)

Christine Taylor's pussy was drooling so copiously at the thought of what awaited her that she was worried her juices might seep through her panties and skirt to stain her car's expensive leather seats. It took all her self-control to keep both hands on the wheel to concentrate on driving in the heavy Miami rush-hour traffic and away from her wildly itching pussy. She saw her turn and neatly turned her sporty BMW into an old fashioned and decidedly sleazy street-side hotel. Only two cars were parked in the diagonal parking slots in front of the open verandas of the two-story row of rooms and Christine turned her car into a slot directly in front of her assigned room, number four. She hesitated before she turned off her car and peered anxiously about. The small motel looked to have only sixteen rooms, eight on each floor and she didn't see a single Caucasian face in sight.

A towering black man stood leaning languidly against a column in front of room number eight. “My god!” she thought, “he must be at least six-foot-six and weigh over three hundred pounds.” At that moment, door number seven opened and a portly white man slipped nervously out of the room with his sports jacket and tie in one hand and his black leather wallet in the other. At first, the sight of a businessman at this dingy motel was reassuring; until she noticed his disheveled look and the meager greeting he gave the widely smiling black man as he scurried past where he stood watch on the narrow concrete veranda. Christine followed the unkempt white man with her eyes as he kept up the quick pace all the way to his late model Cadillac parked next door beside a twenty-four hour liquor store. As the john drove quickly away, the black man strode into the room and emerged seconds later with a slender black woman in garish street hooker attire. “It looks like that skanky prostitute has a cork up her ass,” she thought to herself with a smile of superiority as she decided she had solved this too easy puzzle. “He's just a pimp with his hooker,” she whispered and her upper lip curled up in a sneer and she averted her face while her eyes surreptitiously followed the pimp and his whore as they walked directly in front of her car and continued toward room number one and the front office beyond. As she passed, the woman kept tugging her Lycra skirt down every few steps to keep the bottoms of her ass cheeks hidden; Christine's sneer deepened. “What a whore,” she whispered, “and in broad daylight too.”

Deciding it was safe to get out of the car; Christine slipped out of the BMW and ran around to retrieve her overnight bag and a bondage kit bag from the trunk before hurrying toward room number four. Without looking behind her, she triggered her door lock on the keyless remote, smiling nervously at the reassuring beep that indicated her car was secured and the alarm active. Without even knocking, she opened the unlocked door and slipped gratefully into the quiet asylum of the dingy motel room. She locked the door with a hint of desperation as the reality of her much dreamt about evening sunk in. It took a few moments for her heartbeat to return to normal

To help calm herself, Christine deliberately ignored her current situation and quickly reviewed how far she had come into the shadowy world of BDSM that she had come to love so much. “Hard to believe this began just seven years ago,” she thought with a dreamy look upon her face. “Until I turned thirty-five, I was boring little Miss Dudley Do-Right.” she thought wryly remembering how she'd ignored dating, sex, and any kind of after work activity as she concentrated whole-heartedly on her law enforcement career. “It's amazing that I actually went ten years without getting laid. I thought that was so normal, … after all, I was trying to get ahead in a man's world.” She remembered that the first time she'd ever seen a bondage magazine was when she was rummaging through a box of evidence taken from a suspected serial rapist's home on her thirty-fifth birthday. “ Bound Bitches ?” she'd questioned when she saw the garish cover depicting a buxom woman naked and in severe bondage; her black and blue breasts wrapped in a veritable cocoon of thin bondage cord. Caroline had stolen the magazine from the evidence box as a birthday present for herself when she saw that it wouldn't be missed from among the many issues of bondage magazines as well as other, equally hard-core smut rags.

It only took a week of long, satisfying masturbation sessions at bedtime before she threw the magazine down on the floor beside her bed and handcuffed herself for the first time in her life. Fully clothed, she'd grunted and moaned like a whore in heat as her pelvis humped wildly against her pillow to get enough friction on her clitoris as she stared at the open pages of the magazine below her on the floor. Her very first self-bondage session was also one of her scariest sessions because after she'd clicked the cuffs against her first wrist, she'd twisted about until she could latch the other behind her back. Christine had been certain that after she finished her fantasy session that she could slip her handcuffs down under her butt and then easily unlock them from the front. She had been sadly mistaken. Christine will never forget how after she recovered from her wonderfully satisfying climax that her heart had almost exploded up her throat in fear when her wrists wouldn't get down low enough to clear her too ample butt. Christine wasn't limber enough, or slim enough to manage the relatively simple task of slipping her cuffed hands to her front. As a lab technician, Christine Taylor was not a graduate of the same field training that Special Agents went through; hence, she lay there gasping for breath and was unable to visualize where the keyhole in her cuffs was located or how to get them unlocked without dropping her only key. Finally giving up accomplishing the task on her bed, she thanked herself for not tying her ankles so it was a simple task to get to the bathroom mirror and twist about until she could find the keyhole. If she hadn't been so afraid that she was trapped permanently, then the disheveled sight that greeted her in the mirror would have triggered another masturbation session. “So, fucking hot!” had been her brief observation before she twisted about in front of the mirror to get a glimpse of her cuffed wrists. Even before she uncuffed the second wrist, she reached up and tugged her bra cup back over the fat tit that had painfully escaped the soft cup during her struggles to get free. After that first fiasco, Christine had planned her self-bondage and masturbation sessions much better. That remembered first feeling of desperation as she discovered herself trapped always helped her get over the edge in her subsequent bondage sessions.

“Still,” Christine chastised herself gently, “it took five years of sessions alone before I dared explore them with other people.” It still embarrassed her that her dating experience was so limited that she'd only achieved success in her bondage goals by going to a BDSM club. “I was so lucky that I had access to confidential files,” she told herself. “After all, I only found out about the club because of a Miami Vice investigation that cleared the place of wrongdoing.” Christine found the address and the name of the Club Manager, Todd Mitchum in her files. Her first interview with the burly man took place on another of her birthdays, her fortieth. “Todd refused to let me join because I didn't belong to a Master,” she told herself. The disappointment of being turned away had been bitter.

What Christine couldn't have possibly known is that while Todd Mitchum was a very effective manager, he did operate in such a way that he got as much pussy as he wanted. His initial assessment of the matronly looking woman was that it wasn't worth the effort to set her up for a quick fuck. Only after she begged did Todd reconsider. “I'll tell you what Christine,” he'd told her bluntly, “without a Master the only way you can join is to turn yourself over to the Club Staff as their slave whenever you're on the premises.”

Pathetically eager, Christine had babbled her agreement to meet any demands he made of her. However, Todd's next comment had scared her away. “OK then, I have time right now for you to audition. Then in the future, just call ahead when you want to spend the evening here and the Staff will be ready to give you an assignment for the night. So, … what the fuck are you waiting for, slave? Get those clothes off so I can see what you have to offer.”

Christine knew that she'd been very naïve. She'd hoped to visit the club a few times to watch and get the feel for how things were done before she plunged in and subbed. Instead, this man she'd just met demanded that she undress and stand for inspection like livestock. She'd burst into tears and run away. After all, at the time Christine had been chaste for ten full years; she was a stranger to sex of any sort that required more than one participant. Even two years later, the smug look of superiority that Todd gave her as she scurried away haunted her. “He knew I was going to run away,” she reminded herself fiercely. She remembered how he'd chased her out of the office and physically held her in the hall until she took his business card. “If you reconsider, call,” he'd told her fiercely, one hand on her throat and another possessively pushing her crotch hard against the wall. “But next time there'll be no backing out and your audition will be an ‘around the world' event. It's unbecoming from a slave to renege on a deal.”

It was only the jarring shock of being thrown against the wall and the helpless feeling from the relentless pressure locking her in place till she accepted the forceful man's business card that brought her back to the club for her audition. Those few moments of domination gave her fuel for nights of masturbating fantasy and she knew she was addicted to the feeling of helplessness. Even so, it took two weeks before she got the nerve to call. Todd's terse reply over the phone had almost made her change her mind. “Look,” he'd told her, “I want twenty-four hour advance notification from you and you have to come in at least three hours before we open. That way the Staff can plan out your role for the night and get you prepped.”

“You mean I can't come in tonight?” she'd tearfully asked.

“No, not for a regular session,” he'd told her and she nearly broke down in tears at the letdown. “But,” he'd relented, “since it's only an audition, you can come now before we get too busy for the night.”

The slave in the reception cubicle was waiting for her when she nervously walked into the BDSM Club's entry vestibule. Christine had shied back from the buxom woman wearing only a skimpy leather ‘G' string and string bikini top that left nothing to the imagination. The slave quickly manhandled her to get a stiff leather collar locked on; a leash was already attached to the leather band. Christine was dragged unceremoniously into the adjacent woman's dressing room where a beautiful Mistress watched with interest as the slave ordered Christine to strip naked. A respectful request to the Mistress after the naked Christine was handcuffed with her hands behind her back let her know that her decision for the night was irrevocable. “Mistress Katherine, Master Todd has asked if you'll escort this newbie to his office. He thought you might enjoy displaying her for a formal audition.”

The slave took away all her possessions, gave her a pair of absurdly high black heels, and she'd tottered, eyes downcast, after the bewitching ass of Mistress Katherine as she was led toward Todd's office. Christine shook herself free from her remembered introduction to the BDSM Club nearly two years prior. “Focus, woman,” she told herself, “you can relive those experiences later after you're ready for your Master.” She set the bondage kit bag on the bed and carried the overnight bag into the bathroom where Christine took off all her clothes and carefully folded everything on the vanity top. She brushed her hair and tightly braided it into a single ponytail before sitting down on the toilet to empty herself and then douche herself clean. An appraising hand rubbed over her crotch to make sure no stubble remained high on her legs. Satisfied, she applied her makeup even though it was likely that her ‘date' for the night might never even look at her face. These humiliating tasks taken to prepare herself to be used as a sex object no longer bothered her, they were simple steps to be taken on her way toward sexual fulfillment. Even the cold squirt of Vaseline she stuck up her ass didn't faze her. The critical stack of personnel folders were in the bottom of the overnight bag; she took them out and placed them on the scarred table in the musty hotel room; her asshole felt squishy from the lubricant as she walked about getting things arranged.

Ready to assemble her bondage gear, she dumped out the kit with a clatter onto the threadbare comforter. Its custom manufacture at a local metal smith had been a complicated task given her soon after she met Robert Morgan, the man she claimed as Master even if he refused to acknowledge it. He had drawn out the basics and then made her determine the exact dimensions while working with the metal smith. It had been a good lesson in humiliation for her; the cold steel of the bondage gear would forevermore remind her of that lesson.

The device was fiendishly simple; its intent was to hold her available for use in any of her holes without the use of ungainly spreader bars that interfered with a man's knees as he mounted her, particularly on soft surfaces such as a mattress. To get around this limitation, Robert described a simple heavy-duty arch or upside down ‘U'. As Christine snapped each of the three primary pieces of the arch together, she locked each joint with a keyed lock to which she had no keys. A number of contraptions had been machined which could be attached to the basic arch. Christine had used them all in her vulnerable sessions with her Master, either alone or in public at the club. Each piece of steel was worth hundreds of satisfying climaxes. The contraption was her most prized possession.

Once everything was laid out in readiness, she picked up the empty bag and brought it to the bathroom where everything (clothes, car keys, purse, and empty bondage kit) was stowed and locked within her overnight bag with yet another padlock to which she had no key. She grimaced at the thought of what she had hidden in a carefully ripped external seam. “He'd beat me to death if he found out about the sliver of a razorblade, the handcuff key, the paperclip, and the broken hacksaw blade shoved both directions inside that seam,” she told herself. “I just can't take the risk of being trapped again, regardless of any promises I make to follow his directions.”

She threw the bag into the shower atop the moldy tiles and padded back to the bed. The first thing she did was unlock the door and push it shut as tightly as it would go. The next was to clip a vicious set of sharp-toothed nipple clips to her breasts along with a length of chain. Nipples already throbbing from the tugging weight dangling off her brown nubbins, she buckled a leather band onto each ankle and below each knee. She stuck a leather-clad ringgag in her mouth and awkwardly ratcheted it as wide-open as she could get it with the specialty locking tool designed for just that use. “Master only wants me to use a headstrap with ringgags if he wants a particularly stupid looking slut,” she told herself, happy to be wearing the simpler self-locking ringgag. Then she settled herself inside the arch, lower legs parallel to the straight sections of the arch and the curve resting above her knees. Her body fit easily within the arch, rings at the open end matched the rings outside her ankles and rings near the padded top curve of the arch matched her knee bands. She snapped more padlocks onto the four sets of overlapping rings, trapping herself onto the heavy steel base. Snaps on the ends of her nipple chains clicked over smaller steel hoops already welded to the middle arch of the bar, forcing her torso down tightly toward the bed and locking her ass up into the air. With her face now forced into the mattress by the fiendish nipple chains, it was hard work to wrap a blindfold around her head and tie it off. Nearly finished, her last task was to snap her wrists into the handcuff halves already clipped to the bar between her ankles and knees. Christine Taylor, professional woman working with the F.B.I. was now bound helpless to a bed in a twenty-dollar-a-day flophouse of a motel, her glistening asshole and drooling pussy pointed toward an unlocked door with a pimp and his whores just a few feet away. Unlike her self-bondage sessions at home, release from the contraption she had commissioned was impossible. Christine had never felt more alive or hornier than at that moment.

Keenly concentrating on every sound because of her helpless and blind situation, Christine felt her heartbeat increase once again. Part of her thrill from the bondage was the fear of discovery and the edge of terror that crept in because of her extreme vulnerability. Even knowing the futility of the effort, she carefully tested her bonds, yanking and pushing at each leather cuff, both thrilled and in fear of their unyielding strength. The nipple cuffs were tested much more gingerly; they wouldn't tolerate a hard tug despite the freedom of movement in her elbows and wrists. Christine knew from experience that the self-tightening teeth on the clamps would cut her nipples to shreds before they'd release.

She clasped her pussy and anal muscles in a vain attempt to get some stimulation to relieve her growing lust. It was no use, the device kept her wide open for use and unable to masturbate or rub herself off on anything. Even if she managed to fall off the bed, she'd remain completely trapped by the unyielding steel of her own contraption.

During her long wait for Robert Morgan, Christine had plenty of time to finish remembering her audition night at the BDSM Club. Three sensitive body parts throbbed with pain from the corrective blows given her by the Mistress before they even left the dressing room. “Don't look up at my eyes, you silly bitch!” had been the first command that was matched with the sidearm blow that rocked against her poor tittie. The stinging blows to each ass cheek had come when her posture wasn't acceptable. The third area struck had been the most painful and the most humiliating. “This wild forest you have down here will have to go!” Mistress Katherine had complained just a microsecond before the riding crop swung upward to land with an audible splat against her exposed juicy pussy. Thus, Christine had plenty of room for the terror and pain she craved as she teetered down the corridor toward the Club Manager's office. “I never even guessed that a woman would lead me around like a pet,” she thought as her pussy throbbed in need atop the seedy motel bed two years later.

Mistress Katherine had led her on a leisurely stroll through the nearly empty bondage club. Christine had been acutely aware of her nudity, somehow made even more obvious by the stiletto heels she could barely walk on. Not yet open, the few men and women working in the club prior to its opening for the night were involved in innocuous tasks such as vacuuming, wiping down tables, cleaning the bar area, and preparing exhibit areas. The ordinary nature of the tasks made her out of place nudity seem even more humiliating. Katherine pulled her by the leash to within a few feet of where Todd Mitchum sat reviewing liquor and food sales with his female wait staff; they were all wearing normal street clothes and only the women glanced her way as she stumbled by. Todd never even looked up. Christine felt as if everyone was leering at her as Katherine led her to every conceivable location in the public areas of the club before pulling her to Todd's office.

The night Mistress Katherine took her into Todd's office was, as with most of her experimentations in self-bondage and then public BDSM at the club, an event that seemed to exceed anything she had ever imagined possible in terms of thrills and sexual release. As they paused to enter the office the black-clad Mistress had dryly commented, “Hmmm, dear, … you positively reek with pussy scent. Next time you either need a longer lasting perfume, or you should consider wiping yourself off with babywipes before you leave the Club's locker room.” Then the woman had smiled possessively, “Of course, you will ‘cum' in this Club and you will earn each orgasm with sweat and tears, so maybe it's a futile effort to try and smell like something other than the weak-kneed skanky whore that you so clearly are.” Helpless with her hands cuffed behind her back and a leash around her neck, Christine had almost cum just from the one-sided, thirty-second exchange outside the office. Her itching cunt had felt super sensitized as she was pulled into the office.

Minutes later she found herself blindfolded and bent over an overstuffed chair in the office, anchored down by the taut leash around her neck; her ankles held widespread by wraps of thin bondage cord that cut deep into her flesh as the woman tightly tied her feet to the rear legs of the chair. Panic at her helplessness had now fully set and Christine was gasping for breath when the woman boldly grasped her chin tightly, yanked her head far back, and then locked lips with her. The kiss was so sudden, … so unexpected, … so forbidden, … and so arousing that a mild climax rocked her the instant the woman's knowledgeable fingers wormed their way down her stomach, past her belly button, to her clitoris. The beautiful Mistress' cruel taunt of, “What an easy whore you are,” escalated her mild orgasm into something much stronger. In what would become a common occurrence over the next two years, Christine's overactive imagination coupled with her reaction to the simplest sexual stimuli overloaded her system when the climax rushed through her; she slipped into unconsciousness, still twitching from her pulsating orgasm.

A tickling touch teased her pussy as she slowly became aware of her location still bound ass-up in Todd's office. The fire in her groin slowly grew but wasn't enough to trigger another orgasm. Finally, eager for another gut-wrenching climax, she whispered, “Please, … harder, … get me off, … please.” The touch continued for a few seconds after she stopped begging and then a blaze of fire crossed her ass on one side, … and then the other. Her surprised shrieks of pain were interrupted by a fierce whispering in her ear, “Cunt! You better remember who the pussy-lapping piece of sexmeat is in this relationship. If you ever command me again, … or even talk without cue, … I'll beat your fat sagging grandmother's ass till its black and blue.” Mistress Katherine punctuated the lesson in manners with another three sets of ass-cheek slashings with the riding crop.

Panting in fear and still horny beyond belief for another wild climax, Christine heard the door to the office open and listened to Todd Mitchum stride in with a cheery hello and an audible kiss on Mistress Katherine's cheek. His entrance interrupted any chance of immediate sexual release for Christine. Blindfolded, Christine never saw the silent question his raised eyebrows asked when he saw the red blotches on her asscheeks and breasts but she did listen shamefully to Mistress Katherine's response, “The unruly bitch needed some posture pointers before we left the dressing room and then she actually sassed back with some lame-assed demand that I give her cellulite-covered lard ass another free climax as if I were her personal servant. Todd, this piece of ass is too old, too fat, and way too inexperienced for you to mess with.” “After all,” she'd added with a conspiratorial wink, “we both know that you've recruited some much higher quality pussy than this skanky thing.”

The much stronger blows to her ass that followed lit an agony of pain that rivaled anything she'd imagined hell could feel like. Sometime during the long beating that Todd administered to the naïve sub, Mistress Katherine left, leaving Todd to punish the slave's unimaginable effrontery alone. When his steel-bar of a cock drove without foreplay deep into her velvety and overheated cunt, she'd raised her head and shoulders and howled her appreciation for the sexing she was getting. Unable to resist, Todd had reached forward around her torso to grasp her nipples and pinched them as hard as he could, squishing the brown nubbins flat and triggering a wild climax in the bucking woman below him as he used her nipples as handles to pull himself deeper into her hot core. The amazingly tight spasms around his cock had thoroughly surprised him. When the muscles refused to let his softening cock loose, he'd reclassified her as imminently fuckable despite her substandard appearance. The pulses from within her belly lasted so long that they manipulated his softening cock back to a full erection; a feat that even the self-avowed cocksman couldn't do unless the woman was just so fucking desirable that he couldn't get enough of her the first time. Each of the dozen or so times that Todd screwed her during the next two years reproved to him what a great fuck she was. His absolute favorite was to let the woman loose above him as he reclined after whipping her ass with a riding crop. Her hips performed a blurringly fast fuck atop his throbbing meat and her inner muscle strength never failed to amaze him. Nobody else that fucked her increasingly experienced pussy-hole during that same two years would ever forget how astoundingly tightly her greedy pussy had milked their fucksticks.

Christine never knew how close she came to discovering the meaning of ‘around the world' that first night in the BDSM Club. Todd Mitchum had fully intended to break in every hole in the naïve woman until her talented pussy so mesmerized him that he wanted more of her cunt. The result was that after Todd pulled his renewed hardon from her clasping pussy and prepared himself to sunk into her asshole he paused, sighed in contentment, and eased himself back into the cunt that was still as tight as a teenage virgin. The Club Manager was a veteran of many fuckings and was able to get as much pussy as he wished. Even so, he'd never forget the first time he fucked Christine Taylor in his office. The three loads he pumped into his ultra-thin condoms ended three of the best times his dick had been treated by a woman's sex hole. “Homely and matronly she might be,” he told himself often during the next two years, “but, whatta fuck!”

Reliving the first time with Todd had raised her sexual heat appreciatively while waiting in the grimy motel room. When the door clicked open, she was more than ready for Master Robert. “Hmmmm,” she moaned into her ringgag. A large hand covered one of her fleshy asscheeks and she moaned again in need. The musk from her copiously drooling pussy was an overpowering aroma in the small stuffy room. A wriggling thumb centered itself on her slick ass grommet and Christine moaned aloud again. The thumb stopped rotating and froze in place as it began to slowly, and relentlessly, sink wrist-deep into her tightest fuck hole. Christine wriggled her ass and grunted her need even as the nipple clamps punished her for moving too far from a complete shoulder-down position on the now sweaty bedcover. Two middle fingers found her gapping cunt and slipped deep within her vaginal sheath to possess her in a classic ‘bowling ball' grip. She gasped as the three digits curled inwardly, tightly taking possession of her bottom and then the now painful grip began to yank her ass from side to side. Try as she could, Christine couldn't get the inwardly clawed fingers to stimulate her needy ‘G' spot. Finally the fingers withdrew, and her Master's cockhead drilled into her pussy. She gasped audibly at the intrusion of only the first massive inches of his masterful dick. He started to stir around her cunt with amazingly strong circular strokes of his giant cock. “Oh, so big,” Christine moaned to herself. “He must be fully aroused, … this is the hardest and biggest I've ever felt his fucklog. What a cock!” The shifting of the massive cockhead from clasping pussy to glistening ass drove her breath away. For once, she was happy that his grip on his dick let only the first three inches of his punishing pole into her body; hoping that he'd ease himself in to give her thin-walled intestines plenty of time to straighten out before he began to fuck into her rectum in earnest. Then, abruptly, the dick was gone and she heard a zipper closing. She moaned in despair at this development and wept aloud in unfulfilled need as he left the room.

Moments later, the motel room door reopened and Christine breathed a sigh of relief as he returned and then her face rolled around the drool-covered bedspread as her Master's tongue centered itself over her pussy and began to give her the best oral sex of her life. Climax after climax rolled over her body as the cunt-lapping continued. She completely lost track of time and the number of orgasms she received as he pleasured her sensitive hole.

When Aaron Clarke, AKA Robert Morgan, slipped quietly into the dark hotel room, a thoroughly lubricated cunt greeted him. There was no doubt as to the heated condition of her arousal given the stench of pussy that permeated the room and the clasping pussy lips that had drooled long strings of pussy lube down the inside of her thighs. Another sign of her sexual readiness came from the mindless grunts of arousal that escaped her ringgag-filled mouth as she tried to wriggle her ass around for yet more stimulation. Aaron ignored his overheated slut and instead sat down at the scarred and worn table beside the bed. He flipped open the files marked ‘CONFIDENTIAL -- LAW ENFORCEMENT USE ONLY.' The sight that greeted his eyes was mesmerizing. “What a fucking piece of ass,” he whispered aloud as he saw the naked titties of Special Agent Samantha Louise Valiant for the first time. “How the hell did someone built like that pass the training at the Academy without a lawsuit for sexual harassment being filed against the guerillas working there?” he asked himself.

He fully appreciated the careful workmanship Christine had invested in the bogus arrest file, the prison processing file, and the signed release forms assigning her to the well-known lesbian prosecutor who had been so publicly discredited during her firing. “She's right,” Aaron thought with his first true appreciation for what the bound bimbo on the bed beside him had given him. “No matter what this Special Agent claims, this is ironclad proof that she was doubling as a common street whore, was legitimately arrested for prostitution, and then traded her freedom for a lesbian relationship with a dirty county prosecutor with drug and organized crime connections.” He leaned back with intense satisfaction at the wonderfully fun, and potentially rewarding, relationship he was going to force on the first woman he'd ever seen in his experienced life that shamed Barbie Doll's vaunted beauty and figure. “Man!” he shouted to himself as he looked at the photograph that showed the woman's naked boobs exploding out of her chest from her bound position atop the toilet, “Whatta fucking bimbo this one will make!” He tried to imagine how the snared woman would feel once she discovered the true depths of the trap into which she'd been lured. His grin bespoke his eagerness to get started on the inescapable trap he'd implement to hold the too dedicated and too inquisitive F.B.I. agent.

He frowned as he realized that only a few pictures of Samantha were included among the files laid out by the laboratory technician. “Hmmm,” he mused, “we can't have evidence of this frame-up lying around her office and home.” He pulled out a pen and boldly wrote across one of the blank folders that had held the few excess photos of Samantha:”

Slut,

Loved every bit of this – it's delicious! Bring everything back in two nights along with all copies of the photos you have (let's clean this up so it can't be traced back to you). I have a great idea about twisting this about, so create another full blank set of the in-processing files and evidence bags, date-stamped and signed just like the others; but use another inmate number, say three later than the one already used. If you want to earn an extra reward, arrange to take off the next few weeks; don't pack, you know I'll provide everything you need. Maybe I'll be disposed to renegotiate the request you've made so many times and formalize your position in life.

R.M.

Aaron grinned down at his quickly penned note. “I've got a lot to do before tomorrow night,” he thought. Then his grin became decidedly feral as he added, “Yes, … there is no doubt that this is a land of opportunity. Whatta fucking place!”

He resolved that he'd make this the most memorable and enjoyable night of debauchery that Christine Taylor had every enjoyed; it would be a long bout of sexual overdose that she'd never forget. “She'll barely be able to walk tomorrow,” he promised with a grin. “Course she has to go to work and walk those long corridors in plain sight of her coworkers.” Deciding it was time to move on, he turned to his own overnight bag for a video camera which he set up on a small tripod and focused on her naked form. He also turned on every light in the small room to improve the quality of the movie. The unblinking red light on the front of the camera indicated to any that could see inside the room that the scene was being captured digitally on high-resolution tape.

He straightened up the files, placed his note atop them, and then added a small capped syringe, a vial of white powder, a vial of colorless liquid, and a packaged alcohol swab to the items on the table. Deciding that his enjoyment would begin later, he walked over to the bed and dumped out the contents of two newly purchased bags of wooden clothespins. He started just above her knee on the tender inside of her leg. Soon an artistic line of wooden clothespins traced a straight line up to the juncture of her legs. Aaron ran a hand down the line, knocking aside the pins one after the other. Satisfied that none broke free of their grips on her smooth white skin, he started just above the other knee.

Christine had been drooling and grunting softly nonstop into her ringgag since her Master's tongue had left her needy pussy with an unquenched fire still smoldering despite the number of climaxes that he had coaxed out of her. She had been overjoyed when he returned and despite the delay in resuming sex, she was happy that he finally took time to look at the offering she had offered him. She grunted happily when she heard his faint gasp of breath at what she was sure were the pictures of the big-titted bimbo that Christine had so easily drawn into humiliation. Sometime later, the clatter of something being dumped between her legs brought her hazy thoughts back into focus. “He pinched my leg,” was her first thought. After the act was repeated just above the first site which was now gently throbbing, she still didn't know what was happening. Only when the throbs seemed to reach nearly to her groin did she realize that he was putting some kind of clamps on her legs. She raised her spine in defense when the back of his hand disturbed the line of clothespins one after the other in a line heading straight to her cunt. He trapped nipples reminded her to behave herself when her move tightened up the chains a little too much.

Eventually, the lines that crept up her legs were matched with lines inside her arms and down the sides of her torso, lines crisscrossing her stomach, and lines spiraling down around her downward hanging breasts to compete with the teeth of the nipple clamps already possessing her painful nipples. The gentle throbbing from almost two hundred clothespins that were disturbed every few minutes by her tormentor became a wave of distracting stimuli that could have been either painful or a needful itching; Christine was in an agony of indecision about how to classify her torment. She did grunt with consternation when her Master pulled out a pussy lip and attached the first clothespin to her labia. The thought, “Oh, fuck! He's headed toward my clitoris!” started her sweating like a pig as she tried to ease herself away from his fingers. “Eiiii,” was her clearly discernable plea of pain when the final clothespin snapped hard against her most vulnerable nubbin of flesh on her body. She tried to hump up into the air to knock off the final clothespin; hanging from her clitoris; however, nothing she did had any effect. If possible, her motions only triggered tiny waves of extra stimulation as dozens of clothespins fluttered about slightly from her futile attempt to escape the increasingly intense throbbings.

Aaron sat back at the dingy table and surveyed his blindfolded victim. He dug into his own nightbag and pulled out a high-resolution digital camera. He took at least fifty quality shots of the squealing bitch bound upon the sweat-soaked, drool-saturated bedspread. He ran a last teasing hand along every line of tightly clasping clothespins and slapped Christine across the ass, enjoying the rippling of the excess skin reacting to his blow. He added another spanking blow. Deciding it was once again time to move on, he took a small tube of aromatic muscle relaxer out of his bag and dabbed an inch-long line of the greasy mixture onto the fingers of his left hand. The scent from the wintergreen-smelling concoction spread through the room as he evenly spread it around his eight fingers. He rolled the fingers of his right hand into a tight roll and unceremoniously jammed all four digits deep into her sloppy cunt. Not wanting to apply too much of the liniment, he quickly pulled his hand out and rolled the fingers of his left hand into a similar spear-tip-like shape. It took a little more effort to worm these fingers into her much tighter anal sphincter. Satisfied, Aaron left the woman alone while he washed his hands.

“Time to stew and squirm my little pig,” Aaron announced from the still-closed doorway. “I think I'll go outside for a nice cold beer while little Miss Wriggle and Grunt does her famous impersonation of a farmyard animal desperate for a breeding. My video camera is making a nice record for you to remember how you look right now, a wriggling, grunting, squealing little whore that thinks only with her clothespin-lined sexhole. We'll continue this fun a little later while I try and decide which of your sloppy holes I want to ream out first.”

Christine had been lying there desperate for a proper fucking after the long hours anticipating her Master's arrival. The superheated bout of oral sex had been wondrous, but didn't fully quench her fiery lust. “God,” she moaned, “I want him in me so bad. But, no, … he leaves after wasting time on those files. Then, instead of mounting her after slowly perusing the files, he sticks those clothespins all over me. Wait, … he's coming back, maybe he's gonna fuck me now.” When he stuck his fat fingers deep into her needy pussy, she moaned in full readiness for a proper fucking. Then, … the heat began to build and his fingers raped into her tighter butt hole. The heat started rising there as well. Panicked, she tried to beg through her ringgag, “Hop, hease. Hop hit. Hit huts ho had.” Then he'd told her goodbye and called her the one name that always brought a heady wave of humiliation, “Miss Wriggle and Grunt.” The door shut with a finality that told her she was stuck ‘stewing' in her own world of sexual need exasperated by the growing heat in her lower two sex holes. “Hot,” she told herself, “Oh, fuck! It's getting hot. Thank god he was conservative with what he stuck into me.” Christine had seen the results of a full coating of the liniment in one unlucky woman's cunt and the simultaneous searing heat in her ass from red-hot Thai chili paste. Witnessing such an extreme corrective session had made Christine very compliant to the demands of her Master.

The rising heat had already made sweat start to drip copiously from her forehead, the salt burning her eyes. She tried to wave her ass around to cool off her burning holes. “Oh, fuck me!” she cried to herself. “I'll give anything if he'll just FUCK ME!”

 

--- To Be Continued ---

 Author: Desert Dog ****** E-Mail: Desertlickingdog at yahoo dot com

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An Inquisitive Federal Agent

East Coast Slaver Organization Story - XII

Chapter 04 – A Kinky Tryst in a Dingy Motel (or A Pimp Approves)

Aaron Clarke eased his bulk down onto the kitchen chair waiting for him on the dark veranda, opened his small cooler, and pulled out two beers. Only then did he turn to his much larger acquaintance already seated beside him. “Well, Maurice,” he asked while he offered a beer bottle dripping icy water, “what do you think?”

The black giant that Christine had sighted outside a whore's room took the bottle without comment. He coolly waited while Aaron used an opener to pop off the caps before he clicked bottles with the white man and said, “Cheers.” Only after he took a long satisfying swallow of the Pacifico Beer did he offer, “Boss, … gotta say, … she much nicer den dem skanky bitches ya paid me ta break fo ya befo.”

Aaron nearly choked on his beer at that unexpected comment. “You gotta be kidding me!” he sputtered. “Whats a nigger like you look for in a piece of ass anyway?” He locked eyes with the hulking brute next to him and boldly continued, “I can't imagine a single white man I know that would prefer this slack-bodied, thick-waisted, over-age whore instead of quality pieces of ass like Gloria and Danielle Petrillo.” (Author's note: Gloria and Danielle Petrillo are captured, tortured, and converted to meek slave bitches after their crack dealer boyfriend is killed by Aaron Clarke in ECSO – 3: A Supermodel's Downfall . Maurice and the crack dealer are bitter rivals and Maurice was thrilled to exact revenge against the bastard's haughty mistresses)

Maurice laughed uproarishly over remarks that many might have judged demeaning and personally challenging. Tears of laughter formed in the corners of his eyes and he leaned down to whisper, “What ya tiny-dicked white boys don' unnerstand is a real man don't like to break his toys while he's playing wit dem. Dhose two skanky ‘hos was nice pieces of ass, but us brothers had ta deal wit dem too nicely. I correct a bitches' poor manners, … I don't wanna have ta take her ta hospital an da men what rent her time don wanna hafta hol' back none either. Those two woulda broke in half if I didn't hold back alla time. Now, … this ho, … she be fine. You know she tight, … I checked it out like ya axed, … she tight like a teen, … and she be built for abuse. No, … I'd take a ho like dis any time over da Petrillos. Plus, … ya do it right, … and dis one worship da ground ya walk on. She be beggin fa mo, … an happy ta get it. Fact, … she pay ya ta fuck her, ta let her work da streets. Dat makes fo a quality ‘ho.”

The long-winded remarks exceeded the sum total of everything the normally stoic pimp had spoken to him since they'd met. Aaron just sat there in amazement that anyone would give up rights to the amazing Petrillo sisters for a much older woman like Christine.

Maurice interrupted Aaron's musing with another demand, “What? Jew think I don know my bidness. You watch, … gimme two weeks, … I make lotsa scrip offa her. She gonna crave black, never wanna go back.” His face hardened and his voice took on a much slyer tone, “Course, ya don wanna be forgetting our basic deal? No reneging, … right?”

“No,” Aaron laughed, “she'll be here in two nights and you'll find five thousand in twenty dollar bills as promised on the table. Plus, … since you're begging so much, … I'll lift all the restrictions you were under with the Petrillo sisters except its only condoms to fuck her. I'll probably want her back so nothing worse than crabs, body lice, is allowed. Process this one as you would any of your new whores that are a little reluctant to join your family circle.”

Maurice's face lit up with pleasure at the words. “OK, den, boss. I take da bitch ‘n two nights. Course she owe Yolanda a hunnerd dolla for the suckie-suckie action she gave da bitch befo you come tonight.”

“Of course, she'll be told to bring a hundred of her own dollars to pay off a debt. I think she'll be astounded when she finds out what it was for.”

Maurice smiled happily and continued with his soliloquy, “You see, we makea bunch offa dis one.” Maurice took another long draught of the beer and continued. “Her room gonna be twenty dolla a day an she keep forty percent of da take and she pay fa own condoms, lube, and any clothes she fuck up on da job. I pay fo da food, any uppers she be needin' ta get cranked up wid in da mornin', an da first setta clothes. Das a deal, cause no udder drugs ‘llowed un I good at monitoring dey nutritional needs.”

Aaron nodded philosophically as if he understood or cared about the inner workings of the ‘deals' a pimp made with his whores. “Christine is gonna sample a lot more over the next two weeks than just every style of dick and pussy ever made by God,” Aaron thought with a grin. “Her education is gonna include drugs, sexual acts she never dreamed of, and painful corrections for any failings in her sex acts.” He lay back in the chair and grinned at the thought of the changes Christine Taylor was going to experience. “She'll either come running back to me for protection or she'll run away so fast she'll never look back. Hmmm, … not sure which is best for me.”

Aaron and Maurice sat silently through the remainder of their first beers. Just as they opened the second beers, the door to room number 8 opened nearby and two swaggering Hispanic males walked out into the humid Miami night. Unlike the embarrassed white john, these two walked right up to Maurice and slapped right hands together in high salutes with the monstrous seated pimp.

“Yo, man,” one said with confidence, “we be getting to be regular customers of Pearl there.” He pointed back to the doorway where a young black whore was languidly leaning against a doorframe wearing only a pair of lime green hipster panties with a too-short lacy babydoll top in bright lemonade. “Think its ‘bout time you give us a quantity discount.”

Pearl licked a forefinger and purred in perfect English, “You boys are always welcome to warm my bed.” She giggled and as she flounced around to go into her room she said over her shoulder, “After all, two brothers at the same time are at least twice as nice as one.”

The Hispanic that had remained silent broke into a happy grin and high-fived his brother. “You, see!” he demanded, “that's what I'm talking about! We gotta get a couple of Cuban sisters that like to fuck like us!”

Maurice waved his cell phone toward the two happy customers and said, “You ‘member dat any time ya wants ta partay, just call, … I get da girls to ya fast. I takes care of my premium customers. You sets up a big partay, you gets her free ‘nother time. Dats da discount rate.”

“Maurice,” Aaron congratulated him after the two men strutted away, “you are the man. I see you got a full range of customers. Why don't you keep variety in your stable beyond black pussy?”

Aaron got a sad look back from Maurice that told him he'd misunderstood the man all along. “Robert,” he said in the clearest tone he'd used all night, “you missed the point entirely. You only see a huge black man and his four main whores. To you, we're all ignorant blacks just of the boat from the plantation. Yes, I'm a pimp. Yes, I sell pussy by the minute to a buncha losers. But, … in my own way, I keep these girls as my family. I rule harshly, … but I still love them. Give me some white whores to run and it'd be different. I'd rule hard but it would feel more like a Slaver in charge of slaves than Master over my family.”

Aaron rubbed his cold bottle of beer across his face and asked, “So, … let me guess, … you've been to college?”

Maurice grinned a smile so wide that his center gold tooth gleamed in the meager light on the veranda. “Robert Morgan,” he replied, “I got my graduate degree in business from the University of Virginia 's Darden School of Business after playing football at the University of Maryland . The first week out of school, I moved to Miami for a high-paying office job with an import firm and one night I found a streetwalker beat up and left in an alley. I brought her to my hotel room, cleaned her up, and after recovering, she refused to take my help unless she worked. First, it was free sex, and I gotta tell you, it was great sex. Then, she snuck out one night and came back the next morning, roughed up but safe, clenching three hundred dollars. Eventually I realized I'd either have to dump that girl on the street to die or I'd have to move closer to where she worked to watch out for her. It's pretty obvious what my decision was.”

“So my friend, dis nigger now has two degrees from Ivy League Schools and one from the Street School of Hard Knocks. I still work part-time for that first import company and that first whore I met lives and works right here in room number six. She's busy now, but you need to meet Lucille. She's my oldest at twenty-nine, she's fat with the biggest hooters in the stable, and she's still my best earner. Pearl may be the best looking, and popular with the Hispanic crowd, but my bro's they go for the meaty frame and the nice attitude that Lucille has. You got the time, you pay me the dime, and you can take her for a test ride. And, … let me tell you, I got a better long-term retirement play than most white-collar workers in this town. When we retire, the girls get a piece of the savings if they go with me.”

Aaron laughed and replied, “I guess what you're telling me is that my girl in room 4 will be right up there with Lucille as best earner?”

“Das right,” Maurice said, slipping back into street lingo. “Dis why you white folks gonna lose control da world. You pay a nigger like me ta fuck ya woman and keep da bread she earns. My dick make her a ‘ho to any nigger she meet. What kinda bidness plan is dat, Whitey?”

Aaron finished folding the last of his clothing on the table and peered through the gloom toward his blindfolded prey still trapped in her self-bondage contraption. Deciding that he wanted more than ever to keep his promise to make this a night of sexual bliss for the doomed federal employee, Aaron squeezed the base of his already rigid cock. He'd already sterilized the right side of the spongy fuckmeat with alcohol. He snapped fingers from his other hand against the cylinder of a small syringe filled with clear liquid to remove any air bubbles and smoothly sunk the thin needle one-half-inch-deep into the corpus sponglosum. Aaron rarely used the alprostadil as he had never had problems achieving achingly hard erections. The drug would allow his penis to fully engorge with blood, a condition that even sleep would not relieve. The injection would result in a persistent erection (priapism) that would not subside in less than six hours. Only vigorous and extended sex would make the rock-hard fuckmeat relax. The drug kept him unnaturally hard and almost impossible for him to climax.

He knee-walked up behind Christine's gently swaying ass and lined the now pulsating head of his cock with her dripping wet snatch. Even the strong odor of wintergreen from the liniment couldn't completely overpower the musky scent of her need. He fell forward with exuberance that he knew would rip at her still-trapped nipples and disturb the two hundred clothespins arrayed around her body. The normally intense feelings of sex were amplified a hundred-fold by the highly pressurized blood that the alprostadil trapped in his nine-inch cock. Aaron moaned aloud in wondrous pleasure as his pubic bone bottomed out against her ample ass. Knowing that the cum receptacle below him was already primed for sex, he immediately began pumping hard into her slobbery hole. The liquid sounds of sloppy sex and the slap of sweaty flesh against sweaty flesh filled the room. Christine's grunts and Aaron's increasingly vocal moans of pleasure spoke of the enjoyment they felt in the rough copulation. A distant howl of sexual satisfaction from another of the motel rooms spurred Aaron on to an even faster, and harder, fucking pace.

One reason for his intense need to fuck this woman so memorably was what Maurice had shown him just as Aaron turned to go into Christine's room. The six-foot-six-inch monster had risen, casually unzipped his pants, and unrolled a limp cock that was easily ten inches long and two-and-a-half inches thick, in its un-erect form. Silently Maurice had stroked himself and the black man's baseball-bat-thick-cock grew to a full thirteen inches in length with a constant width the same as a twelve-ounce soda can. Aaron stared astounded at the fat, apple-sized crown atop the long bar of fuckmeat, thinking only of his comparatively small plum-sized cockhead on his nine-inch cock. Maurice continued his smile as he stepped toward Pearl 's just vacated room. “Gwan, go fuck your bitch!” Maurice demanded. “While she gets her last piece of white man's cock in a long while, you think about how this bat gonna feel rippling into her three tight little holes. Whew, she gonna be ‘dicted to this cock, yessiree. You may think you da man, … but wait till she sees this fuckpole. She be my cockslave fo life, … you see.”

Christine listened for her long-awaited Master's return. She was sure she heard his voice outside her room and wondered what could delay him so long from dipping back into her eager holes. When his weight finally made the bed sag, she audibly sighed in anticipation. “Hurry,” she thought, “please start plunging me out. The liniment's making my holes burn and itch for something to scratch them. Oh, fuck, … hurry, please.” The long, slick glide into her core brought instant satisfaction; it made everything she went through this long day well worth the wait. Supercharged with sexual energy, she began to rock back and forth to help drive the rigid pole deeper and deeper into her rear. Christine disregarded the painful tugs against her nipples and the bite from the clothespins; instead, she fiercely concentrated on the dick rocketing in and out of her cunt.

Sometime later, Christine slowly came back to consciousness. The luxurious feeling of warm water and aromatic suds brought a moan of enjoyment and a lazy stretch to get the aches out of her muscles. The remembrance of where she was brought her bleary eyes open with a snap. “Yes,” she thought as she peered about the dark room, “I'm still at the motel. Hmmm, the candle he lit smells wonderful, clean and crisp like an orange.” She saw that a thick layer of soothing bubbles still covered her supine form and her hair felt like the braids had been undone, the snarls brushed away, and the hair washed and conditioned. “This is why I love Robert so much,” she thought dreamily. “I know, … I'm too old and fat for him to want fulltime, … but thank God he throws me an occasional mercy fuck. And, … wow, how considerate a Master, he always gives me something back after he takes me so hard. I've never had an overnight lover carry me to the tub, set up a romantic scene, and then clean me so gently that I don't even wake up. God! He fucked me unconscious.” Christine smiled and relaxed back in the warm, soothing water, thoroughly enjoying the moment.

The fact that the much younger man was using her as casual fuckmeat didn't bother her in the least. She figured she was getting more out of the deal that he was, especially given the small touches he often threw in before, during, and after their scenes. “Cruel, … demanding, … a man never to cross; yes, he is,” she thought, “but,” she continued more dreamily, “he is a vigorous lover, he can be romantic, considerate, and he is obviously stinking rich.”

A moment later, the lover she was so wistfully thinking of slipped into the steamy bathroom with a white towel wrapped around his trim waist. He silently offered her an icy glass of wine. “Hmmm,” was her contented reply. After a taste, she smiled eagerly up at his face and shyly said, “Thank you, Robert. That was the most memorable self-bondage and sex scene I've ever been put through. It was everything I'd have wanted and more. It was also deliciously long.”

Aaron smiled at how easy it was to please this forty-two-year-old nympho-slut federal agent. “After all,” he told himself smugly, “it's all about the planning. A good game plan with all the details figured out will never fail. Gotta think of even the small things, like an aroma-therapy candle to set the right mood.” He stood, took a sip of the crisp Viognier wine, dropped his towel, and exposed his still rock-hard dick to the woman in the tub. “Take your time here,” he said with a predatory grin as he stroked himself gently with his spare hand, “but, … just remember that I'll be waiting in bed. I expect you to climb aboard and give me the most energetic fuck you possible can. I wanta see those titties fly about as you turn on the high-speed fucking. That's your only payment for this night. And, … we still have long hours of fun before you have to wake for work.” With that simple demand, and the promise for hours more no-guilt sex, Aaron slipped out of the bathroom and rested on the second double bed in the room. The first mattress was deeply soaked through with drool and sex drippings as well as the large ammonia-smelling patch where Christine had pissed herself as she slipped into unconsciousness from his last vigorous fuck session.

The heavy weight of Christine Taylor creeping naked into bed with him woke Aaron from his light rest. He continued to feign sleep as her mouth zeroed in on his flaccid cock. Exuberant as a lover, Christine was noisy as she slurped and sucked to encourage her favorite fuck tool to harden. Aaron's last thought before he started to concentrate fully on the tight sheath of the pussy sliding down to engulf his cock was, “Wonder how tight she'll be in two weeks when Maurice is finished with her?”

 

--- To Be Continued ---

 

Author: Desert Dog ****** E-Mail: Desertlickingdog at yahoo dot com

 

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An Inquisitive Federal Agent

East Coast Slaver Organization Story - XII

Chapter 05 – Learning Her Proper Place (or Meeting a Film Star)

Special Agent Samantha Valiant was happy; she was at work engaged in her favorite pastime, concentrating fully on her case files long before anyone else in the office came in to start their day. “Nice and quiet,” she thought, actually humming at the same time. Deciding to get more comfortable, Samantha took off her jacket and hung it over the guest chair in her public cubicle. Happy that none of her chauvinistic coworkers were around, she remained standing to loosen her already tight muscles. She twisted her torso about from side to side, watching her fat melon-sized breasts lurching about at the abrupt movements. The quick exercise session was finished with a few toe touches, drastically moving her mountainous tits about while her long, tight skirt snugly pulled across her meaty ass cheeks. Smugly satisfied with the voluptuous body with its underlay of well-toned muscles that was hers alone to enjoy, Samantha Louis Valiant sat back down at her desk fully at peace with herself.

Feeling much better, she hummed again as clicked open her computer desktop mailbox. “Not there,” she complained aloud. Slack bastard!” She'd been expecting a promised reply to a request for information about an unsolved case. Her computer beeped, indicating new mail. It was from Christine Taylor; Samantha frowned, thinking it unusual that her acquaintance was already at work. “Everyone knows she's the typical government employee, she just does the minimum, never arriving at work early and running for the door promptly at the end of her eight hour shift.”

The message was simple and to the point:

“Good news on your case! Meet me for breakfast in the cafeteria – 0800”

Samantha looked at her watch, “Two more hours.” Her horrible experience with her coworker was already fading in her memory; she was only too happy to start erasing that event. Deciding she had plenty of time, and too busy to deal with the distraction, Samantha turned back her files.

Christine Taylor was also content. After hitting the send key to get her message off to Samantha, she leaned back in her chair and stretched, enjoying the soreness in her breasts as they moved within her bra. Catlike, she brought her hands over her head and reached as far up as she could, appreciating the tinges of pain throughout her heavy body. “Hmmm,” she whispered. “Whatta night of sex! That was certainly one for the record books.” Then, confused, she looked about, “Fuck! I only came in early to get this message to Samantha done. Now what do I do?”

Across town, Aaron Clarke sat in his car as the doors of his warehouse closed behind him. He looked about from the driver's seat of his 2005 SLK 350 Roadster and grinned, “Memories, … oh so many wonderful memories.” His fingers slipped appreciatively across the smooth leather on the steering wheel and he remembered how he had taken it while capturing Emily Davis, a twenty-six-year-old trophy housewife with a driving need to lace her frequent parties with cocaine. The huge-titted blonde was one of the first slaves Aaron acquired while establishing his Miami base of operations. Aaron had killed her drug dealer, capturing her in the raid, and sold her, along with his own wife, to an Egyptian slave owner, Hosni Yassin. Hosni needed four American sluts to work as sex-workers in his construction firm's first European office in Marseille , France . To give himself an edge over his competition, Hosni included a restaurant with world-class chefs, beautiful guest suites, and his captive hostesses, available for a wide range of entertainment. Altogether, Aaron sold him four, top-quality, general-purpose sex sluts.

Aaron clicked the warehouse remote hidden in his console and smiled in satisfaction as the overhead lights clicked on loudly in rapid sequence, revealing the interior of a cavernous space. The slaver had returned to his original processing and training center. The elaborate slave cages and temporary living areas in the center of the warehouse were long gone as his training center was now relocated to a quiet spot in the Caribbean . However, the remainder of his facilities were still intact, including the full-size swimming pool, extensive exercise facilities, and the slave training classrooms. Certain that everything was in order, Aaron glanced at his watch. “ Six o'clock ,” he muttered, “she should be here soon.” He reached back into his convertible and grabbed his Grande black coffee from Starbucks. “Only the best,” he again muttered, this time in real satisfaction as he contemplated his plan for the two local federal agents.

Fifteen minutes later and Aaron was still strolling about his warehouse reliving memories of domination and sex over his first slaves. He stopped at one of his nearly empty security cages that had held weapons, bondage gear, and items confiscated when he captured his slaves. “Hmmm,” he muttered, “there are still four of these security cages; each has heavy steel mesh bars on wall and ceiling.” He knew that only one of the cages now held any contents at all; new bondage equipment that had never been contaminated by contact with his slaves. Most of the items remained in their original packing. “Everything else was shipped off to the Caribbean site,” he mused. He was still thinking about the possibilities of using at least two of the cages to hold unwilling toys, such as the federal agents, when his cell phone rang. “ Kandy ,” he answered, “I'm looking forward to meeting you and your crew.”

A husky female voice dripping with sexuality answered, “Oh, … well, … Robert Morgan, I'm so glad to finally get a chance to meet you. This is a wonderful opportunity you've given me. We have so much to celebrate if this project works out as you think it will.” The two spoke for a few minutes more and she ended with, “I'm two minutes away, you can open up the doors now.”

Aaron watched bemusedly as a dusty twenty-six foot U-Haul van pulled into the warehouse and parked behind his BMW. A platinum blonde opened the yellow door of the truck and stuck out a sexy foot with a black four-inch stiletto heel. The woman oozed out to stand on the running board. She posed theatrically to show off her gigantic tits bursting from her tight top and her fabulous thighs shown off to perfection with her tight leather miniskirt. Aaron called out, “Welcome! And, I have to say, … Kandy Sweetness, you look far better in real life than on the silver screen.” The warehouse doors rumbling down temporarily interrupted any further conversation.

The well-known porno starlet grinned widely and continued her preening before she responded, “Flattery, … it'll get whatever you want from me.” Her hands hefted her heavy jugs up invitingly and she added, “Keep that up and this will be our dream come true.” Laughing, she hopped down, with hardly a jiggle from her balloon-tight, massively-enhanced mammaries. She ran over to grab Aaron in a tight hug.

Aaron reached a hand down to cup a taut ass cheek. “Nice ass,” he thought. He grabbed the other cheek and whispered in her ear, “Be careful what you promise, you should know about my preferences by now. I don't think you've starred in any S&M or BDSM movies yet. Want to begin now?”

Kandy stiffened in his arms. She answered in her throaty voice, “Yes, you're right, … it's tempting, … but I'll pass. Maybe I can help you play with your new toys instead?”

Aaron took Kandy 's now sweaty palm in hand as he walked her through the warehouse facilities, “Altogether you have two bedrooms, two kitchens, two media lounges, three classrooms, a sauna, a hottub, a swimming pool, and the exercise areas. This should give you plenty of variety for your filming. Plus, there's plenty of room for your film crew and prop people. Have you got scripts and storyboards all done?”

Pleased to be on familiar ground, Kandy tightened her grip on his arm and throatily answered, “Yes, … I've got at least five different screenplays already drafted out and the scripts on my laptop. We can stay busy here for weeks filming the various interior scenes. I've got all the necessary equipment in the truck and the cast and crew arrive over the next couple of days. The only problem is, that as I told you, I am missing actresses for the hardcore S&M scenes. They are especially important in the uncut versions you want for private release showing explicitly forbidden acts.”

Aaron Clarke grinned at the porn star turned director and answered, “I already have one big-titted blonde lined up. You will meet her at lunch today. She's a newbie and with some careful makeup can be used in any general-purpose sex or BDSM scene. For the real violent scenes, I hope to recruit someone this afternoon. She has ‘volunteered' to star as your punishment / pain slut in the films, … no holds barred. Any of the whipping, torture, piercing, tattooing, and branding scenes we spoke about are all fine. You will be able to make some very explicit sex films.”

Kandy shivered at the cold look on the man's face as he talked about the actress he was ‘recruiting' that very day. “Wonder what she did to piss off this man?” she asked herself. She took a deep breath to calm herself and responded, “Nice, … as you suggested, I intend to film multiple versions of each film to increase revenue. So, the mild version of a story might go for a late-night cable series. The same film with a name change and the addition of more explicit scenes can go into the VHS and DVD market. The ‘uncut' version of that film can be sold for release through porno theater outlets. Lastly, the ‘Director's Edition' can include forbidden scenes for private sales. I think your idea has the potential for greatly increasing our profit.”

Returning from the swimming pool area, Aaron gently steered her toward Bedroom 4B as she continued to discuss the details of her film ideas. At the entry to the room, Kandy blanched at the sight of the items laid out on the bed's comforter and the video cameras already set up in the room's corners. He changed his grip on his right hand to clasp around the back of her neck, “You've seen enough films, … you must know the drill?” He pushed down on her neck, Kandy obediently slipped to her knees, just feet from the bed. “Stay!” Aaron commanded.

Kandy 's stomach was churning with distress. “I was warned that this might happen,” she thought. “Roland Heath told me there'd be a payment that couldn't be met with money. Fuck! Do I have to go along with this?” All she knew about the man named Roland who'd arranged for her contract with Robert was that he was filthy rich, was interested in limited edition pornographic films, and seemed to have extensive business and film industry contacts. She blushed as she remembered the fee he'd charged. “His only referral fee is that he wanted a film clip of me giving him my famous deep-throat action. What a stud he was. I'd never have guessed he was sixty-eight.” Kandy had no way of knowing that the man who'd arranged to have her dream come true about transitioning from pornographic actress to adult film producer and director was a retired slaver. Roland had known that Aaron's warehouse was gathering dust in Miami and that Aaron could easily manage another project, especially given that his primary slave training facility was now located in the Caribbean and able to run smoothly without his full attention. Roland Heath also realized that Robert Morgan was in a semi-retired status less than a year after starting his fledgling slaver business. Aaron Clarke had already brought in enough millions that he could afford to carefully pick his projects. Money was no longer a problem.

The statuesque porno queen started to speak, Aaron tightened his grip on her neck. Unfazed, he spoke quietly, “Do I need to remind you of our deal? I'm bankrolling your films, providing you facilities, and letting you have free artistic rein with a budget of up to three hundred and fifty thousand dollars in cash. For the risk I'm going to incur, I don't want much; a chance to get my investment back, without any interest or profit, if you submit fully to me for the entire period of the effort and the private little film project we talked about. Roland told me you promised to sell your soul for this help. You better understand, Roland isn't the only one that would like to sample your charms; only, … my tastes can afford to be more exotic given my investment.”

Kandy whispered, “I'm sure Roland told you that nobody else was willing to give me a chance producing and directing films. The industry is happy to keep me a porno slut actress appearing only in the roles that I'm offered. They fear the competition from new directors rising from within the industry.” Fearful at what she was doing, she bowed her head and spoke in an even quieter and much more formal voice, “I Candice Sweetness do fully submit to Robert Morgan to be his toy as stipulated for the entire duration of my project.”

Aaron smiled at the fun he could have with his own personal nympho slut porno actress. He picked up a remote control training collar and handed it to Kandy . “If you really mean it, then latch this around your throat. There will be no safeword, if you know what that is. Once on, … it will be too late to change your mind, you become mine until I remove it upon completion of our project.”

Kandy cried softly and grabbed the device from his hand. She shivered when it latched shut. The collar was somewhat loose and she could easily fit her finger between the wide band and her neck. Surprised at the poor fit, she looked up to tell Robert and then paused in astonishment when it started to vibrate and the collar drew itself tighter and tighter around her neck. Kandy was in a panic at how snug the collar was getting; but, just as it became difficult to breathe, the collar stopping its tightening motion and loosened slightly. Kandy calmed her breathing.

His gentle words belied his intent, “Try and speak.”

Knowing there was a catch, but unable to resist his command, she opened her mouth and started to speak. The instant response from her collar was like a bolt of lightening piercing up from her torso to skewer deep into her skull. She collapsed limply to the ground, barely conscious of what was going on around her. When she could focus again, Kandy shivered and thought, “He's staring at me like a bug under a microscope, or a toy he's trying to figure out how to play with.” Kandy felt the collar once again begin to tighten while Robert stared intently at her. “Unghhh,” she grunted; her fingers automatically clawed at the collar to free her neck. It was no use, the collar continued to tighten until Kandy couldn't breathe and the room started to dim.

When she became aware of her surroundings once again, she saw Robert sitting in an overstuffed chair, watching her intently. “ Kandy ,” he started, “I think the collar has taught you the ground rules. You obey, … or else. Now, … we've got until eleven this morning; how much fun can we have in five and a half hours?”

Kandy stripped off her clothes, no longer feeling the least bit sexy in the process. She stumbled a little as she tried to sway and dance on her tall heels as the clothes fell to the floor. “Scared,” she admitted to herself. “Never done BDSM, S&M, or the Master / Slave thing.” She sunk to her knees at his silent command, done with a simple hand gesture. “Of course,” she told herself, “I have to obey to keep the collar from killing me.” She swallowed hard and wriggled her panties down her legs. Kandy found it hard work to strip the rest of the way while remaining subserviently on her knees. Finally, she was done and slipped her hands behind her back. Cold handcuffs clicked against her wrists locking her arms behind her. Kandy struggled against the bonds and stopped when the ensuing pain on her wrists convinced her of the strength of the cuffs. Her body was forced over, raising and exposing her naked ass. A tear rolled down from the corner of one eye. A whistling swish came from behind; a burning firebrand seemed to roll across her ass. Unable to hold it back, she shrieked in pain; mercilessly, the collar no longer punished her outbursts. Kandy cringed as she heard another stroke from the whip starting up behind her. She howled again as the pain burned its way across her upper back.

After just ten strokes of the thin flexible rod, Aaron Clarke stopped. He needed only to take the edge of pride off this too successful and too beautiful woman before he began to use her for his own sexual pleasure. The shivering form sobbed loudly below him. Aaron ran his appreciative fingers across her smooth ass, now highlighted by a series of thin, red streaks from the rod. “Be thankful this isn't the heavy punishment cane so popular in punishing criminals. This hurts like hell but won't cut the skin or leave scars.” Aaron laughed softly as he shifted astride her bent form to face her feet so that both hands could now caress the inside of her taut ass cheeks and her sensitive inner thighs. “This will leave stripes that last for several days. I'm sure that your fresh markings will be mentioned today on your outing with the other girls.”

Aaron wasn't surprised that his questing fingers found her cunt already loosening up and beginning to lubricate itself. His caressing hands started to knead her flesh harder, fingers grabbing big chunks of ass flesh to pull about. While his left hand spread her pussy lips apart and spread her slick nectar about the juncture between her legs, his right hand reached behind his back to pull a short cat-of-nine-tails from where it was stuck in his belt. He swung the cat down across her spread-open pussy, catching the backside of his own hand in the stroke. Kandy howled below him in renewed anguish. He swung the multi-stranded whip twice more before shifting his position to kneel behind the sobbing woman. Without any other preparation, Aaron jammed the fingers of his right hand hard into her inflamed cunt, slipping deep into her slippery core in one, relentless push. Her grunt of discomfort only fueled his desire to drive his fist deep inside the gorgeous blonde fuckslut.

Kandy 's back arched and she continued to groan and grunt in pain as his fingers swept about the inside of the juicy cunt. After his knuckles bottomed out, he left his right hand in her pussy while his left unzipped his fly and then slipped on a condom with practiced ease. His stiff cock knob slipped into the cavern formed by the fingers on his right hand buried in her quim, picking up gobs of her sex lube from his fingers. When his cock drove into her ass, the overloaded nerves of the woman exploded in uncontrollable orgasm and screams for more. Even with the awkward position, Aaron was able to simultaneously piston his cock into her rectum and jam all the fingers in his right hand into her yawing pussy. “You, … are … such … a … pain … slut,” he panted in rhythm to his fucking. Another orgasm rippled through her pussy and rectal muscles, massaging his cock and fingers in a most amazing way. Carefully maintaining his fuck pace, Aaron slowly reached his left hand for the cat-o-nine-tails. Without missing a beat, he swept the cat under and up onto her belly. He added a stroking rhythm of the cat to his measured tempo of cock and finger fucking. The caress of the whip on her sensitive breasts, neck, and belly elicited animalistic moans, grunts, and squeals. Aaron picked up the pace, beginning to lose control of his bottled up jism. Finally, he pulled his slimy hand out of her cunt, dropped the whip, and then grabbed a fat mammary in each hand. Now on much steadier footing, Aaron began to thrust forward into her ass as hard as he could while yanking her body back onto his cock by using the handholds he had on her massive tits. When he finally spurted uncontrollably into the condom, he and Kandy both fell forward flat on the floor, stuck together with sweat and sticky cum.

FBI Agents Samantha Valiant and Christine Taylor stood nervously waiting in the entry foyer of the expensive French restaurant. The statuesque twenty-eight-year-old brunette and the chunky blonde, fourteen years her elder, were an odd pair. The dowdy blonde wore rumpled slacks, soft-soled shoes, and a cheap blouse while her younger companion wore an immaculately pressed woman's suit with matching navy blue jacket and skirt, hose, navy heels, and an expensive white blouse.

When Christine asked if their table was ready, Samantha was amused when she heard Christine give the name of the reservation as, “Master, … Robert Master.” “Well,” Samantha told herself dryly, “that's one way to remain anonymous. Robert Master is clearly the mysterious Robert Morgan that Christine told me about.”

The table was already set for four, with neat little nametags discreetly laid beside the water glasses. As her eyes scanned the table, she saw:

Kandy , Chrissy, Sammy, and Miss Ingrid

in cursive script on the little tags. Samantha was not amused to see the nametags. Nonetheless, she dutifully sat down at her place opposite from Chrissy and to squelch her curiosity, looked around the semi-private alcove in which they were seated. “This is nice,” she thought, “I haven't been out for lunch in forever.” There were only three tables in their area of the restaurant; none was occupied except theirs, which was the only table set for service.

Their waitress introduced herself and announced, “Robert Master has taken care of your lunch, everything is already ordered. He wishes you to just relax and enjoy yourselves.” She busied herself filling water glasses and arranging two wine glasses beside each plate. As she poured she chattered, “You girls are so lucky to have someone pamper you like this. What a nice reward! He must be a great boss! By the way, the first wine is a Sauvignon Blanc for your appetizers and salad; the second is a Viognier to go along with your desert fruit platters.” She whisked a plate of appetizers from a serving stand and set it on the crisp white linen tablecloth. “Enjoy!” she cheerfully chirped as she walked away.

Christine picked up her glass of Sauvignon Blanc and held it up for Samantha to tap against her glass. “To your fun filled week,” Christine toasted with a little bit of a smirk on her face.

“Thank you, Chrissy ,” Samantha responded with a superior smirk of her own.

The two women almost glared at each other for a moment before Christine relaxed and responded, “Well, … Sammy , … you were the one that was curious about this lifestyle. I admit I don't know much about what is going to happen over the next several days except from the nametags, Master Robert has probably turned the first few days' worth of orientations over to his slave Mistress Ingrid.” Christine silently thought about her scheduled meeting the next night with Master Robert. “You slut,” she told herself, “you get the fucking of your life and within hours you are already lusting after more of the same.”

Samantha ignored her friend's faraway look and rose to greet two women approaching the table. The first was a self-assured slender woman with dark hair dressed in dark, conservative business dress. “Must be Mistress Ingrid,” Samantha thought. Her mental processes froze as she saw the platinum blonde creature that followed Mistress Ingrid. “Whatta freaking bimbo,” she thought as the woman tottered into the dining area on hideously tall heels. “Those hooters are astounding!”

The four women introduced themselves all around and then sat down. Ingrid Gaviard, slave to slaver Aaron Clarke and sometime Training Mistress to slaves and other foolish women ensnared by her Master, coolly took charge of the luncheon and forced the conversation to remain focused on things innocuous and unrelated to the true reason for meeting. However, she was firm from the onset in one regard, each participant was to be addressed only by the name on their nametag. Later, she slowly brought the conversation to the topic of domination and subjugation after several bottles of wine were consumed.

“So, Sammy, I understand that you've contracted to investigate our alternative lifestyle?” Ingrid asked with a knowing smile.

Samantha finished swallowing her bite of appetizer and answered, “Yes, … but that's a rather odd way of stating it.”

“Are you quibbling with me about your decision to participate in the activities that Master Robert has arranged?” the Mistress shot back.

Christine Taylor glared at Samantha and kicked at her under the table. Realizing the threat, Samantha stuttered back, “Nnno, Mistress Ingrid. I am committed to discovering the nuances of what S&M and BDSM mean; it is important to me to help solve a difficult case involving a number of missing women.”

“Good,” Ingrid responded with an easy grin. “I will establish the ground rules right now.” She ticked off a finger and held it up, “First, the four of us are going to have a lot of fun today, getting the full treatment at a world-class spa, going shopping for new lingerie and night wear, and lastly going out on the town. I've even arranged a limousine for the day. Sammy, you will think this is frivolous, but you have to learn to think of yourself as both a modern woman and as a deeply sexual creature before we delve into the possibilities of domination and subjugation. I might point out that this is a complicated voyage and you may never really come to embrace, or even understand, everything that the initials S&M and BDSM really mean.” Ingrid took a long sip of her wine before continuing. “Second, you have already begun an introduction from which there is no, … and I mean no, means of withdrawing. Failure to complete your agreement, made through your colleague Chrissy, will result in consequences for the two of you that I will not address. Suffice it to say, Master Robert will take care of those issues and they would be most unpleasant. Nothing changes him from loving Master to vengeful Punisher like a liar or a cheat. He considers your word a binding contract. Break it at your extreme peril.”

Samantha could feel the sweat beading on her brow as she wondered how she had gotten into a situation so out of her control. She looked at her two companions and realized that she was the only woman at the table not wearing a collar. “Mistress Ingrid's collar is slim and golden while Chrissy and Kandy are wearing thick and heavy looking stainless steel collars.” Samantha risked another quick glance around the table and noted that each collar sported a sturdy loop that hung down to the hollow at the base of their throats. “Perhaps for a leash,” she thought with an inward grimace. She looked again; the only other difference Samantha saw was that Chrissy and Kandy 's collars had a small set of holes above the loop. Mistress Ingrid's voice interrupted her musing.

“Third,” she said firmly, “you will obey every order you are given. In fact, all four of us are similar in that regard; we have no choice but to follow orders from our Master.” Without pausing for any comments, Mistress Ingrid ticked off a fourth finger. “Fourth, we are all sluts; while that fact has yet to be demonstrated to Sammy, Kandy has proven it by her choice of vocation - a pornographic actress, Chrissy has shown it to the world by giving up her body for BDSM activities when she's not at work, and I am of course happy to be whatever kind of slut my Master chooses for me to be.” Ingrid caught a glimpse of Chrissy's mouth curling up in a smirk so she quickly added, “Of course, … Master Robert has probably noticed that Chrissy's extreme behavior is much closer to that of a whore than a true slut.”

Chrissy's facial expression shifted quickly from a pleased smile to the sulking scowl of a spoiled little girl.

Silence descended upon the table. Ingrid watched as the women took sips of wine and then began to fidget as they worried about what was to come. “OK girls,” she said gaily, “hands on the table. We are going to do a little game of Simon Says. The loser in this game is the one that hesitates the most in following orders. There will be no trick commands.” She looked about the table and stopped at Chrissy with piercing eyes. “However, Chrissy is not dressed properly for this game. Chrissy, … Simon says stand up with your hands at your sides! Yes, you are certainly an obedient little slut. Now, Simon says kick off those disgusting shoes that you are wearing! From now on, you will never wear such shoes again unless you are at the gym, on the running track, or walking about in the wilderness. Let's see, … I think Master Robert will be pleased with any heel two inches or greater for a start. He will let you know if I've been too soft-hearted in mandating such a small heel.”

Samantha watched her coworker follow the commands as if she were a automaton. She did grin secretly at the red flush of embarrassment that crept up Chrissy's face as she was called an obedient slut. The red flush on her coworker's face deepened as the commands continued. Despite the uncharted territory she was in, Samantha realized that she was actually enjoying the luncheon with the other women and was eager to see what would happen at the spa. She actually felt a little spasm of arousal as Mistress Ingrid continued her commands.

“Chrissy, Simon says undo your belt, unzip those slacks, and step out of them. Kick everything under the table and then return to your seat with your hands on the table.”

While Chrissy's heavy slacks fluttered to the floor, Samantha's eyes were drawn to the tiny gold triangle of cloth that covered her friend's pubic area. “The slut,” she told herself, “the slut is actually wearing a thong.” Samantha Valiant considered thongs as vulgar, ugly things. “She should know better, … a thong at her age, really! And with her ass, … yuck.”

Chrissy, face now bright red with embarrassment, stepped forward and followed Mistress Ingrid's commands, then seating herself and placing her hands back on the linen tabletop.

“Now girls, those of us with skirts on will use their hands to grasp your skirt hems and pull the cloth up under your butts and gather it around your waists. Next, I want you to slip off your panties, hold them in your right hand, and set your bare butts down on the chairs. When you are finished, Simon says put your hands back on the table.”

Samantha started to follow the orders blindly, feeling a flush of embarrassment of her own creep up her throat. She noticed Mistress Ingrid rising up, clearly following her own orders. Then Samantha froze in place as their waitress swept into the room with an armful of plates. Samantha's thumbs remained hooked under her panty's waistband, her skirt rolled up to her hips, and her body hunched up awkwardly over her chair as the waitress busied herself arranging small salads, rolls, and butter in front of each woman. Undeterred by the waitress' entrance, Mistress Ingrid and the bimbo Kandy brought their clenched right fists up onto the tabletop, clearly displaying their removed lingerie. When the waitress ignored what had to be bizarre activities from the lunch patrons, Samantha finished dragging her panties down her hips, her thighs, and more awkwardly over her black heels. The job was made more difficult because she wore pantyhose over her pink panties. With a deep sigh of resignation, her own pink, cottony panty jointed the other two silken ones already displayed, along with her wadded up pantyhose. She had time to look around the table and couldn't help but grin at the sight of her chubby coworker still struggling to get her g-string up onto the table. The four women soon sat at the linen-topped table with panties held tightly in their right fists.

Mistress Ingrid pointed to Samantha's underwear, “You are all forbidden to ever wear pantyhose again. Punishment for this infraction will be drastic. If you need hose, you either use garters and a garterbelt to keep them up, or use thigh-highs with stay-top bands.” She visibly shuddered at the funky pantyhose and drew an opaque plastic bag from her purse. “Put everything in here and then throw the bag under the table. Slut Chrissy, you can crawl under and put your shoes and pants in the bag as well.”

“Now,” Mistress Ingrid continued, “since we had a pair of trousers and a pair of pantyhose, Simon says Kandy , Sammy, and I have to take off our skirts so we can all be punished. We will all be panty less and bottomless sluts.”

Samantha unzipped her zipper on her hip and let her skirt fall to the floor. As directed, she folded it and handed it to Mistress Ingrid. She watched the Mistress stride away to the edge of the room with the skirts in hand. “She has a perfect ass,” Samantha observed. She made no comment about the exposed pussy lips clearly visible between her well-toned thighs. After making a short phone call, Mistress Ingrid returned to their table, leaving the three skirts behind. Samantha's pulse quickened at the sight of Mistress Ingrid's bare pussy scarcely covered by the tails of her blouse.

“To sluts, … may they always have bare cunts, and wet, slimy sex holes ready to please,” Mistress Ingrid's too loud voice and raunchy toast startled Samantha back to paying attention, she had been completely distracted by the wanton display of the woman's pussy. She hurriedly picked up her wine glass and clicked glasses with the others. A deep swallow of the crisp, dry wine helped settle her nerves and her queasy stomach. The next command from Mistress Ingrid didn't help her increasingly nervous tummy.

“Sluts, … reach over to the bitch to your right and rest your hands on their left knee. That's right, … now, rub little soft circles up their thigh as you head toward the fuck hole men love so much.”

The constant flow of disgusting language from the beautiful, well-dressed woman in charge of their luncheon had grated on Samantha's nerves and upset her sensibility. She turned to the left and opened her mouth to object when Mistress Ingrid's open right fist backhanded her across the cheek in a blow savage enough to knock Samantha off her chair and onto her ass. In shock, she stared wide-eyed at the woman that had slapped her so hard. Belatedly, she realized that during the fall her knees had spread wide-open, displaying her hairy pussy to the glowering gaze of Mistress Ingrid. She scrabbled about on the floor to get onto her knees and get her obscenely spread legs closed.

“Sluts keep their worthless mouths shut unless they are asked questions!” Mistress Ingrid hissed in irritation. “This lunch has been going so well. Now in addition to Chrissy's punishment for her improper clothing, I will have to add something for Sammy's inability to control her tongue.” Ingrid grabbed her purse and pulled out another collar identical to that worn by Chrissy and Kandy . “Get over here and kneel by my chair,” Mistress Ingrid snapped in a voice dripping with irritation.

Barely able to hold back the quivering little sobbing hiccups created by the unexpected blow, Sammy shuffled over on her knees toward the Mistress. She winced as her hair was grasped in a vicious grip and yanked backward, drawing her eyes up to make contact with the pissed-off Mistress. “Take this slave collar and lock it on your neck with the snap-loop facing forward.”

Special Agent Samantha Louise Valiant took the heavy collar in hand and almost defiantly fitted the male tongue of the collar into the female recess on the other side. She shivered when it latched shut. Samantha was surprised at the heavy weight and poor fit of the collar; she could easily fit her finger between the wide band and her neck. Uncertain what to do about the poor fit, she was amazed when it started to vibrate and the collar drew itself tighter and tighter around her neck. Samantha forced herself to remain calm as the collar snugged up beyond what was comfortable. Her held-in breath wheezed out in relief when the collar stopped its tightening motion and loosened slightly. “It's got sensors and some sort of programming logic,” Samantha decided with her analytical thinking. “This thing is gonna be a problem.”

Samantha saw clearly sympathetic faces on her other two companions at the table. Each winced at Mistress Ingrid's next quietly spoken command. “Try and speak now.”

It was clear it was a trick; but unable to resist the command, she opened her mouth and started to speak. The instant response from her collar felt like a jet of molten steel piercing up from her spinal column to skewer deep into her skull. Samantha collapsed limply to the carpet below her Training Mistress, barely conscious of what was going on around her as residual electric shocks echoed painfully through her brain.

“Samantha,” Mistress Ingrid whispered dryly, “I'll go over the intricacies of the collar later; you've probably already picked up the basics – you can be punished remotely and the collar will automatically punish you if I want silence.”

Feeling a little like a robot on remote control, Samantha eased herself up and climbed woodenly back onto her chair. She set her hands back on the table and vowed to pay better attention and control her responses better. “It's odd,” she told herself bitterly, “I bet that under other circumstances, I could easily kick Mistress Ingrid's ass into tearful submission.” Samantha knew there was no chance that she could fight back given her own professional vulnerability, not to mention her own driving need to solve the cases of the mysteriously missing women.

“Sammy,” Mistress Ingrid said calmly and with the patience of instructing an errant child, “you better learn that ladies, virgins, and children have breasts, vaginas, and rectums. With their polite and tender natures, they are free to talk about their boobs, boobies, or pussies. On the other hand, sluts like us have tits, cunts, and assholes; it's as simple as that. You can guess some of the other words: hooters, fun bags, slits, fuck holes, … whatever phrase is earthy and to the point. We don't talk around the issue of sex, we embrace it. Ladies can have sex or engage in a romantic affair; we fuck, suck, and do whatever our Masters or Owners tell us.”

“So, Kandy,” Mistress Ingrid said after shifting her attention to the platinum blonde with EE hooters, “Simon says tell us when the last time you had sex was, how many orgasms you had, who it was with, and which sex holes were used.”

Kandy , despite being an experienced worker in the sex industry, blushed and cringed at the same time. She had hoped to avoid any personal attention from her employer's head Slave Training Mistress. She took a moment to compose her thoughts and plunged in, “Mmistress, … it was this morning, … actually all morning right up to ten minutes before Mistress Ingrid picked me up. In the almost six hours that Master Robert played with my body, I orgasmed too many times to count; perhaps more than I'd previously cum in my life. As to how he took me, … he used every one of my ssex hholes.”

Mistress Ingrid smiled and said, “Good, … perfect answer Kandy . Keep that up and we'll get along well.” She steepled her fingers in front of her face and asked in a somewhat catty manner, “And, … Kandy , please describe the foreplay technique that he used to warm you up.”

Startled that Mistress Ingrid might know the details of her morning ordeal, Kandy whipped her head toward the questioner before gulping. “Hhe, collared me and then caned and whipped me to remind me of my status.”

“What status was that and how did it stop?” Mistress Ingrid responded.

“He wanted me to know that I'm His slut toy to use as he wishes.” She hesitated and then continued in a quieter voice, “The caning stopped when I begged him to use me, … to fuck me, … to do anything He wanted to me as long a the pain went away.” Her face sunk in horrified understanding. She quietly whimpered, “He called me a pain slut. He said that's why I came so much when he whipped me while we fucked.”

“Yes, I see,” Mistress Ingrid smiled. She next turned toward the F.B.I. forensics technician, “Chrissy, what about you?”

Chrissy was still staring open-mouthed at the platinum blonde film star in amazement, “How could he have the energy to fuck that bimbo after taking me all night long?” She blinked to focus her thoughts and turned toward the Training Mistress, “Mistress Ingrid, for me it was last night. Master Robert had me arrange myself in self-bondage and then he took me all night long, fucking me for hours. I also came too many times to count.” Her face took on a dreamy look and she added, “It was wonderful, … He fucked me every way a Man can take a submissive slut like me At one point, he gave me the best oral sex I've ever had. And afterwards, the knob of his cock felt bigger and more swollen than ever before.” Her face took on a defiant look, “It was amazing, Mistress, … absolutely amazing, He's a sex machine. I'd sell my soul to have that everyday.”

Mistress Ingrid once again nodded in satisfaction, her glance of approval saying it all. She turned to Samantha Valiant and said, “I know it's not really fair to ask someone so innocent, … but, what about you, Sammy?”

Samantha had been even more shocked than Christine to discover that her mentor-to-be, Robert Morgan, had the stamina and testosterone to take on and fully satisfy both Christine and the porno actress. “It sounds like he fucked them into complete submission,” she thought with wonder. She flushed with embarrassment to answer such questions with such sexually experienced women at the table. “I haven't had sex since before I decided to apply to the F.B.I. Academy ,” she whispered.

“So, … I take it that you're an anal and oral virgin?” Mistress Ingrid snapped back.

Samantha's embarrassed silence answered that question as eloquently as words.

“And, you've never had more than a single orgasm in a day?” Mistress Ingrid responded.

The humiliated F.B.I. agent could only shake her head in the negative.

Both Christine and Kandy smiled superior smiles at Samantha's inexperience.

Mistress Ingrid ignored Samantha's clear discomfort at speaking so openly about sex. She searched through her purse hanging beside her, withdrew a sealed envelope, and set it on the table in front of her. “Sammy, you've heard both these two sluts speak of their ‘oh so very satisfying sex' with my Master. Which one of these two do you think gave him the most pleasure, the hot-bodied, experienced porno star, or the middle-aged, overweight office worker? The twenty-six-year-old or the forty-two-year-old? In simple terms, which one do you think is the best fuck?”

Samantha's eyes flickered between the two women in question. “There is no doubt,” she thought, “it has to be the porno queen with the body men dream of sexing.” She nodded toward Kandy and said, “ Kandy , Mistress, … it has to be Kandy .”

“Open the envelope, Sammy, and read it aloud,” Mistress Ingrid offered with a smile.

“Obviously, Agent Valiant, you've misjudged the role that enthusiasm plays in sex,” Sammy began to read Aaron Clarke's written statement in a barely audible tone. “ Kandy 's body is young and tight from her years of dance, exercise, and nearly continuous sex. Those monstrous hooters mounted atop such bodily perfection are enough to make a normal man cum from just a mere glance at her overwhelming sexuality.” Samantha stopped to appraise Kandy Sweetness' voluptuous form before she continued, “In the porno industry, Kandy has done everything on film that can be called sex. On the other hand, there is your coworker.” Samantha once again stopped so that she could appraise the second subject of the letter. She smirked a little at Christine Taylor's matronly body and then lowered her gaze to read again, “The difference is so drastic that I won't even go over the details. If given a choice of one of the two sluts, there is no doubt which one most men would select, … Kandy the platinum-blonde with a body to die for.” Samantha nodded as she agreed that men would declare the big-titted bimbo the fuck of a lifetime. When she started to read again, she was momentarily at a loss for words as the significance of the next sentence sunk in. “Alas,” the letter continued, “those poor men that pass up on a chance to dominate Christine will have passed up on the most enthusiastic fuck of their lives. Her holes are always hot and tight and she gets wetter than any nymphomaniac I've ever met. No matter what you do to abuse or love her body, she responds with sex lube so plentiful, you'd think it came from a faucet.”

Samantha had to stop and look around the table. Mistress Ingrid had a knowing smile on her face, clearly showing that she had known the answer to her questions and was enjoying the look of surprise on everyone else's faces. The F.B.I. agent was pleased to note that both Kandy and Christine were open-mouthed in frozen amazement. “Looks like Kandy has come down a sexual notch or two,” Samantha told herself smugly. ”There might be hope for the ‘normal' women out there.” She looked back to the final paragraph and continued, “Yes, … if you haven't figured it out yet, Christine is a world-class fuck and once you get her going, she is sure to please. There isn't much better than to lay there under her, watching her tits flopping around wildly as she bounces exuberantly on your dick. Her pussy can sure suck a cock dry.”

“Well, that was fun,” Mistress Ingrid said sweetly. “I think that it's time for our chubby slut Chrissy to pay a little penalty. Simon says slut Chrissy is to scoot under the table and await her instructions. That's it, … good little slut. Now, Simon says use your right hand's fingers like a dipstick and check out Kandy 's fuck box for lubrications.”

Samantha felt her sex spasm at the humiliating commands that her acquaintance was being forced to follow. “Bet I'm leaving a damp streak on the chair,” she told herself with worry. “And, … it's not the first time something today has gotten me excited.” She grinned across the table at Kandy 's sudden leap of surprise. A moment later a set of glistening fingers were stuck up triumphantly over the edge of the table. “Go ahead, Chrissy,” Samantha heard the Mistress command, “Simon says finish off the slut, she's clearly horny beyond belief.”

“Go ahead, Kandy , Simon says scoot forward on the chair, and let the slut have better access to your slimy quim.”

The beginning of Kandy 's orgasm was marked by a widening of her eyes, a stiffening of her body, and a narrow string of saliva hanging unknown from the corner of her mouth. When she sagged in completion, Mistress Ingrid's command was simple, “Well, get going slut, Simon says you've got two more to go.”

Samantha stiffened as wet fingers glanced off her bare thighs and bumped into her exposed pussy. She jumped as the fingers thrust deep inside her without a hint of foreplay or gentleness. A squeak of surprise escaped her lips, then a faint moan of pleasure. The angle of Chrissy's thrusting fingers changed and the fingertips grazed her ‘g spot.' Samantha couldn't help but rotate her hips to let the fingers have easier access to her sexual heart.

Mistress Ingrid's command only dimly made it to Samantha's brain that did not understand a single word. “OK, slut, that's it, Simon says relax and let Chrissy's fingers and lips get you off.”

Samantha Valiant, calm and collected F.B.I. agent, humped her hips strongly against the hot, wet lips sucking on her sex. It was wonderful, … fantastic, … astounding! Unbidden, she stuck her hands under the table and grasped the side of Christine's head to pull her lips further into her sexual core. She never thought to think of the spectacle she was making in front of the other women. Gasping for breath, Samantha shivered in relief as the orgasm swept over her.

--- To Be Continued ---

Author: Desert Dog ****** E-Mail: Desertlickingdog at yahoo dot com

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An Inquisitive Federal Agent

East Coast Slaver Organization Story - XII

Chapter 06 – Cheating a Slaver (or Caught, Punished, Enslaved)

Gloria Waters was flushed, shivering, and it felt like she was on the verge of a nervous breakdown. Her stomach was boiling from two hours of frightened tension, her intestines were painfully cramping, and wet, splotchy patches soaked her armpits and crotch under her rumpled business attire. The twenty-nine-year-old real estate loan officer was used to life in the fast lane. While normally fully accustomed to a long day of constant pressure, in fact craving the stress as if it were a drug, she was unprepared for the unexpected predicament into which she had fallen. The blotchy-faced redhead barely repressed the urge to scream at the movers that were leisurely packing the objects d'art in her condominium. Everything of value in her condo was to be moved temporarily to the secret hideaway love nest she and her lover had been using south of Miami . Gloria Waters and Alexander Warren, her lover, had planned to run away together to the sunny Caribbean and establish new lives with money stolen from the escrow fund she managed and cash that he'd squirreled away without his wife's knowledge.

She thought how typically the day had gone until things had gone awry. “It was sex,” she muttered bitterly, “of course it was the sex that fucked things up.” Of course, Gloria knew better; yes, the sex had heralded a change for the worse in her life. However, it was the sex that might have given her a chance to save her ass now.

“It all started before lunch,” she thought, “when I went over to Alexander's bank to review my real estate firm's escrow accounts.” She remembered how excited she had been when she went in for her final meeting before their planned departure from Miami . Her almost too short skirt, tight and sheer blouse, and jacket that framed her bulbous tits and molded the upper part of her ass, were carefully chosen because of Alexander's recent attempts to have her look sexier. Just getting into the clothes that morning had made her pussy clench in anticipation of how her tartish looks might be perceived and the possible chance for illicit sex in his office. Her red hair and fair skin had glowed with life that morning as she anticipated the exciting day ahead of her.

His secretary, a disgustingly cute brunette named Malissa, had quickly ushered her into his private office with a smile and a cheerful, “Mr. Warren, your eleven o'clock appointment, Miss Waters is here. Remember, you have a twelve o'clock on the squash courts with your trainer.”

Despite the perfectly normal introduction, something about Malissa's confident manner had grated on the twenty-nine-year-old escrow manager. The tight and tiny size four ass, gliding gracefully out of the office as the secretary returned to her desk, had rekindled feelings of jealousy. “After all,” she'd thought, “I'm already competing against a big-titted trust fund wife and two kids belonging to a successful, and gorgeous, forty-two-year-old hunk. Who wants to add in a gorgeous strumpet of a secretary for more competition?” As a result, she'd pushed her groin up against her buff lover's hip and kissed him savagely the instant the door had safely clicked shut.

His large hands had immediately taken possession of her ass cheeks and pulled her even more tightly against his solid form. She'd shivered in real excitement when he responded to her kisses. “A perfect lover,” she'd thought as she ground back against him using her crotch and breasts to excite him, “although he pushes me rather hard toward rougher sex than I'm used to, … but, oh, … my pussy loves it.”

She'd actually been disappointed when his tight squeezing ended and he signaled her to open her leather satchel and pull out the escrow account printouts. After a sigh of exasperation as her hope of a quickie screw disappeared, she'd pulled out the printouts and laid them across his desk. He reviewed the spreadsheets while she took her jacket off and carefully draped it over a chair. After a quick glance at the totals he'd briskly told her, “OK, just like we planned, … after we're finished, fill out this withdrawal form for the seven hundred and fifty-three thousand dollars still in the account, it's already authorized with my signature. Then, take the cash and the two hundred and fifty thousand already in our safety deposit box and go to your condominium. We'll link up at our hideaway tonight to have a nice quiet weekend. I'll bring my money and we'll be set up for years. Everything is a go.”

Alexander had crept around her bent over form; she was still reviewing the account balances as he was giving her directions on what to do. She'd almost purred as his hands slipped down her back, fingertips pausing to scratch along her bra strap, and settling over her hips. She'd sighed in appreciation when his boner pushed against her ass. By the time he finished reviewing what she was to do, his right hand was under her skirt and rubbing along the lacy edge of her skimpy red panties. “I responded like a teenage slut in heat,” she told herself bitterly as the packers got close to finishing up crating the last items in the living room. “The instant his hand touched my sex, his other hand jammed my face down on the desk, smearing my papers all over. His fat dick was in me so fast I didn't have a chance to get ready, … shit, … going in, it both burned like hell and turned me on at the same time. I was almost ready to cum the minute he bottomed out in me.”

What happened next was what began the turning point in her relationship with Alexander. Even hours later, she wrapped her arms around her sweaty clothing and shivered. “He fucked me like a demon, my cheek thumping onto the desktop and my hips slamming into the edge of his desk. Oh, crap it was wonderful, … but it only lasted a moment or so, … then one of his hands yanked my head back in a painful grip.” She still remembered the thick string of drool that had stretched from the corner of her mouth and run to a small puddle on the account balance sheet. “Then my ass stung like hell when his other hand tore off my panties and threw them on the desk before me.” Next Gloria Waters remembered his hands greedily grasping at her swollen tits while he resumed thrusting into her from behind. “My blouse buttons flew everywhere when the bastard ripped open my blouse and broke the front clasp on my bra. I think the bra straps burned welts into my shoulders when he yanked it out from under my ruined blouse. He threw it beside the panties like some kind of trophy.”

Gloria's breasts still hurt from the deep bruising left by his fierce grip where he'd used her tender tit meat as handgrips to increase the rough thrusts into her from behind. “Like an animal,” she remembered in an almost regretful manner. “Even though it hurt, … that part of the sex felt wonderful at first when he was fucking me so out of control.” Her clit was just getting chimed, with just the right rhythm, and an earth shattering orgasm had almost arrived, when Malissa knocked loudly on the door. In a flash, Gloria was thrust roughly under the desk, a hard kick against her ass throwing her feet and butt into the tight space, and her body blocked in place as Alexander sat down, his slimy cock still proudly erect. “He never let my hair loose,” she complained bitterly, “he nearly yanked it from the roots as he kicked me under the desk and then mounted my face on his nasty dick.”

By the time Malissa approached her boss' desk, both Alexander's hands had gripped her ears and her lips were being forced relentlessly down toward the curly hairs on his groin. She tried hard to keep from gagging and letting the secretary hear that she was sucking off her boss below the desk as the two chattered on about his schedule. Gloria was starting to black out when the secretary started out of the room and Alexander yanked her off the jutting pole of sexmeat. As the air gurgled back into her desperate lungs, Malissa reminded her boss that her wife was waiting on line one.

“Hello darling,” the woman's hateful upper-class Boston accent echoed through the room as Alexander activated the call on speakerphone. “How's my favorite hunk of man doing today? Making big deals and building up lots of testosterone to rock my world with?”

Gloria had been torn between the need to gulp in air, as the skull fuck resumed with vigor, and the need to hate the woman who her lover insisted on pretending to adore until after they'd set up a safe haven in the Caribbean. Just as she felt the cock rocketing in and out of her mouth swell up in clear notification of his impending cum, Gloria realized that Malissa had only pretended that everything was normal in the office. “My red panties and bra were lying torn on his desk and my jacket was in plain sight on the guest chair,” she thought with horror. Just then, his cock pulled out and long stringy ropes of cum began to spurt onto her face.

“Lover, what's all that gasping and huffing noise coming from your office,” the wife asked.

“Not to worry,” Alexander had answered cheerfully as his cock pumped more strings of cum across her forehead, “I'm loosening up before my squash lesson and match. After all, I don't want to pull anything important that we might need later on dear.” Alexander's fist was pumping out the last of the jism in a line across her eyeballs as he finished up the conversation with his wife. Gloria was gulping to keep from retching as her head was once again gripped painfully in place with a calloused fist wrapped around her long red tresses. After painting his cum all over her face, Alexander drew Gloria up from under the desk by the handle of her red hair and he studiously began to wipe the white jism off her face by blotting it up with her silky red panties. Finished, he'd drawn her up to her full height and driven his tongue deep past her bruised lips.

“God help me,” Gloria moaned as she shut the bathroom door between herself and the movers. “At the end, his tongue actually got me excited again and my body yearned for the orgasm I'd been cheated of by his secretary.” She sagged back against the closed bathroom door and surveyed her disheveled looks in the bathroom mirror as she remembered the humiliation of the feeling of the expensive silk panties, along with the new coating of Alexander's cum, being shoved roughly up her vagina while his tongue danced with hers. “Oh, what a bastard!” she cried softly. “Worse, he played me so easily. I'm such a fool!”

After Alexander released his iron grip on her hair and she'd slumped down to the floor, he'd calmly zipped up, combed his hair, and grabbed his gym bag. “Baby,” he'd grinned lasciviously down at her slumped form, “you are a great piece of ass and you get better every day. I guarantee you're going to get even better when I really let loose on your sexy bod! We just have to work on your endurance, … this little bit of sex was hardly a workout.” He headed toward the door and paused with a hand on the door handle, “Love, … if something goes wrong today, or at any other time, … if someone mentions scented red panties to you, you'll know they're been sent directly from me.” He'd laughed and added, “Course, the details on how the red panties got their stench and where they got stashed will remain our secret. I'll lock the door behind me. You can leave when you're cleaned up and ready to go get our money. Maybe Malissa will be on her lunch break and won't see your rumpled clothes as you leave.”

Gloria stood in her tiny bathroom sanctuary and cried. The quickie sex without any satisfaction had been hard enough on her, physically and mentally; what she discovered next had been even more earth shattering. She'd staggered up from the floor of the office and collapsed weakly in Alexander's leather chair, uncaring about the trail of slime left on the expensive seat from her swollen pussy lips. Her tight skirt remained rucked up above her waist and her breasts swung heavily, brushing against the slick surface of the polished wood desk. She'd rearranged the papers strewn about in the out of control sex session and stared blankly at the smeared ink on the final tally for the escrow account. Her drool and the repeated plunging of her cheek against the spreadsheet had obscured the final balance amount. Still mentally dull from her ordeal, Gloria had been unable to remember exactly the amount in the account. “I only knew it was something a little more than three quarters of a million dollars,” she whispered to the empty bathroom.

The sexy redhead had remembered a password cheat sheet taped on the side of Alexander Warren's right-hand desk drawer. It was right where she expected but she also found a key taped beside it. Ignoring the key, she used his USERID and PASSWORD to log onto his workstation. “I only wanted to confirm the exact total remaining in my escrow account,” she whispered sadly. When she typed in her account number, she'd been shocked at the figures displayed. “More than nine million dollars!” she hissed. Certain it was wrong; she'd used one of the bank manager's computer options to display sixty days worth of transactions against her account along with matching codes for deposit sources and transfers. Stunned, she tried to reconcile what she saw against what she was certain should have been a little over seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars. “The biggest recent addition should have been the three hundred and fifty thousand I got as earnest money on the offer from Justin Drake for that condominium rental complex. He's the reason we had to hurry, cause I didn't want to miss out on his large escrow deposit,” she mused.

While she was reviewing the mystery of how her account holdings had been so drastically different from her expectations, Aaron Clarke was sitting remarkably calmly in his Mercedes. He was parked, convertible top down, in the upper level of the parking under her luxury high-rise condominium. Unbeknownst to Gloria Waters, her real estate firm's recent customer, Justin Drake, was actually Aaron Clarke, a slaver and man with absolutely no tolerance for bad manners or broken contracts, written or verbal. Quickly suspicious when his real estate purchase offer wasn't accepted or denied, and after the calls to the escrow officer hadn't been returned, Aaron contacted a Private Investigator to look into things. Dale Brown was a licensed, talented, but very unscrupulous investigator who'd worked for the slaver in the past. Aaron was sitting in his car, reviewing the file that Dale had given him the evening before. He was looking at Gloria Waters' picture and thinking about what Dale had told him over the phone just an hour ago.

“Justin,” he'd said, “I think your the escrow officer is getting ready to make a quick departure. She's been getting porked by her banker and I think they're gonna take your money and run. I can't believe he'll leave his wife, but they have movers at her place right now. I also found out they already have tickets to a resort in the British Virgin Islands . When she wasn't looking I spoke to the movers, they're taking the boxes to a house on the water south of town. After tonight, … it may be too late to get your money back.”

The file was thin, but included what Aaron needed, especially the photos of Gloria and Alexander together at restaurants, outside her condominium, and entering their love nest. Alexander's wife and children were shown in other pictures along with addresses, phone numbers, and other details.

Aaron opened his car door and slipped out into the garage; he'd decided to go for it. “I refuse to let those two thieving fucks rob me, even if I have to make up the plan as I go.” Despite his reluctance, he was looking forward to Gloria's film debut. “Business,” he reminded himself coolly, “let's keep everything in perspective. She'll make a fine film subject for a XXX-rated documentary on the transition from prim and proper businesswoman to modern pain slut porno star.” He took his small black leather bag and walked over to Gloria's nearby car. He intended to check out the car's contents before he headed upstairs to her condo.

Gloria had locked her bathroom door and was now sitting on her toilet, trying to control her most recent panic attack. “I knew right away what he had been doing,” she told herself, “it was obvious that Alexander was using my account to launder illegal funds.” The computer showed that every fifteen minutes, twenty-four hours a day, an electronic deposit of forty-five hundred dollars was credited into each of her escrow accounts. “A computer somewhere offshore was making the wire transfers into my accounts. Between the two accounts, he was dumping over eight hundred thousand dollars of deposits into my accounts every day.” She typed the numbers into a desktop calculator and gasped at the extent of money involved.

$4,500 X (4 X 24 X 2) = $846,000 [daily deposits into two accounts]

The corrupt real estate agent had feverishly clicked though her banker lover's computer trying to see what happened to all that money. “It was clear that he'd been forced to manually move money out of my accounts into at least forty other accounts throughout the United States . He was losing ground every day.” She sorted the transactions by size and immediately noticed that noticed that the wire transfers were in only two denominations: $4,500 for deposits and $4,185 for withdrawals. A third amount was the other standard number; it was only $315, but the funds always went into the same account in Alexander's own bank. “He was raking off seven percent. Each time he made a $4,185 transfer out, he took $315 and put it into an account her.” She typed in the account number and was shocked once again. “It's in my name, she thought. The bastard is setting me up.”

Gloria grabbed a legal pad and started copying numbers off the screen. “Over one hundred million dollars washed through my accounts in the six months since our first date. He set this up before we even had sex the first time. His share was $7,106,400.” She clicked open the account Alexander opened in her name. The balance was exactly $7,106,400. She took a deep breath and started writing down account numbers and amounts on her pad. As backup, she printed out all the transaction ledgers she'd looked at.

Ready to take a step that would once again change her life, Gloria backed out of all the active account windows and opened the wire transfer application on the computer. She typed in the first of her accounts. Fifteen minutes later, she glanced at her notes to see the extent of her thefts:

$ 753,000 Funds legitimately in her escrow account

$ 9,000,000 Backlog of illegal money not yet moved from escrow

$ 7,106,400 Alexander's money laundering profits

$ 16,859,400 Total funds stolen and moved into Gloria's offshore account

Gloria sighed and picked up the phone. “A couple of last things to do still,” she had muttered angrily. “He probably intended to do the same thing I've just done as soon as I was out of the picture in the Caribbean . Since Alexander and I both know the access key to the offshore account, I need to change the access key, and then he can't touch the account ever again.” She quickly finished this task and stood up to stretch. She grimaced at the stiff mask of residual cum that she felt on her face and the way her mauled breasts were exposed. A thought occurred to her as she was tying the remnants of her blouse across her belly in an attempt to hold her swaying boobs in place, “Not only have I just fucked Alexander, … but whoever he works for is surely going to want a full accounting for the nine million dollars of their missing money.” She grinned evilly and straightened her rumpled skirt. Unfortunately, her stylish blazer was never meant to fully conceal her bosom as would a man's. She was decently concealed, but a deep crease of cleavage told anybody that looked about her sexy plunging neckline under the jacket. As she turned to leave, Gloria felt her unconstrained heavy boobs begin to sway and bounce. “No construction sites for me,” she thought with the first humorous thought she'd had in over an hour.

Gloria stopped at the office door and dropped her leather satchel as she realized that Alexander hadn't even locked the door behind him as he left. “Anyone could have walked in a seen me topless, face covered in dried cum, and illegally working on his computer. That bastard!” Thinking of the computer, she turned and ran back to Alexander's desk drawer and triumphantly snatched out the safe deposit box key she had seen earlier. “Last task,” she grinned, “empty two safety deposit boxes and then leave this place for good. I hope Alexander chokes when he realizes what I've done!”

Deciding that the overwhelming urge to retch had passed, and that she'd been in the bathroom long enough, she shook her head to free it of the day's events that she'd been reviewing. Gloria Waters stepped out into her condominuim to see how the movers were doing.

Aaron threw a heavy black duffle bag into his trunk. It was full of neatly bundled stacks of one hundred dollar bills. “Looks like our little pigeon had planned on using more than just my money in her new life.” Aaron was well satisfied at this turn of events; he was certain that he'd just recovered significantly more than just his missing money. Gloria's purse and expensive leather business satchel joined the duffle bag in the small trunk. Aaron had rummaged through the bag, discovered her cell phone, and turned it off. Ready to confront his thieving harlot, he turned toward the entry vestibule on her level of parking, eager to begin her punishment. As he walked, Aaron's dick twitched at the satisfaction he'd feel as his cock made its first slithering thrust into her cheating cunt. “Soon,” he told himself, “soon.”

--- To Be Continued ---

Author: Desert Dog ****** E-Mail: Desertlickingdog at yahoo dot com

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An Inquisitive Federal Agent

East Coast Slaver Organization Story - XII

Chapter 07 – Lost Opportunity (or Betrayed)

Aaron Clarke the Miami-based slaver was on a quest and he was primed for revenge. He was riding the freight elevator up into the condominium building toward a cheating cunt named Gloria Waters. Time was critical since Aaron had been told by the private investigator he'd hired that Gloria and her lover, banker Alexander Warren, were planning on taking a powder – running for a Caribbean hideaway with their loot.

Getting upstairs from the parking garage had been easy. Dale Brown, Aaron's P.I., had been in the building the week before when he took the opportunity to borrow the freight elevator from the lax doorman after claiming he was helping a friend move furniture into the building. Dale had simply taken the key to a hardware store and gotten it copied before returning it to the unsuspecting doorman.

Aaron confirmed that the security camera in the elevator was still broken. “Thanks, Dale,” Aaron thought, “this makes it much easier.” On the eleventh floor, Dale slipped out into the hall. He was safely at the end of a corridor and hidden behind the protection of a wide ornamental column that helped block the elevator doors from any residents using the hallway. Gloria's condo was just two doors down.

Gloria's condo door opened and a man crouched down in the doorway. “Probably jamming the door open,” Aaron thought. He watched the man in blue coveralls back out of the condo with a dolly stacked high with cardboard moving boxes. Aaron waited until the man's partner began to back out with another dolly before he stepped into the middle of the hall. Aaron walked steadily and purposefully toward the two men. When Gloria came out after the second mover, the slaver wasn't sure that the capture attempt was going to work out.

She was telling the men to be careful with this last load as she followed along behind them. When she asked how long the drive to deliver the boxes would take, both men stopped in the middle of the hall and looked back at Gloria. Even with the door propped wide open, the two men had too good a view of the door for Aaron to chance ducking inside. With a muttered curse, he stepped past the doorway and continued toward the regular elevator landing.

Aaron kept a watchful eye out for an opportunity to dart back and get into the condominium. It was no use; both movers watched Gloria's tightly clad ass as it twitched on the way back to her door. She was inside and the door latched before the movers turned away with their last loads.

The slaver was contemplating returning to the door and either knocking or picking the lock. The ding of an arriving elevator broke his concentration and he composed himself to face whoever was coming to the eleventh floor.

Gloria closed her condo door and locked it with shaking hands. “Gotta focus girl,” she muttered. “Alexander can't have figured out anything is wrong yet. It was only after I got home that I remembered the fucking movers would be here. Thank god! Else, they would have called Alexander and complained about nobody being here to let them inside. I had hoped to shower, change clothes, grab my packed bags and be gone hours ago.”

She shimmied out of the wrinkled skirt and left it in the middle of the living room alongside her heels. The jacket with dark sweat stains under the armpits was flung atop her bed and the ruined blouse landed on the cold tile floor beside the shower. As the shower water warmed up, Gloria squatted in place and gingerly stuck two fingers up her greasy vagina to snag the ruined red silk panties. With a snort of disgust, Gloria threw the panties on the floor beside the toilet and slipped through the shower door. “Ahhh,” she sighed, “a chance to get clean at last.” The soapy cloth felt wondrously soothing as it washed away the grime, especially the crusty residue at her crotch and along her upper thighs. Feeling much refreshed, Gloria grabbed a towel and walked back into her bedroom, still dripping water and leaving wet footprints in her luxurious carpet. She squeezed the towel against her sore breasts in an attempt to massage away some of the pain.

Humming with delight at finally getting back to making progress on her escape, Gloria swept open her closet door and collapsed with a shriek. “My clothes are gone,” she moaned as she surveyed a closet devoid of all contents, except for a few lonely hangers and some trash on the floor. “The bags, … my packed bags are gone too.” She staggered to her feet and wrapped the towel protectively about herself. With clear desperation, Gloria lunged toward her dresser. Predictably, it too was empty. With a whimper of hope, Gloria leapt back toward her washer and dryer in the hall to see if anything dirty in her laundry basket had been overlooked. It had also been emptied; not a panty, bra, or any scrap of clothing was in her condo except for the filthy items she had just discarded in the livingroom, bedroom, and bathroom.

The doorbell rang.

Gloria moaned in despair. The wet towel landed beside her to be kicked into the washroom floor with a curse. Boobs and tasty ass jiggling, she hopped over to her wrinkled skirt and twisted about wildly to begin dragging it up her legs in a maneuver that would have left any man watching with an achingly stiff dick. She had difficulty getting the rank skirt past her wet hips and she lurched about crazily as she headed for her jacket. She slipped it on and scurried out of her bedroom as she buttoned the jacket up, a job made more difficult by her boobs that bounced about as she hurried gracelessly to the front door.

The doorbell rang again.

Gloria didn't even glance at herself in the decorative mirror mounted in her entry; she knew she was a sight with no makeup on and her wet hair dribbling water down the back of her jacket. Expecting the movers with some final paperwork, she opened the door.

“Cleaners, ma'am,” a heavyset blonde man in gray coveralls announced. He stepped one foot inside the entry and held out a clipboard. “You are Gloria Waters?” he asked.

Gloria had been totally focused on her plans for escape; the interruption was unexpected and threw her for a loop. She wasn't going to have any more delays. She peered up at the man that was a big as a refrigerator and snapped, “I didn't order any cleaners!”

The hulk slipped past Gloria, gently nudging her aside. He turned back and whispered, “The man who hired us said to mention something about ‘scented panties.' He said that you'd understand.”

Gloria backed a few steps into her condo in confusion as the blonde's partner, a wiry black-haired rodent of a man with a scar across his cheek, stepped inside as well, placing Gloria squarely in the middle of the two strangers. She had time to notice that he was wearing matching gray coveralls and pulled a two-wheeled cart loaded with boxes and a heavy duffle. Then, the door clicked shut, loud in the awkward silence.

“Where's the master bathroom?” the heavyset blonde asked.

As Gloria turned automatically to point the way, she felt something pass over her head. The next instant, Gloria's tender neck exploded in pain as a garrote tightened and pulled her head and shoulders back against the wiry man's chest. Gloria's heart felt like it was exploding in fear. Before she could blink, the heavyset man turned toward her and buried his fist in her belly. Gloria collapsed to the floor and emptied her stomach all over the tile floor in the entry vestibule, the garrote loosened up but remained about her neck like a leash.

The man Gloria thought of as The Ferret yanked her jacket down her back, pinning her arms against her side. Still gagging, the garrote pulled her upright once again. Gloria glimpsed a wide smile on the man she thought of as ‘The Refrigerator' as his open fist exploded against her cheek. She fell again, this time tasting blood from where her inner cheek tore against her teeth. The line about her neck tightened once again and Gloria ended up on her knees, swaying about dizzily. She realized that she was going into shock; the pain seemed farther away with each pounding pulse in her temples. The Refrigerator locked eyes with her and Gloria saw his widespread arms clap together.

The blonde ‘cleaner's' powerful swing brought both fists simultaneously against the outside of her jutting breasts, mashing them together with dreadful pain. Gloria finally got a gurgling shriek past her bleeding lips before she collapsed once again. Her stomach clenched with dry heaves as she tried unsuccessfully to empty herself once again.

The cheating escrow manager was only dimly aware of the burning sensation across her upper thighs and ass as she was dragged helplessly across her carpeted livingroom.

Each of the ‘cleaners' had grabbed one of her feet and hauled her toward her bed at a fast walk, her skirt hiked up above her ass exposing the bare skin to carpet burn. They were each eager to begin their fun. The two twisted men worked for the same drug cartel that paid Alexander Waters to launder their funds. Alexander had intended all along to have his lover killed; taking the fall for his illegal activity and leaving him clear to find other venues for laundering the millions flowing into the drug cartel's hands. Because of a nosy Treasury Department investigator, Gloria was going to have a very fatal accident in her expensive condominium. The happy expression on the men's faces was due to their plans for Gloria's last hours on earth.

When the elevator door had dinged open, Aaron stood aside to let the two workmen enter the hallway. He immediately noticed that the men were out of place. First, they should have taken the very same service elevator that he used to get to the eleventh floor. Second, while one workman did have a tool bag in hand, his other arm and hand were occupied with a dolly laden with boxes and a black duffle bag; the load seemed to be a heavy one. Lastly, each of the men wore dress shoes below their coveralls instead of more practical work boots. Without looking, he knew the two men were going to Gloria Waters' condominium. “She's fucked,” he hissed to himself, “and I don't know how to exploit this.” Aaron was reluctant to shoot the men in the public hallway and then try to force his way into Gloria's place. He sighed and wrote her off as a candidate for the painslut role in Kandy 's upcoming films. The elevator door shut and he belatedly pushed the button for the garage level where his car was. “At least I got my money back,” he thought.

Gloria groggily became aware that she was widely stretched belly-up on her bed. Her mouth was stuffed with something that felt like wads of cloth. She could still taste the metallic twang of blood in her mouth around her swollen tongue. She yanked hard on her limbs and groaned at the painful tugging on her wrists and ankles. Weakly, she raised her head and observed that wraps of a thin nylon rope tied her extremities. Her hands and feet were already turning a pale blue from the tightness of the bondage. Neither man was in sight, although, Gloria could hear them moving about and doing something in her bathroom. Tears had already run down her cheeks and Gloria knew her eyes were puffy and nearly swollen shut.

The big man came back into the bedroom and stood at Gloria's feet. She thought his eyes were locked greedily on her pussy as he deliberately unzipped his coveralls. “He's wearing a suit underneath?” she wondered. She shuddered as the hulking brute continued to undress, carefully folding each item of clothing and setting them on her favorite leather reading chair. His bulky muscles rippled as he moved, a sight Gloria would have found lustfully mesmerizing under other circumstances. The sight of his groin elicited a wheezing gasp through her nostrils. “God, have mercy on my soul!” Gloria thought, desperately resorting to a religious prayer for the first time in years. “That cock belongs on a donkey!” The cock drew her interest so intently that Gloria never even noticed that the only item of clothing remaining on his muscular form was a sheath knife held against his calf by black Velcro straps.

The Refrigerator's massive dick was still only half-hard. It stiffened a little as he picked up a heavy two-inch leather strop he'd placed on the chair while he undressed. His eyes flickered appreciatively over the captive beauty's body; it was a clean canvas begging to be painted upon. “Gloria,” he whispered, “I'm going to warm you up a little before we start. Then, when you're nice and limp, I'm gonna jam my cock up your ass.” The four-foot strop whistled through the air as he spun theatrically and then rapidly twisted his shoulders toward her form, the oiled leather thumped against her torso, leaving a three-foot weal of reddened skin diagonally from shoulder to hip. Her right breast had been perfectly bisected by the brutal blow.

The impact drove the breath out of Gloria, snot and blood spurted from her nose across her chest as her lungs were forcefully emptied. The world spun crazily and Gloria was finally able to shriek her pain faintly into the wadding filling her mouth. Her tormentor's free hand stroked his cock, it had grown to a semi-erect length of ten inches. It was already fatter around than the man's large hand could encompass. “Hop, hop!” she tried to shriek. “Hanyhang, hanyhang!” She couldn't bargain with the gag in place. Tears of pain and fear flooded her eyes. She watched the man release his cock to resume his two-handed grip on the awful length of leather.

He spun again in place like an Olympic hammer thrower and he once again threw his entire body weight behind the flailing leather. It struck her opposite shoulder and cut diagonally again to her unmarked hip.

Gloria howled again as the worst pain she'd ever felt in her life returned. Before she could fully recover, the strop hit both her breasts in one terrible blow. This time, Gloria couldn't regain her breath and she started to gag. Mercifully, the man pulled the thick plug of cloth out of her mouth and she gasped in mouthfuls of needed air. His tongue took possession of her mouth and the stench of his breath mixed with the tangy blood still weeping from the inside of her cheek. Before Gloria could recover her wits, the sopping wad of cloth was brutally stuffed back in. Gloria saw that his cock had now swollen to what had to be twelve inches of wrist-thick meat topped with a fat knob at least as round about as a soda can.

Gloria longed to look at her breasts which felt as if they'd burst like melons at the last direct strike; she didn't have the strength to get her head up far enough to see. Then, a rapid series of blows struck her across her thighs, hitting her thrice before the fourth blow took the remainder of her breath away when it struck fully across her pubic mound. Fortunately for Gloria, her prominent hipbones absorbed much of the blow, protecting the gateway to her pussy. Her howls of agony brought more smiles of pleasure to her tormentor.

The next round of blows covered her legs from toes to knees, eliciting more muffled shrieks of anguish. The pain was now never ending; the punishing strop had overloaded most of the nerves on the front of her body below her neck. Gloria never felt her feet cut free from the ropes restraining them. The bending of her lower body up over her torso added only a slight discomfort compared to the pain she was already undergoing. The nudging of something huge against her pussy brought her attention back to her ordeal.

“Ho, … ho! Hop!” she yelled as best she could into the gag. The grimacing visage of her rapist was only inches away from her face and she had no strength in her legs to resist him. The pressure increased from a dull pushing to a fierce pain as his cock's head battered its way to just inside her cunt. The situation was too overwhelming for Gloria to realize that she was being pussy raped and her ass was, as yet, untouched.

Gloria felt a wet, warm liquid around her pussy and she thought the man's huge erection had torn her wide-open to loose a flow of blood. The ripping ordeal continued as the man's full weight came to bear to deepen his possession of her defenseless cunt. Unknown to Gloria, his cock was only halfway in; just six inches of awesome fuckmeat were buried in her vaginal sheath. Gloria felt her ass rising up as his cock attempted to withdraw; she'd had enough sex to realize that the next plunge would shatter her soul with the painful thrust. She had no means of taking a deep preparatory breath; his expected lunge came brutally hard and his now slippery cock bottomed out against her cervix. She howled at the pain rocking the entrance to her womb. Once again the cock withdrew in a long sucking action that tugged at her guts. “Hep!” she tried to yell as the man's weight hit her bent over form hard enough to stress her back to the breaking point. The fist-sized cockhead thumped again at the ring of tissue protecting her womb.

The Refrigerator began to batter his cock again and again into her pussy. The sight of the frothy blood and female sex lube bubbling around his cock brought a final bit of blood into his cock, engorging it as nothing but torturing beautiful and unsuspecting cunts could do. He knew he still had three inches of fuckstick to go before he was home free. The feeling of his cockhead banging against her loosening cervix brought a grin of triumph to his face. “Almost there,” he muttered to Gloria's tortured looking face. Finally, he grunted with satisfaction as his battering finally defeated the gateway to her womb and his cockhead grated its way inside. “Yess,” he hissed, “that's what I'm talking about.” He enjoyed the feeling of his pubic bone grinding tightly against his victim; it was a feeling he was only able to enjoy when he was torturing pussy because local Miami escorts and whores had long since passed the word around that his cock and rough style of sex destroyed any cunt he attacked.

Gloria couldn't believe the pain between her legs. It felt like a baseball bat had been jammed from her pussy to her throat, ripping open her belly like a gutted animal at slaughter. Fearfully, she began to realize that she wasn't going to survive her ordeal at the hands of these men. “Alexander did this,” she told herself bitterly. “He must have planned it before I found out about his money laundering.” The betrayal hurt and Gloria realized that she'd been a complete fool.

When her cervix opened up and let her rapist's cock into her womb, roaring pain surged through her body. “Oh, God!” she moaned repetitiously to herself, “he's pinching my clit as well. Stop, … oh, please! Stop.”

Her rapist paid no attention to her piteous moans. Instead, he moved carefully now, he needed to begin to stir his cock around without his cockhead popping free from her womb. Long experience with bareback rape of cunts like Gloria had taught him that too much popping in and out of a womb would rip the tender edges at the base of the bulbous knob of his prodigious cock. “Fucking amazing,” he grunted as the round knob remained seated in her womb while the rest of his cock pole began to rotate in slowly increasing circles. His hips controlled the punishment his long cock was now inflicting on the entire length of her womanhood. Before he was finished, The Refrigerator would widen her sheath in such a manner that even if she were to survive, it would take surgery and long rounds of therapy to tighten her cunt and make it supple enough that Gloria and a male lover could enjoy traditional sex. The ‘cleaner' could care less; he knew that before dawn this latest prey would be nothing more than headlines shouting another tragic death.

The sensation of locked groins, his pubic hair grating against her own coarse growth on her cuntal mount, was invigorating; he wished it would last forever. Torturing and killing men in inventive fashions was good, but nothing beat the thrill of beating and raping a woman. Wives and daughters were the best, especially if the husband or father was forced to witness the job. The killer loved his profession. Soon, though, it was time to move on and let his partner have his fun with the doomed bitch.

Gloria was slowly becoming more lucid as she recovered from the intense whipping. By now, her hands were completely numb and the painful throb from the nerves throughout the rest of her body had faded to the background as the rapist concentrated on her poor pussy. Whatever damage he'd done deep inside her belly had stopped its intense level of hurting as well. She was mostly aware of a tugging and burning sensation as the huge cock rotated about, stretching and dragging her outer lips as it moved. The overbearing weight of her rapist was centered upon and grating across her poor clit. Her favorite sex organ simultaneously radiated heat and pain as the rape continued. The rest of her sex organs, especially her ‘G-spot', were deadened from sensation.

As the circular thrusting of her rapist kept going, Gloria realized that she was unconsciously trying to move her hips in soft counter-fucking motions in unison with her rapist. Horrified, she tried to stop. It was no use, her pleasure-starved body wanted relief before it died. A part of Gloria changed forever at the moment she accepted her pending death and decided to do what her body was telling her. She took a long, bubbly intake of breath through her nostrils and used every bit of remaining strength to rotate her hips counter to his, drastically increasing the grating on her clit. She took a long shuddering of breath, and she continued, shamed but full of lust.

The killer poised above her battered body smiled in real pleasure. “This is one of the few,” he thought with wonder. “Finally, another one to cum with me, even knowing she is going to die.” Shrewdly understanding that the timing was right, he tugged the slimy cloth gag out and bent his mouth to her ear. His hands took possession of her breasts. Ready, … he started to whisper in her ear as he kneaded her meaty hooters and began to more gently skewer her bloody cunt. “You feel the heat, Gloria? It's hot down there and it feels sooo good.” He stopped to chew and suck on her neck, also pulling her tit mounds around under his chest by their fat nipples. “Nice body, cunt! Slim little aristocratic neck, … fat succulent tittie bags, … narrow waist, … wide hips meant only for fucking, … and a pussy that's mighty fine. That's it, … push back against me, … make it better for both of us. Nice!” He was more than satisfied with her response; it gave him the incentive to extend his pleasure in order to milk the final orgasm her body would ever feel. “Gloria,” he teased, “I can feel that twat of yours pulsating around my dick. Yes, … only a hot-blooded slut can fuck me like you are. Gloria, are you a good slut? Are you going to cum? Can you feel it building up inside you?”

Gloria heard the man's taunting words and took a long shuddering intake of breath through her open mouth, partially reviving her weakened body. She knew the sex was heating up for him as well. That knowledge fueled her weakening frame to even stronger swiveling against his rotating cock. The heat at her clit intensified. An orgasm was building and Gloria was certain that it might be the best of her life. She nourished the impending orgasm and began to breathe quicker, gasping for oxygen to fuel her sex engine. She was close.

The Refrigerator was close as well. He had a decision to make; cum with the doomed bitch that was wriggling about on his sex spear like a freshly hooked fishing worm, or tear her nipples off just instants before her orgasm, denying her another forever. He was just deciding on the latter when his traitorous cock began to weep just a drop of jism. “Oh, fuck!” he muttered into Gloria's ear. “Bitch, you're draining me!”

Gloria took that as her cue. Her entire vaginal sheath began to convulse with the most powerful orgasm of her life, almost as if the strength of her sexual satisfaction could overcome her awful predicament. In the midst of her orgasm, she felt her boobs being squeezed and her nipples stretched with pain. Somehow, the sensation added to her explosion of pleasure. She had energy for one loud, “Yes! Fuck me you bastard!” before she fell back on her soaked comforter, senseless except for the orgasm still twitching through her groin.

The killer pulled his softening cock out with an audible plop and stared in lust at Gloria's swollen sex. It was still convulsing with a life of its own; his fresh jism oozing from the hole. The cloth that had been gagging her mouth was used as an impromptu rag to wipe his dick clean and to wipe the worst of the bloody jism off her cunt. The Refrigerator wasn't finished yet. He turned to the bag The Ferret had thrown on the bed and rummaged through it until he found his cock sheath; the sight of the evil thing was enough to make his dick twitch in anticipation of round two. He could only slip his fuckmeat into the sheath when it was half-hard like it was now. The design was his own; the sheath was really an open cylinder so that his entire cock head stuck through, giving him skin-to-skin contact with the sex hole he was destroying. The remainder of the sheath only added a little over a half-inch of rubber coating, all the way around his fat cock, not counting the half-inch nubbins that peppered the entire sheath with their spike-like protrusions. The added two inches of diameter made his fuckrod into a dangerous weapon. His cock was already swelling with anticipation, locking itself tightly within the sheath.

Gloria's legs had relaxed, opening in a frog-like manner and giving him much better access to her sex. Ready, he wasted no time, drawing each knee up high in the air, and eagerly setting the knob on the end of his cock back at her puffy and slimy hole.

Gloria felt the cock thump in halfway; she screeched in painful protest, blessedly happy that at least her mouth was open so that she could breathe as the unimaginable pain returned to her sex. Her cunt sheath woke up at the grating passage of the rubber fingers on the side of the cock. “Oh, … it hurts so much,” she mumbled through puffy lips, “please, no more.” She knew something was very different about this fucking as soon as the hulking brute sprawled across her body began to pump his way into her; out two inches, in three, … out two inches, in three, … out two inches, in three, … until finally, he was once again seated with his cock head inside her womb.

The man's greedy mouth attacked the side of her neck. Gloria felt his slobbery lips and nipping teeth pull at the tender flesh below her ear. “Better than kissing,” was her thought. Then, as the bristly log in her cunt began to slowly rock back and forth, she realized that this time something was roughly stimulating every inch of her sensitive inner pussy walls. “He's so heavy on my clitoris,” she whispered. A particularly hard grinding of his pubic bone upon hers told her that she'd spoken that aloud. His whisper back of, “Oh, … yes, Gloria. You are a good fuck, a nice little whore,” brought another wave of humiliation that she'd orgasmed so hard during her own brutal rape. “Maybe I am a whore? Maybe I do deserve this?” were her gut-wrenching self-questions, doubting her worthiness of anything except her awful fate.

The Refrigerator was gentler this time for four reasons. First, he wanted his second fuck to last as long as possible; he knew that he'd have to wait for a long time before he had the chance to fuck something as luscious as this twenty-nine-year-old redhead. Second, he thought there was a chance to get the doomed bitch to cum at least one more time, and that was something worth watching. Third, he knew that before he spurted, he'd speed up his fuck pace and rip her cunt to bloody shreds. Lastly, he didn't really want to have to do any of the grunt work his partner was doing in the bathroom.

His fucking was focused only on keeping one hundred percent contact between their pubic bones. The body thrusts he made against her were miniscule fucking motions backed up by his full weight, everything grated directly on her pubic bone. From long practice, he knew that the rubber fingers on his cock sheath were now rubbing against her insides, in a manner not completely painful and not completely pleasurable. “The bitch should start getting real confused about now,” he thought with a grin. When he heard a grunt of what could be pleasure escape his victim's lips, he knew she was going to get randy again. “It's a shame you aren't mine,” he whispered in Gloria's ear, “I'd have fun beating and fucking you every day. The thing is, … I bet you'd like it. You're a natural pain slut. Yes, … keep it up baby. What a natural, … prime pulsating pussy here. You belong in a whorehouse south of the border, … somewhere that real men could keep that pussy primed and ready for big dicks like mine.”

The killer pulled his softening cock out with an audible plop and stared in well-satisfied lust at Gloria's ruined sex. It was still convulsing with a life of its own as her body betrayed her once again with an orgasm. Foamy blood mixed with white jism seeped out of her shredded hole. He looked up her whipped torso to her wide-open eyes, staring emptily into the distance.

He took a brand new digital camera from his leather tool bag and began to record the damage done to Gloria Waters' body, beginning with her bruised face, battered nose and eyes, and her puffy lips. Gloria's eyes were almost swollen shut from the tears that had been flowing almost non-stop since her beating and rape began. The close-up of her gaping, shredded cunt was particularly gruesome. “Bitch,” he muttered to his insensate prey, “your lover is gonna enjoy these. His only regret will be that he was too busy fucking his own wife to help us ruin your body before you're snuffed out.”

Satisfied at the completeness of her mind and body rape, he slipped off the bed, thanking God for his incredible life and his amazing cock.

--- To Be Continued ---

Author: Desert Dog ****** E-Mail: Desertlickingdog at yahoo dot com

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An Inquisitive Federal Agent

East Coast Slaver Organization Story - XII

Chapter 08 – Round Two (or An Awful Death)

Aaron Clarke had found the van in the parking garage that he thought belonged to the men now in Gloria Waters' condominium. He'd decided to wait in his car and see what happened when the men left Gloria's place. “Don't think it's gonna be too good for her,” he thought. “But, I'll invest a little time in this just in case there's something in it for me.”

Back upstairs, the hulking brute Gloria thought of as ‘The Refrigerator' had finished his two enjoyable rapes and switched places with his partner in the bathroom. He continued working on the steel pipe structure that they had designed over the last few days. “This is gonna be fun,” he thought as he double-checked the tightness of the last section of piping, imagining the horror she would soon face.

‘The Ferret' looked down at his victim and shuddered at the sight of her ripped vagina. He wasn't much for cunt to start with, and after just two fucks from The Refrigerator's oversized cock, hers was almost shredded beyond use. A nearly virgin ass was more his thing. Male or female, ‘The Ferret' lived for the chance to fuck up some tight ass and leave its owner looser, and deader, than when he started. His coveralls and expensive Italian suit were carefully draped over another chair in Gloria's bedroom. Naked, his growing cock dangled below his groin like a snake, swaying from side to side, as he climbed up on the bed beside his prey and his small bag of toys.

Still unconscious, Gloria's body was easy to manipulate as The Ferret slipped a three-foot-long pipe behind her back. Gray duct tape ripped loudly off its roll as her wrists were bound about the upper portions of each arm, elbows tightly held behind her back by the unyielding steel pipe. The Ferret groped at her swollen tits, satisfied that he could reach them for playing with later on. Since her fingers were still capable of stretching toward her otherwise defenseless breasts, The Ferret wrapped duct tape about her digits, shaping her hands into tight balls of tape-wrapped flesh.

Next, he turned toward her knees and slipped the second three-foot bar of steel behind it. Wraps of tape about her ankles held them tightly against the backs of her upper thighs. Gloria's arms were now uselessly trapped in a position that thrust her breasts forward and her knees were locked widely apart. The Ferret now sat with his slim ass on her well-whipped belly holding a capsule under her nose. Reviving ammonia wafted up from the capsule after it burst with the faint sound of breaking glass.

Gloria awoke to a world of pain. The first thing that she saw was the leering face of The Ferret as he waved the ammonia capsule under her nose. She tried to evade the burning fumes as soon as she was lucid enough to react to the irritating chemical. His grinning visage as he continued to taunt her with the broken ammonia capsule wasn't encouraging; it was apparent that he was going to torture her worse than the first man.

Her back hurt from the way her elbows forced her spine forward, exposing her sore boobs to his leering face, and her thighs hurt horribly from his weight on her abdomen. Thankfully, the ammonia was thrown aside. From somewhere out of sight, the wad of cloth was jammed back into her mouth; it tasted worse than it had the last time it had plugged her – The Ferret had also swiped the cloth across her gapping cunt and soaked up more of the pungent juices. Gloria watched in wide-eyed fear as he picked up a ball of thin nylon cord and began to tie a slipknot at the end. She grunted in pain as the noose was set at the base of her boob and tightened, hard. The boob began to instantly swell and darken in color as wrapping after wrapping of the white line was neatly laid about her tender meat, stopping only an inch or so short of areole. She felt increased sensation in her boobs follow the wrappings, almost yielding a spine-tingling, sexual feeling. Again he formed a noose from the ball of cord, and her other tit was wrapped and mummified exactly like the first. Gloria saw her nipples swell harder and longer than they'd ever been.

Something shiny dangled in front of Gloria's face. She struggled to focus on it in the dim light of her bedroom. “A fishhook!” she told herself with fear, “it's the biggest fishhook I've ever seen!” She could only moan in terror as a hand squeezed her right tit in an unyielding grip. The other hand brought the barbed tip against her flesh. It sunk slowly into her mammary meat just below the edge of her areole, forced through inches of flesh until it popped out the other side of her brown areole. Gloria let out her held-in breath with a wheeze through her nose. The expected arrival of a second glistening fishhook brought another deep shiver of fear. She watched, horrified, as the second sharp tip sunk into her other breast, tormenting her with additional pain and as it disfigured the second tender morsel of milk meat.

The Ferret took a heavier length of rope, made a loop at the midpoint, and slipped it over the metal pipe extending beyond her right knee. He whistled happily as he forced the pipe up and then back toward her head where he secured it close to her right elbow with a double flip of the cord. He then ran the doubled line behind her back to the other end of the elbow pipe and made a half hitch around the knee pipe. In just seconds, the killer had her widespread knees up close to her ears, in perfect position to fuck. Gloria was almost prepared for her next ordeal.

Gloria watched horrified as the lean murderer ran a hand possessively along his absurdly thin, and amazingly long, dick. Its length was easily twelve inches long and merely an inch thick. She watched as the long hose of a cock bobbled around, rubber-like rather than stiffly hard like The Refrigerator's cock had been when he punched into her cunt. The man doled out a tiny puddle of thick goopy gel that looked like Vaseline at the very tip of his snake-like dick and grinned down at her horrified face. He was obviously unable to fit a condom to his deformed cock.

His hands set his upper body weight down on the pipe behind her knees and his hips moved about to get his dick in place. Her head swung to the side to avoid his grinning face and pale cheek scar. She groaned in painful anticipation as his dick fumbled about her ass and its tight brown sphincter. “Hooo, heeese. Hop hit,” Gloria tried to scream to get his sympathy. “I need to be able to speak,” she thought stupidly, as if it would matter to her rapist.

A pressure started to build against her butt and suddenly, at least four inches of thin cock snaked its way into her ass. The Ferret wormed his way into her intestines, guiding each handful of dry dick meat into her hot rectum. The tiny bit of lubrication let the small head of his cock past her tight anal star but it didn't help any as each dry inch of cockmeat slowly entered her. Gloria felt fierce burning and strong suction as the obscenely long dick worked its way back and forth into her rectum, ever deeper and deeper. She felt stuffed with cock; she wept for the way she was being treated. “I'm gonna die,” she told herself. “I'm helpless and there's nothing I can do to stop them.”

After he was fully seated, the man started a slow, even fucking pace that Gloria was powerless to resist in her bound position. His groin thumped against her rectum and Gloria knew that every inch of the man's cock had somehow snaked its way up her twisting intestine. He pulled out in a long, sucking withdrawal, yanking her ass up as suction resisted the move. Despite the lack of sex lubricant, her body managed to exude enough fearful sweat that his cock slowly became slippery enough for him to pick up the fucking pace, somewhat easing the terrible burning in her bowels. Gloria was in such discomfort that she got no pleasure from the sex act; it was a kindness in a way, she didn't have to suffer the humiliation of cuming during her own second violent rape. Mercifully, The Ferret eventually began to grunt and she knew it was almost over. The man's skinny prick seemed to pulsate along its entire length as he pumped jism deep into her guts. A loud plopping sound told her his cock was gone. She still felt stuffed with cock as her intestines complained about the recent rape.

Like her first rapist, The Ferret took time to photographically record the damage he'd done to her asshole. Of course, he also digitally captured high-quality color images of the extreme bondage position she was in, including her blue-black breasts that she'd once been so proud of that now sported glistening steel fishing hooks. “Not such a killer bod now? Huh, cunt?” he taunted his victim. “You're looking kinda like dog food right about now. Maybe that's what we should do, … grind you up into dog meal.” His eyes took on a slightly glazed look and he knew with certainty that some day soon a victim would be forced alive into a grinder. The thought brought new stiffness to his cock. If the victim were a man, he'd have taken the time to fuck him once again, maybe after smearing some of the cocaine in his bag across the man's anal ring before stiffing him. “Hmmm,” he murmured happily. “Thanks, cunt,” he said aloud, “you've given me a great idea.”

Gloria knew what was going on now; her lover had double-crossed her and given her to these men to toy with. They were sexually torturing her before putting her to death; she knew it and expected to die soon. The greedy escrow officer was hoping for a quick end to the suffering she was undergoing. Gloria was wrong; her fate was in the hands of expert killers with strong sadistic bents, they would make sure her death would be slow and painful. Mercifully, her ass rape was blessedly brief, even though she still felt his dick's presence even after he'd pulled out his cock.

Both men worked together to move her bound form into the bathroom. Her bowels were now cramping intensely from her ass rape and she desperately needed to try and shit. Gloria was beyond struggling, she had begun to accept that she was dead meat. Supposedly stoic about her impending demise, Gloria was still made more fearful when they hung her upside down, suspended from the bar between her knees. Her nerves were so ravaged that the weight of her hair below her head seemed to tug savagely on her scalp. She glanced up (down her upside down body) and moaned at the sight of her brutalized boobs. “They have to be someone else's boobs,” she thought. Then in an odd analytical fashion for a woman about to die horribly, she wondered where on earth the men had obtained the grossly oversized fishing hooks. “They're at least four inches long, … what do they catch with them? I hope they're sterile.”

The Ferret held a syringe full of a clear liquid. Gloria watched him stimulate a vein in her exposed inner thigh before he perfunctorily jabbed it in and pumped out the liquid. Whatever he pumped into her veins seemed icy cold as it progressed up (down) her body to her heart. It seemed Gloria's heart stuttered with difficulty as the liquid struck and then it settled down into a noticeably faster rhythm. Some of her minor aches and pains seemed to wash away with the initial effects of the drug; other deeper pains seemed to intensify.

“It's a stimulant, cunt!” The Ferret whispered in her ear. “This way you'll feel everything that's going to happen over the next hour and you'll be unable to pass out from the pain, … and the pain will be worse than you can imagine. We're going to set your body up so that it dissolves from within.” He laughed evilly and added, “Just wait, you'll see.”

Gloria could only hang like a side of beef waiting the butcher's knife and hope the end wouldn't be as painful as the horrid little man promised it would. Tears of pain, sorrow at her demise, remorse for her misguided life, and fear - - deep, almost all consuming fear at what was going to occur, flowed down her face. She groaned into the gag as all of the tiny aches and pains returned tenfold as the drug took full effect. Gloria felt everything; the pole digging into the backside of her knees, the swollen pulse of blood that seemed to hammer outward through her battered body with each beat of her heart, the growing pain in her blue-black breasts, the pulsating stinging in her nipples, the pressure of her blood pooling in her throbbing head, and so much more. She wept even more from the ever-growing pain. Gloria thought it was enough to make her go mad.

She wriggled about as best she could in her down-hanging position so that she could see what was going on. The two men quickly hung three one-gallon plastic jugs upside down from the same framework that held her suspended.

“They're our presents for you luv,” The Ferret whispered. “Each of the three jugs holds one gallon of industrial strength drain cleaner; the strongest concentration of lye (a strong alkaline substance) that can strip flesh off bones. The aftermath of contact with your soft tissues is something called liquefaction necrosis and deep penetrating injuries.”

Gloria felt a flush of fear, “That's what he meant by ‘my body dissolving from within.” She knew that under normal circumstances, she'd have fainted dead away. “No mercy for me,” she thought, “No mercy for me.”

“Each of the jugs has a battery-operated, electronic-timer-controlled, Teflon ball valve below it,” he continued explaining in a dry voice with some obvious excitement. “You see, these twenty dollar valve-timer devices are commonplace for opening and closing water drip irrigation or misting systems, hence the garden hose fittings. A short length of garden hose will direct the industrial strength drain cleaner to the black, heavily ribbed device at the end. No, they aren't dildos, my formerly cock-hungry dear. Although, … I do intend to fuck them into you, it will be your last cock, albeit fake ones, you'll ever feel. You'll take them to the grave with you.”

Gloria looked at the evil-looking device screwed on the male end of the section of garden hose. “It does look like a rubber phallus,” she thought. “But, he's right; it is an expandable pipe plug, operated by pressure from a home garden hose.” She reflected on how the device operated and she blanched at the torture she was going to endure.

The Ferret laughed at her consternation. “I see, … you know what this is. Normally, the ‘plug' expands when you turn on the water.” He pointed to the end of the phallic looking monster and said with another laugh, “Look it even has a piss hole. But, instead of jism, or water, this is where the drain cleaner will flow. The first ‘plug' fits up to a four-inch diameter pipe. If you look, you will see it is two-and-a-half inches across and eight inches long in its non-inflated state, … quite the donkey cock for your whoring cunt.”

The large rubber device was indeed large and intimidating looking, especially with the concentric rows of bulges across its entire length. Gloria grunted as if struck as The Ferret thrust the dry rubber hard into her cunt. It bottomed out easily despite the extreme discomfort that Gloria felt. Gloria's first hole was now attached to a jug of drain cleaner, protected only by the closed valve that would soon whir to the open position. The Ferret picked up a slightly smaller ‘plug' and he continued, “This one is for up to two-inch-pipe. It's only a little over an inch across and about seven inches long. It goes up, excuse me down, your ass.”

Gloria felt the pressure of the rubber phallus increase against her rectum. “Oh, … fuck! That burns.” she cried behind the wadded cloth in a weak voice.

The Ferret enjoyed this part the most. He was definitely into ass. The cold rubber was forced as deep into Gloria's ass as he could force it. Once in, he savagely withdrew the offending rubber and reset the tip against her swollen anal grommet. He thrust it deep inside her tortured rectum for a last time. “This will stay, bitch,” he whispered coldly. “Now you've got two of your fuck holes ready to flush out with drain cleaner.” He fidgeted with her labia around the biggest plug. “I don't think you can push out your butt plug,” he continued in a whisper, “but, this pussy is so loose and sloppy that even this big drain plug might fall out.”

Gloria's labia were brought together in a painful pinch around her clitoris. The Ferret brandished another of the large, stainless steel fishing hooks inches from her eyes before jamming the razor-sharp barb deep into her labia, joining them together in a snug grip about the base of the dull black rubber of the drain plug. She twitched about as if she were a worm just skewered for bait, weeping even more at the ruination of her sex organs. The fishing hook brought her labia together over the little nubbin of her clit and hugged the black drain plug in place. Gloria hoped that the hook hadn't hurt her favorite bundle of sex nerves.

The fishing hook was jiggled about as the scar-faced man threaded a thick length of nylon fishing line through the eye of the hook. He yanked hard on it to be sure the bloody lips would hold and then held up the end of the line to thread through another hook. The Ferret knelt down beside Gloria and pulled out the festering wad of cloth in her mouth. He poured a little water from a plastic bottle into her mouth, grinning as she choked and sputtered in her upside down position. The mouth a little cleaner, he peered at her gasping maw and drew the second fishing hook through the top of her tongue and out the bottom side. Even before the pain struck the drug-heightened senses of the once beautiful girl, The Ferret was tightening the line between the hook in her labia and the hook in her tongue. The tension on her tongue yanked her chin up to give her a clear view of the upcoming events.

“One more plug to go,” The Refrigerator spoke up, holding out the section of garden hose from the third jug of drain cleaner, also ending in a black rubber plumbing plug.

The Ferret took this plug and peered through a set of holes punched through the midway point of the dick-like portion of the plug. Lined up to his liking, The Ferret fed the phallic shape into her open mouth, passing between pierced tongue and the top row of her teeth. “This only goes in halfway,” the man mused aloud. “The problem we talked about last night was how to hold this last plug in place. We decided that duct tape wasn't appropriate. No, Gloria,” he whispered, “we decided to skewer it in place.”

Gloria's heart lurched at the word skewer. Her hooked, stretched tongue and the fat cock-like shape in her mouth kept any muffled protests to just unintelligible jibberish. She stared cross-eyed as a kitchen skewer approached her face before it was jammed into one cheek. The tip fumbled about the inside of her mouth for a moment as The Ferret sought the matching holes in the plug; then, the dull-tipped skewer popped out the other side of her face. Gloria retched once or twice weakly and prayed for the ordeal to end soon now that the last plug had been locked in place. She imagined that she had fallen into a nightmare concocted by the most twisted minds in hell. “That's it,” she thought with resignation, “I'm already dead, and this is the hell I've been destined to.” Her eyes followed the three lengths of garden hose up to the jugs of drain cleaner. “I'm so dead!” she told herself, dreading the agony that would soon be added to the waves of pain she already had to deal with.

The two men once again busied themselves beside her position over her bathtub. She watched them heave a much larger red plastic container up between her legs. The length of garden hose coming out of this control valve was screwed into a ‘Y' fitting about six inches away from the valve and became two lengths of hose only about a foot and a half long. Each man grabbed a piece of hose and taped the open ends along the inside of her legs, ending about mid-thigh and pointing right at her crotch.

As a finishing touch, The Ferret took an already set digital cooking timer and taped it to the hose feeding her cunt plug. He made sure that Gloria could easily see the glowing numerals counting down the minutes of her life.

The Refrigerator had updated the digital photographs for his employer's enjoyment and was now setting up a digital video camera on a tripod. He nodded his readiness to his partner.

“Cunt, look how the time has flown while we were having fun!” The Ferret commanded. “The countdown is now at one hour and thirty-two minutes, that's how long you have to live. In one hour and two minutes, the timer will get to the thirty-minute mark. At that point, the first valve opens, dumping the commercial-strength version of drain cleaner directly into your pussy.” He grinned into Gloria's wide-open horrified eyes and continued. “Your pussy will bubble away in a most painful and horrific manner for ten minutes. Don't worry; you can't die right away from the damage. Then in ten more minutes, when the timer reads twenty minutes, the second valve will open. That's when your rectum and intestines will flood with the second gallon of the drain cleaner. I promise that at that point you'll be babbling for death or unconsciousness from the most painful enema we could subject you to.” He stopped to point to the video camera and a wireless transmitter taped to the backside of the tripod. “Fortunately for our video customer, you will be unable to fade to unconsciousness due to the strong stimulant that even now is heightening your sensation and feeling. At the ten-minute mark, you'll still be alive and kicking. That's when the last valve holding back drain cleaner will open, dumping the caustic stuff into your mouth. It really sucks to be Gloria Waters!”

Both the killers laughed at the joke. What had been said was true; it really did suck to be Gloria Waters. The Ferret turned to the fishing hooks driven through her right breast. He tied off a length of heavy nylon fishing line to the eye of the hook and ran the line up and over one of the horizontal bars at the top of the contraption Gloria was hanging from. The Ferret tugged up on the line, lifting the fat nipple on the rope-wrapped breast. “You see,” he explained as he worked, “the line on your tittie goes up to the window sill where a ten-pound steel barbell is barely staying on the ledge. If you jerk about when the drain cleaner flows down, your tit will drag the weight off the window sill and the barbell will fall, probably ripping off the last inch or so of your breast. Ow! Bet that'll hurt!” Without explaining any further, the killer took a second length of fishing line and secured one end to the hook in her left tit. It was also looped up over the bar and run to a second barbell barely resting on the window sill. He ran a finger down her taut, bruised belly and tweaked each of her achingly stretched nipples.

Gloria remained as still as possible during this latest torment. Her tongue already felt like it was being yanked out by the roots each time she had to rest her head down from its chin on her chest position. She strained hard to get her chin back on her chest to alleviate the pain, fearfully aware of the hazardous state her breast meat was being exposed to. Sweat puddled on her brow at the strain and stung at the corners of her eyes. She could barely focus on the weights so far overhead, waiting like swords of Damocles. Then she realized that the men had yet to explain what happened when the timer counted down to zero. “The last container,” she thought. “Something very bad must be in the last container, the red one.” She glanced up at her crotch and saw that the timer now read one hour and twenty-four minutes. Her stomach lurched at the bloody pussy lips she had seen as she read the remaining minutes of her life. Gloria had no strength of will, or bravery, remaining to resist her approaching doom. She already counted herself dead.

“Gloria,” The Refrigerator taunted from the bathroom door. “The red container holds five gallons of regular grade gasoline. When the timer shows zero time left, the last valve will open, flooding your torso with highly aromatic gasoline. The explosive vapor is heavier than air, it will flood the bathroom before flowing to your bed where the nightstand now has ten candles romantically burning. Within a minute of the gasoline flowing down your body, you will become a roman candle, burning furiously as the vapors detonate. The explosion may well throw you through the bathroom wall, to fall burning to the ground, like an angel falling from heaven to the lower reaches of hell. We will watch it all on our computer screen from across the street using the transmitter on the camera. Whatta fucking way to die.” The two men then bowed to Gloria, high-fived each other, and left the tormented woman to die alone in agony.

--- To Be Continued ---

 

Author: Desert Dog ****** E-Mail: Desertlickingdog at yahoo dot com

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An Inquisitive Federal Agent

East Coast Slaver Organization Story - XII

Chapter 09 – Unsuitable Prey (or Another Volunteer?)

Aaron Clarke prided himself on his ability to be calm and collected under pressure. In fact, he thrived on the stress created by his current occupation. The reason he felt he had the greatest job on earth was the adrenaline rush from the risk and uncertainty involved while he stood to gain so much. Today's operation was a good example. The first prize was Gloria, a cheating, whoring cunt who controlled a real estate firm's escrow account. He had very definite ideas on what to do with her after her capture and enslavement. The cunt was in for a rough, and humiliating, time. The funds she had stolen from him were actually the second prize; although given his wealth, the three hundred and fifty thousand dollars at risk was chump change. Aaron was certain that he'd recovered more than he'd lost when he found the duffle bag full of money in her trunk. Clearly, Gloria was on the run. Aaron was certain that she'd only left her purse and money in the car while she ran upstairs to get her packed bags.

What Aaron didn't know was that Gloria Waters had forgotten that the movers were already at her condominium, slowing down her now desperate attempt to escape from her cheating lover with her stolen funds. At the same time, Aaron hadn't planned on the two thugs that had beaten him to the punch by getting to Gloria first. Too stubborn to end the operation, he had been stoically waiting in his car for well over an hour since the two thugs had gone into Gloria Waters' condominium. To keep himself busy, he had amused himself first by going through Gloria's purse and then by rummaging through her business satchel.

The purse was full of crap, exactly what he figured a pretty redhead businesswoman to carry. It was a disorganized mess of ATM receipts, sales receipts, a few feminine products, a cell phone, and the makeup and other shit women lug about with them. The only things of interest in her purse were a box of condoms, her billfold, her extra set of car and house keys, and the presence of two safety deposit box keys. The condoms surprised Aaron, he'd been sure that the cunt was letting her lover take her bareback, without protection.

The satchel told another story about Gloria's life. It was neat and organized. Even Aaron, a stranger to Gloria's work life, instantly figured out what she had been doing just before he nabbed her. “The bitch just ripped off her lover, the money launderer,” he'd muttered, amazed at the dollar amounts detailed in her neat printing on the last-used yellow sheet in her legal pad. “She's got sixteen point eight million and change in an offshore account and I've got the account info, login steps, and passwords. Gloria, thank you for trying to steal my three hundred and fifty thou. Whatta payback!” The printed sheets Gloria had kept outlined the millions of dollars that had flowed through the escrow accounts she controlled. Aaron had no idea that the two hadn't been partners in the money-laundering scheme, he only knew that a lot of money rolled through the account.

As soon as Aaron realized the stakes in the game, he'd started up his little Mercedes Roadster and pulled away from Gloria's car and the killer's van, to a spot he hoped was inconspicuously far enough away from both vehicles. He kept an eye trained on the condominium entrance while he shrugged his coveralls down off his shoulder. Normally, he didn't use ballistic protection, hoping that a good plan could negate the need for gunplay. “This scene might get dicey,” he told himself as he slipped his arms back into his coveralls. Aaron also dug out the silencer for his nine millimeter and screwed it on. Better prepared, he turned his attention back to Gloria's notes. The last entry in the pad was a hastily sprawled note about the cash in Alexander Warren's safety deposit box. “The little minx stole his box key and ripped off his cash as well.” According to Gloria's notes, the heavy black duffle bag now in his trunk held three hundred neat stacks of one hundred dollar bills. Aaron did the math in his head, “Each bundle is $10,000, times three hundred bundles, … whoa! That's an even three million dollars. Yes, Gloria! Way to go!”

As far as Aaron was concerned, he could leave at any time and be way ahead. “Even if the thugs only lightly roughed up the thieving harlot,” he thought, “I'd have the money and she is in deep shit. I can leave now.” He was kidding himself. Aaron Clarke, slaver and self-professed man of high ethical standards, would never rest until he personally confronted the woman that tried to rip him off. It was the way his psyche was wired, Aaron just had to go back upstairs to see what happened to his bitch.

Finally, almost two hours after entering Gloria's apartment, the two men stepped back into the parking garage. Now dressed neatly in expensive business suits and each carrying a small black nylon gym bag, the men were virtually unrecognizable as the same two poorly dressed workmen who'd entered Gloria's condominium. The smaller man kept a careful watch around the parking garage and the bigger man strode confidently toward Gloria's car and unlocked the driver's door, using the key's he'd stolen. Aaron enjoyed the way the blonde giant's actions became animated and wild when he found nothing in the cabin of the car. “Fuckers,” Aaron muttered, “I hope this screws you guys with your boss as well. Good riddance.” The trunk door popped open and the man hurriedly ran around to check it out. The large man yelled something at his partner who ran at the larger man and threw his gym bag at him before he turned and ran back to the condominium garage entry. The much larger, blonde giant headed back to their van with both bags shrugged under one shoulder while he fumbled for the van keys.

Aaron had taken advantage of the hurried departure of The Ferret to slip unnoticed out of his car and glide over to the left rear of the van. At that point, the blocky shape of the box-body van blocked the condominium entrance and Aaron had a clear view of The Refrigerator as he struggled with the key and the gym bags. he squatted down and leaned against the van to steady himself.

Something alerted the killer, he only had time for a frantic look up at Aaron standing at the rear of the van before the blonde's face formed a final ‘O' of surprise. Then, he slumped limply down to the pavement after three coughing bursts from the silenced nine-millimeter sent three one-hundred-forty-seven grain slugs tearing into the man's barrel-like chest. The red blossoming stains on his chest confirmed that the huge killer had not worn ballistic protection. “The killer never expects to be a target himself,” Aaron told himself. “That's the way it usually is, especially with life-long bullies.”

Aaron grinned at the effectiveness of his weapon. “And so many chumps complain that a nine-millimeter slug has no stopping power,” he muttered to the dead thug. “After all, … it does help if you can shoot, … and I try not to miss.” He glanced in the rear of the van and saw that it was nearly empty except for a grimy comforter. It took some huffing and puffing for the strong slaver to maneuver the heavy body to a position behind the driver's seat where the comforter could cover it. The floor held a series of steel rings, some already fitted with half-inch-wide nylon straps and tensioning ‘D' rings. Aaron peeked at the contents of each of the gym bags. In addition to the men's gray coveralls, one held a still bloody leather strop that looked like it could do real damage. The last bag held even more capture and torture paraphernalia. Most interesting, it held a high-end digital camera. Aaron turned on the power and scrolled through the last couple of pictures. It was enough to make his blood boil in anger. “It's enough,” he told himself grimly, “it proves that he deserved to die. By the way his partner took off upstairs, Gloria might still be alive, …barely though, I'm sure. Better hurry.”

As the service elevator took him once again toward the eleventh floor, Aaron checked the most important items of his gear. He still wore the clean, but worn, blue coveralls with his name, Robert, emblazoned on his chest and the ballistic vest was well hidden under the loose-fitting coveralls. The cargo pouch on his left leg held a taser and the pouch in his right leg held his nine-millimeter with a new magazine clip and the silencer. His regular pockets held an assortment of binding rope, handcuffs, and a spare ballgag. A small tool bag was slung over his shoulder, resting easily on his back, well out of the way of his hands. Unlike the dead killer, Aaron did not intent to get caught unprepared with his hands full of useless crap.

Aaron ducked into the sheltered vestibule outside Gloria's condominium and carefully slid her spare door key into the keyhole. His gun was drawn and held in a ready position even as his left hand eased the door shut behind him. The faint thumps of flesh striking flesh and the soft curses of the thin thug alerted Aaron of everyone's location in the condo and made the potential rescue of Gloria that much easier. Aaron slipped smoothly to the carpet just prior to the open door to the master bedroom and low-crawled into her room, gun at a ready position. The room glowed with an eerie light from a bank of candles flickering on her nightstand. The killer had discarded his jacket on her mussed bed and he was clearly in sight beside the tub, kneeling toward an upside down Gloria who no longer even looked human.

When Aaron was halfway to the bathroom, the killer looked over his shoulder toward the gun pointed directly at him. He lurched wildly away from Gloria and fell backward over the toilet, his arms flailing out of control as he tried to get to the holstered gun below his left shoulder. The second enforcer for the drug dealers had met his own killer. Aaron coolly squeezed the trigger six times, hitting the scar-faced man four times in the center of his chest and then twice in his forehead. The silencer slowed the medium-weight rounds enough that the killer was thrown back against the wall, ending up resting on the toilet, with all six slugs remained in the corpse.

When the ex-military slaver saw Gloria's close up, he blanched and any thoughts of his long-delayed victory fuck vanished in an instant. Her condition was worse than anything he'd expected. He had to pause and take in the entire scene. “It looks like this could be boobytrapped,” he thought. The battery-operated timers, the valve assemblies, plastic jugs, the fuel can, and the complicated array of hoses made him wary. He backed into the bedroom and sat down on a chair to strip off boots, socks, coveralls, and underwear. The heavy ballistic vest landed with a thump atop his clothing. Naked, he padded back into the bathroom with his trusty Gerber general-purpose tool at the ready while he studied the setup. The four battery-operated times had their sunshields down, covering the settings of the digital timers. The countdown clock perched above her pussy told him nothing except that it showed forty-five minutes.

“The nipple ropes are first,” he thought as he gingerly clipped the thick nylon fishing line with the wire clippers on the tool. The blood-crusted nipples topped black and purple tits that had once been lusciously round and appealing. Aaron next clipped the fishing line that held Gloria's tortured tongue outstretched by inches. The swollen tongue remained hanging partially out of her mouth. It took four difficult cuts to halve the heavy-weight fishing hooks that pierced tongue, breasts, and cunt lips; he threw the discarded pieces of steel aside onto the tile floor where they skittered toward the spreading pool of blood draining from the corpse on the toilet. Aaron's next task was to pull the bloody skewer out of her cheek and remove the dildo-like device from her mouth. When he saw the weep-hole at the end of the drain plug, Aaron understood what the men had intended for part of Gloria's fate. Within a few minutes, Gloria's comatose form was once again on her bed, ankles held loosely by nylon restraining cuffs and wrists comfortably crossed and restrained on her belly by another set of the disposable cuffs. The implements removed from Gloria's body were strewn across the bathroom floor.

Gloria was breathing erratically, but her airways were clear and her color was already slightly improved. Aaron unraveled the nylon rope that had been wrapped tightly around her fat tits. The individual wraps had cut deeply into the soft flesh and left the tender mounds grossly swollen and discolored. It took a strong will to keep from taking time to knead life back into the disfigured flesh of the failed thief. Instead, he left Gloria alone on the bed so that he could deal with the killer. The now naked corpse was thrown dispassionately into the tub. Aaron checked the timer on the five-gallon fuel can and reset the time so that it would open the valve in exactly three hours. That done, Aaron dumped all three jugs of drain cleaner onto the bloody, naked carcass, turned on the bathroom exhaust fan, and closed the room's door. He figured that the man's tissues would be much softened by the action of the industrial strength drain cleaner before the gasoline soaked everything in the tub. Sparks from the rotor on the electric motor driving the bathroom exhaust fan would ignite the explosive vapors, hopefully obscuring the identity of the body for some time. The bloody teeth now wrapped up in one of Gloria's washcloths might buy him some time by keeping forensic technicians from using her dental records. “I'm lucky that the smaller killer came upstairs,” Aaron thought. “This might permanently fool the police, Alexander, and the drug dealers. In any event, it doesn't matter, I only need a little time to wrap this up.” Aaron then muttered a curse and then whispered aloud, “Alexander planned this!” Aaron cursed again and hissed angrily, “There is no doubt about it.”

The hardened slaver looked at the ruined form on the bed. He already saw her as his possession, … his slut, … his sexmeat to control, … his captive slave to modify, free, or destroy as only he saw fit. Alexander Warren had usurped a privilege that the slaver had reserved for himself alone. Aaron found nothing odd or humorous in the irony of becoming astoundingly angry with a man who abused and destroyed the same woman that he was going to sentence to long rounds of humiliation and pain, albeit much less than that meted out by Alexander's minions. Aaron promised revenge for the woman.

Aaron still had to get the beaten woman out of her condominium and safely down to his car so that he could get her emergency medical treatment. To do that, he reluctantly gave her a sedative, knowing that he risked stopping her already stressed heart. Sedated, he was able to much more gently fold her ungagged form into a left-over cardboard china box without risking her suffocation with a harsh gag. The double-thick layer of cardboard held her securely and also hid the shape of its contents. The dolly left behind by the killers was perfect for moving the girl down the elevator and into the garage. Aaron took a smaller cardboard box and loaded the killer's sliced off clothing and anything left behind by the two men. He took the time to wipe himself off with a wet towel from Gloria's spare bathroom; it went into the top box along with the killer's clothing. Lastly, he took a discarded roll of packing tape and secured the two boxes to the dolly, leaving his hands freer to potentially defense himself.

Prepared to leave, Aaron once again checked his clothing and equipment. Content that he'd managed to keep any obvious spatters of blood off his coveralls, he slammed a fully reloaded clip into his nine-millimeter. Everything appeared to be in order. He tapped his now-clean Gerber in the pouch by his shin and remembered the ease with which the wickedly sharp blade had scalped the dark-haired killer. Aaron was proud of the dispassionate way that he'd mutilated the thin corpse, flushing the bloody scalp with its tell-tale black hair down the toilet. A bloody set of male genitals had spiraled down the drain on the next flush. Toothless, scalpless, dickless, and lacking his balls, the killer was even now slowly dissolving in the bathtub.

The hallway was empty; Aaron pushed the dolly out of the condominium toward the elevator. He was content, the end was nearly in sight, and Gloria was well in hand. The secluded alcove of the service elevator was only feet away. Aaron inserted the service key and punched to elevator call button. Everything was still clear, no residents in sight. He took the moment to take a long relaxing breath.

The elevator door quietly dinged open and Aaron pushed the dolly briskly into the elevator. Too focused on the potential dangers behind him in the hallway, Aaron never saw the petite woman already in the elevator. The edge of the cardboard box pushed directly against the woman's lower legs, her upper body fell forward across the upper box and toward the slaver. Quickly recovering from the surprise, Aaron caught the falling blonde's hands and brought them down onto the dolly's top handle in a smooth, controlled move. He firmly locked her hands in place with his left hand and brushed her long, disheveled hair back from where it partially covered her face.

The blonde was slow to recover from the surprise encounter; her face was still blank of any expression, mouth slightly ajar and her body now draped loosely forward over the tall stack of moving boxes. Her plump breasts rested atop the cardboard box holding the bloody teeth and the effects of the two killers. Then, … she focused on Aaron and he saw her mouth shut and her nose flair with a long indrawn breath. Her eyes remained locked on his. Aaron knew instantly that the woman was malleable and he decided to see how far he could go with her.

Dale recognized the woman as Mrs. Harriet Lynch, a neighbor of Gloria's. Dale Brown had taken an exorbitant number of pictures of Harriet during the surveillance of Gloria Waters because of her sexy body. “She's always leaving the building in these skimpy workout outfits,” the private investigator had gushed. “She runs on the greenways outside or goes to her gym across the street every day like clockwork. Whatta fucking body. I'd like a round or two with her, I tell ya!” Aaron had discounted the information Dale told him about the woman as worthless. In fact, he'd demanded that Dale absorb any time wasted on researching the woman. The P.I. had grumbled about cutting some of his fee, but ultimately agreed that he'd been distracted by the sight of the buxom blonde in her Spandex workout clothing even though he had found the two together several times.

“Are you O.K., Mrs. Lynch?” Aaron asked in a carefully soft voice while continuing the contact with her hands and the side of her face. Inwardly he was raging at the distraction and the potential compromise of his presence in the building. Two corpses and a missing woman on the verge of death was not the sort of activity he wanted to be linked to. He racked his brain to remember anything Dale had told him about the woman.

“Who are you and how do you know my name?” she asked hesitantly.

“My name is Robert, Mrs. Lynch, the same as your husband's name. Harriet, … Gloria Waters told me everything about you. She and I have a very special relationship. Gloria is quite the needy type and I am able to scratch a certain special itch that she has. In fact, … she told me you're ready to have the same itch scratched.” Aaron lied smoothly.

Harriet's face took on a thoughtful and still confused look, as she tried to assimilate what the slaver had just hinted at. “What exactly is your relationship with Gloria?” she asked in an attempt at taking control of the situation.

While Aaron was listening to Harriet's question, he reached into his right pocket and grabbed a six-foot length of blue bondage cord he had intended to use during his planned abduction and rape of Gloria. By the time Harriet's hesitant question was finished, the cord was wrapped loosely, but quite securely, around her wrists, locking them atop the dolly. Aaron let his left hand caress up her bare arms while he whispered, “Let me just say that Gloria's wrists were to have been lashed up just like yours, only she left me waiting unfulfilled cause she's stuck working late at the office with her boss. I expect that he wanted some sort of intimate, personal service from her before she left for home.” By now, the slaver had his right hand also exploring down Harriet's back and ended up possessively cupping her taut ass. “Nice ass,” he whispered.”

Harriet stiffened and gently yanked at the cords holding her wrist; her butt was trapped between his hand and the unyielding boxes. “I don't believe you,” she said tremblingly. “Gloria and I are good friends. She never told me about you. Prove that you're her lover. And, … you can't do anything with the elevator door open anyway,” she bluffed, “cause I'll scream.”

The slaver leaned in to sniff at her neck and then gently gave it a bite, eliciting a violent shiver from his prey. He locked eyes with her wide-open ones, just inches away, and answered her question. “Gloria is a true redhead with a tiny vertical tuft of hair above an otherwise hairless pussy. She also has a nicely sized mole directly between the top of her pussy hair and her delicious little bellybutton.” Aaron paused for just a second and added, “Of course you know all that. She's also just a little older than you and her tits are nice B cups compared to your fuller, fatter hooters.” He sniffed again loudly at her neck. “Your scent is marvelous. You smell ripe and womanly. Of course, … Gloria told me about you, … that you're easy, … that you've got a hungry cock holster, … that you'd do anything once you felt my cock, … that you're ready to cheat on your husband.”

Harriet was confused; the stranger fussing at her neck, sniffing and biting was strangely erotic. “Can Gloria really be two-timing her boyfriend?” she asked herself quickly. “He knows about her mole and the tiny patch of hair. It's true, … I've seen it when we've showered at the gym. Oh God! His hand on my arm is enough to make shivers run down my back.” Then she became angry at his calling her boobies ‘hooters.' “What does he think I am?” she angrily said. Then the big hand covering most of her ass tightened its hold, bringing on more tingling sensations through her body. “Oh, eiii!” she thought, “His hand feels so big and strong on my butt. When was the last time my Robert turned me on like this?”

His voice ticked her ear and he whispered, “Are you juiced up and ready for sex?” The words sent another shiver through her trapped form. She felt the hand on her ass shift down the crack of her butt and cup across her pubic mound. Her mouth opened in an ‘O' of surprise as the questing fingers spread her sex under the cotton shorts she wore over her Spandex workout suit. Unconsciously, her legs widened to give him better access. “Oh, shit! He's feeling me up.” The fingers had spread to the outside of her crotch and then scissored inward, now directly contacting her privates. “Eeek!” she cried aloud as three fingers slipped into her moist pussy and her toes finally touched the elevator floor. “He let my own weight rape me down in his fingers,” she thought, “and he went in so deeply and easily. You are such a slut Harriet, … Gloria was right, … it is time to reward myself with something better than what my husband has to offer.” She leaned back as if to escape from the man and the expected tug on the rope on her wrists brought another surge of arousal at her helplessness.

Harriet was vaguely aware of the big man turning her and the dolly to face the elevator door and the empty eleventh floor alcove beyond. The big fingers in her puss shifted her ass around and then continued to delve about, she distinctly heard slurping and sucking sounds as his fingers roughly stirred her wet core. His other hand crept around her torso and tightly cupped one of her tender breasts. “Ahh,” she muttered aloud softly, “that feels good.” She knew that her breasts were always a little sore after a long, hard run, despite the tight sports bra she used, and she loved to have them mauled a little harder than her husband was willing to do. Her knees started to feel a little weak from the multiple stimulations.

Aaron braced his feet and thrust himself into her pussy from behind. The sensation of pushing through the tight Spandex crotchband on one side and the looser cotton crotch of the shorts was an excellent counterpoint to her hot, velvety pussy. “The shell-shocked butch never even knew my dick was out and a condom was being slipped on it. Ahh, yes! Nice pussy!”

Her eyes popped open and her face flushed red. “Stop,” she hissed, “the door is open. At least take me back to my condo.” She squeaked and opened her mouth in a gasping breath as something much fatter and longer than just a few fingers started to nudge at her sex. “Stop! I said, stop!” she hissed back once she could collect her thoughts. The man thrust hard against her butt again, shifting even deeper inside her and widening her pussy in the process. “Oh, … my, … God! How big are you?” Harriet grunted as the big cock began to punch forward into her pussy. “Wonderful,” she whispered. “Oh, … fuck me you bastard.” The hands on her ‘C' cups squeezed even harder and then she felt her hands being unbound. “No,” she panted, “keep them tied, … I love it, it's so sexy.”

Robert ignored the woman, jerked her temporarily freed arms back behind her back, and retied them, each wrist to the opposite arm's elbow. The move stretched her arms back and thrust her breasts forward. It wasn't too uncomfortable; but the position was a slutty one. Harriet whimpered in frustration because her rapist, at least that's how she liked to think of him, had slowed his thrusts to deal with her hands. Just as she opened her mouth to beg him to focus again on pushing his big cock into her from behind, his hands shifted to her shoulders and firmly stretched her exercise suit and sports bra down below her ribcage all the way below her elbows. Surprised, she was dimly aware that her mouth was closing and opening like a fish out of water. His calloused hands rubbed strongly across her bare breasts already sensitized from her run and then the start of sex. “Yesss,” she hissed quietly. “Rub them hard and start to screw me again.”

She yelped as a hand stingingly struck her right ass cheek. Both hands squeezed at her boobs and he whispered in her ear, “Enough orders! You're filling in for Gloria and she is NEVER allowed to give me orders. Further, every spoken thought has to contain at least one Master or My Lord.” She took a deep breath as a particularly hard upward thrust at her butt filled her cunt to the core and lifted her feet completely off the ground. “Eiii,” she mumbled almost inaudibly, “that's what sex should feel like.” She was already comparing the size, stamina, and ferocity of this man's sexual style to that of her milquetoast husband. “Yes, … My Lord, … that's how to do it, … yesss.” Harriet was too sexually heated to be embarrassed at how she was acting. All that the twenty-eight-year-old could think of was how much better this felt than any sex she'd had from her fifty-three-year-old husband. “Fuck,” she whispered again. “What have I been missing? Yesss.”

The hands left her tits and the exposed soft mounds plopped down atop the grating surface of the cardboard box. Something whisked about her head and it took Harriet a moment to realize that her neck was now held at the same point her wrists had been, atop the cold steel handle of the dolly. She didn't protest because the deep stroke of the cock continued, she only grunted as a hand grabbed each hip in a stingingly hard grip and his cock lunged back up into her. As Mrs. Lynch's feet left the ground, she reveled in the feeling of the fat cock up her sex. The hands began to drive her butt up and down onto the dick, massaging parts of her cunt that had never been touched. The scratching of her nipples and breast mounds on the cardboard felt great. The helplessness of being bound and mounted on the dolly added to the sexuality of the scene.

“Oh God, … Master!” she whispered. “How big is your cock? How long can you fuck like that? Oh, My Lord! It's so wonderful.” The cock was still driving hard up into her now sloppy pussy and she started to orgasm. “Oh, nice!” she told herself. “Eiiii! Yesss!”

It was only when Harriet finally began to recover from her mind-blowing orgasm that she noticed that the amazing cock was no longer where it should be and her wet crotch felt oddly drafty. She felt the first faint stirrings of true panic when she also realized that her eyes were covered. “Where are you? What's going on,” she demanded in a hoarse whisper. “Are we still in the elevator? Is the door closed?” For an answer, her now bare butt exploded in pain as a hard male hand struck her a stinging blow. It hurt much more than the first, relatively mild, corrective blows he had given her. She somehow managed to bite off the yell and merely grunted in pain, once. “Sorry, … Master,” Harriet heard herself automatically whisper. Her neck was still held loosely, but securely, against the steel bar atop the dolly, akin to a guillotine victim waiting for the blade to fall. The analogy made her heart beat faster. “This is so amazing,” she thought, “he is so good at directing me, making me feel pleasure, and making me cum. She felt her entire body swivel forward. Something velvety bumped against her nose. Her heart sunk. “No,” she protested quietly, “I don't like oral. Please stick it back in my puss. It'll be good for both of us, I promise.”

Aaron had been very satisfied at the slut's responsiveness. “She's so easy to read.” he gloated. “Late twenties, … trim and fit with nice fat, all natural hooters, blonde, … tight pussy, … bored with her quiet and pampered housewife existence, … enjoys a little bondage and slightly rough sex, compliant and hot; what more do I need in a newbie slave. Harriet will do nicely in Gloria's place for the next few months.” When Harriet protested about beginning the test of her oral skills, it was a dash of cold water on Aaron's enthusiasm. “Bitch!” he hissed as he set the cart down and walked to the elevator controls. “You not only gave me orders, you spoke out of turn, and you forgot to call be Master!” On the inside control panel of the service elevator, his key had been in the off position to lock the doors open, exciting Harriet and himself about the possibility of discovery during sex. Now, he turned the switch to the on position and sent the elevator rumbling toward the basement and his waiting car. During the eleven floors the elevator slowly traversed to ground level, and the three it continued to his parking sublevel, Aaron brought the tightly rolled up belt stowed in a pouch pocket to the ready and began to swing his belt in wide swishing blows against her luscious bare ass and upper thighs. He'd jammed a ballgag in her loudly protesting mouth after just the first few blows. By the time he turned the elevator back to off, stopping it shy of the third sublevel, her backside was criss-crossed with red wheals and her bare legs had ceased their wild kicking. Snot, drool, and tears covered her pretty face.

When the nasty, rubber-tasting gag was pulled out of Harriet's mouth, she was ready to do anything to end the burning that the whipping had ignited in her butt cheeks. Spoiled rotten and bored silly by men her entire life, this man's take-charge excited her to do things she'd never consider on her own. The whipping proved he was serious. Therefore, it was no surprise when the velvety knob of his cock brushed against her lips once again. She didn't hesitate; she took it immediately into her mouth, recognizing the sweet flavor of her own cunny juices. It was the first time she'd tasted cock since high school and only the second time she'd tasted pussy. Once, out of overwhelming curiosity about her husband's protests against giving her oral sex, she'd dipped a finger in her wetness and sucked the juice off her finger. Neither her own taste nor the muskiness of the sex meat in her mouth was a turnoff. Harriet was quickly getting into the act of forced oral rape. She took his whispered comment, “that you're a natural cocksucker,” as a welcome compliment and renewed her sucking and slurping on the fat stick.

Even after feeling the largeness of his dick in her pussy, the size she tongued in her mouth was surprising. “Heez ho ho, Hasta,” she mumbled around the gently thrusting bare cock in her maw. She'd tried to beg him to ‘Please go slow, Master,' he didn't seem to pay any attention to her. No man could take the bound blonde seriously in her present predicament. Her neck was tied to the dolly, and her arms were tied snuggly behind her back presenting her big boobs in their best profile. Beyond just topless with her big boobs flattened on rough cardboard, she was also now bottomless with the crotch of her Spandex workout suit ripped out and the rag rolled all the way up to her belly button. Aaron had her discarded cotton shorts in his pocket. Harriet's blazing red ass and her openly distended pussy lips proclaimed to all that might have seen her that she'd just been soundly fucked. Her face was oriented forward in a position begging men to stuff her throat with their cocks. Her bound form was a clear invitation to all that she was a slut willing to take on all cummers.

Harriet could do nothing except suck hard on the fat cockhead in the hopes that he'd cum fast and not stick it into her mouth too deeply.

“That's it, Aaron encouraged quietly. “You've already shown me what a tight and eager pussy you have.” His voice hardened a little and he continued, “Now it's time to prove to me what a good little cocksucker you are.” He had wanted to take it slow with this captive but since she seemed so malleable, he thought of speeding things up. After all, his cock was already achingly hard and tingling from screwing her so well without cumming; he was saving his load for her throat. A thick line of drool escaped from Harriet's wide-open mouth and Aaron caught it in his right hand and leaned far forward to nest his saliva-lubricated fingertips in the depression at her ass. Without preparation, he simply sunk two fingers half way into her probably virgin ass. When she twitched below him and tried to vocally protest, he hammered his cock forward into her gullet. His cockhead went from her loose, wet mouth deep into her tight, hot throat. The position was awkward, but he persisted with raping her mouth and her ass simultaneously. The sensations on his cock were amazing.

Harriet had drifted back to the pleasant fantasy of being forced to act the slave to a handsome and viral man. She had gotten comfortable in her bondage and felt like she was making progress on the huge dick in her mouth. Even though he kept bumping a little too deep in her mouth, she controlled her gag reflex and kept up the sucking, slurping motions. The hands that kept caressing her head, her bare back, her sides with the flared out mounds of her boobs, and her tingling ass cheeks fueled her horniness. Harriet had not only resigned herself to sucking Robert off, she hoped to keep him in her mouth long enough to get him hard again. “Fuck!” she told herself, “he's made me so horny and greedy. I can still feel my puss clenching from that orgasm. It's shameful, but I want more. My Robert is too old, too small, and too gentlemanly to treat me this way. This is how sex should feel; alive and wonderful, especially since I'm helpless and have to accept what He gives me.”

She felt His hand caress her cheek and wipe the line of drool off the corner of her mouth. It seemed a caring and intimate move and she loved Him for it, especially in her current state of helplessness. The man leaned heavily across her back and when fingers touched her behind, she hummed in approval. “He's going to keep me stimulated,” she thought dreamily, already feeling the anticipated strokes across her clit. A sudden pain at her butt and then a hard pushing against her most private place evoked an involuntary shriek of protest against the cock gagging her mouth. Instead of paying the least attention to her complaint, the dick in her mouth flew further in and crashed painfully past the barrier at the rear of her mouth. She hardly felt the pain in her ass as a third finger quickly joined the two already raping deep in that very tight hole. Blinded and helpless, she was incredibly aware of her predicament when scratchy pubic hair brushed against her nose and then a rock hard pubic bone thumped into her lips. Harriet froze in amazement that the entire cock was in her mouth, like a log forced into her gullet. She tried to breathe through her nose and was panicked to realize that her breathing passage was blocked. The long dick seemed to roll around her throat as if trying to widen it. She began to struggle for air. The dick pulled out and she gasped for breathe.

As soon as the shell-shocked blonde below him began to squirm in earnest, Aaron reluctantly pulled his long cock out of her throat and mouth. He loved the look of gasping desperation on Harriet's face as she struggled to catch her breath. After a quick count aloud to five, Aaron thrust back into her throat, feeling her tightness caress the full length of his cock like no pussy ever could. He adjusted the angle of the dolly and started a long, steady, skull-fucking session with his latest captive. “Your throat is tight and your mouth is hot,” he told the woman below him. When he felt his cum trying to boil its way out of his balls, he pulled out and walked around the trophy housewife. Her loosened anus winked back at him as he regarded her red-streaked butt cheeks, her still virginal rectum that beckoned him, and her sloppy and wet pussy lips below.

The head of his cock was wet, but not so well lubricated that it'd slip easily into her dry rectum. He solved that simple problem by burying himself fully into her slime-coated pussy. “Tight,” he told the gasping woman, “you still have a nice tight pussy. I'll enjoy more of it later on. Right now, I want your last virgin hole; this'll complete your first ‘around the world' sexing.” He laughed at the weak struggles of Harriet below him. “One more stroke,” he whispered, “then we can start working on that hot ass you have.” He caressed lush meat on either side of her pussy with his fingers, pulled his dick out with a wet plop, and set his plum-sized head at her nether hole. The head fitted inside with relative ease; but there was a lot of cock still outside her stretched opening. Harriet gasped below him and Aaron whispered to her, “Bear down like you're going to take a shit. It will help let me inside. Do it, or it will hurt like holy hell when I push.”

Harriet must have paid attention because her anus spasmed in a tightening and loosening grip, almost pulling him inside as he began a forward thrust synchronized with the each loosening motion of her rectal sheath.

Harriet was no longer having so much fun. Her throat felt raw and swollen from the mouth rape she'd just endured. The fact the man raping her was still hard was difficult to accept. She knew that she'd been ravaged for at least thirty minutes so far. “And,” she told himself, “he still wants more. He hasn't even cum yet.” The pressure against her needy pussy lips brought some relief. “Fuck me,” she automatically whispered, now feeling shame at her wantonness for the first time. “It was fun at first,” she told herself with wonder. “Now it's too much, … but my body still wants more.” She thought about it and wheedled in a soft voice, “My Lord, … please make me cum again. Please, … don't hurt me again, Master. My pussy needs it.”

Instead of satisfaction, she felt fear when the man standing ready to skewer her again whispered that it was time to try out her ass. She was still trying to figure out what ‘around the world' meant when the fat knob on his cock popped inches into her butt. “Ohhh,” was her automatic and witless response. Like a robot, she followed the whispered instructions in her ear and helped ease the fuckmeat into her intestines with attempts to shit. “Full,” she moaned aloud, “Oh, God, I'm so full of cock!” The man behind her must have enjoyed her response because a hand sneaked under his dick and fingers started to worm their way into her pussy at the same time a questing digit found her clit. Harriet heard a voice moaning like a slut in heat. With shame, she wriggled her hips about to encourage her own ass rape and the glorious stimulation around her pussy. “I, … am, … a, … slut!” she whispered in between long shuddering breaths times to coincide with the long strokes massaging her rectum. “Ohhhh!” she whispered wonderingly, “It burns, … it hurts, … it is sooo big, … oh, its way better now.” Her nerves seemed electrified from the stimulation and she felt the beginnings of an orgasm approach. Then with full acknowledgement of what she'd been reduced to, she demanded petulantly, “Fuck me! You Bastard! Beat me if you want, but please for God's sake, fuck me till I faint!”

Her begging for sex was both a signal and a challenge. He pulled his throbbing cock almost all the way out of her hot hole and then thrust right back in, slapping her right haunch as he bottomed out in her ass. His left hand kept up a gentle squeezing on her clit. He slowly increased the pace of the fucking, and the spanking; the end of this first round of sex was in sight. Just seconds later, his cum came boiling out of his dick, spurting deep into her intestines as he held his cock stationary, locked tightly against her fleshy butt. Aaron collapsed across her sweaty back and nibbled absently at his newest slave's neck. “Nice ass, slave. I think you're a keeper.”

--- To Be Continued ---

Author: Desert Dog ****** E-Mail: Desertlickingdog at yahoo dot com

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An Inquisitive Federal Agent

East Coast Slaver Organization Story - XII

Chapter 10 – The Slaver’s Women (or Whatta Lifestyle)

Across town, in an upscale cosmetic surgery clinic, Doctor Joan Miller was still working on her latest project.  “Actually,” she muttered to herself as she pulled yet another suture tight on the abused pussy widespread before her, “it’s a pain in the ass; I’ve been up all night working to save her life and put her back together again.  I’m supposed to be keeping in shape for my next stint out in New Mexico.”  She was angry for several reasons.  Obviously, she was angry at the brutal damage that had been done to her unnamed subject.  Her slaver friend had explained that he’d rescued her from two murderous thugs hired by the poor idiot’s own boyfriend, a married man with two daughters.  Joan was happy that she’d seen with her own eyes the digital pictures of the now dead murderers.  She paused in her mental tirade against stupid men to straighten out the swollen pussy lips to see if they’d been sewn up straight.  “Don’t want scars down here,” she mumbled aloud as she visualized the next time that a big, fat cock thundered its way up the poor woman’s vagina.  “Scars rip too easily,” she told herself, “they don’t stretch well at all.”  Joan had repaired internal tears as well as bringing the shredded labia to the closest semblance of normal that she could, it has taken hours of painstaking surgery.

Gloria Waters was now the anonymous patient of a well-respected and married cosmetic surgeon.  Certainly, Gloria was in talented medical hands; but there was some question as to what effect the doctor’s post-surgery recovery process might have on the patient.  What few knew was that Doctor Miller was also a volunteer doctor at a local B&D club and that her very twisted psyche made her a dominate, a submissive, a Ponygirl Mistress, and even a Ponygirl herself.  She was happily married to a rancher out west and she spent part of each month as respected cosmetic surgeon, part of the month as wife and dominate in charge of the slaves on her husband’s ranch, and part of the month as a helpless sextoy and a working Ponygirl on that same ranch.  Doctor Joan Miller was a very complex, and beautiful woman.  Gloria Waters would waken to find that her doctor owned her body and soul until she was fully healed from all her rounds of surgery, at least six to eight weeks away.  Then she would begin service as a full-time slave to the man she tried to cheat out of hundreds of thousands of dollars.

Joan carefully disinfected the ripped-open breast meat on the unconscious woman’s right tit.  It was very clear that it would take additional surgery to repair the areola and nipple to any semblance of normal.  “What kind of nerve damage you have here is a question we will have to wait on for an answer,” she said softly, speaking to herself, mostly to remain calm at the damage to the woman’s body.  Doctor Miller glanced up at the repairs she’d already made on the woman’s cheeks and tongue.  There would be visible scars on the face to deal with latter on as well.  She sighed and returned to work with scalpel and needle.  “Whatta fucking mess! “

Finished with the first round of immediate repairs on the woman, Joan stripped off her surgical gloves and stretched.  The move brought her swollen mounds forward and she couldn’t help but think of the two men who’d so modified her breasts.  “When I begged Robert, the slaver, to let me ‘vacation’ at a Ponygirl training facility, I had no idea what I was in for.  The new breasts he gave me are nice though.”  Joan squeezed her breasts and thought of the difference it made when Robert (Robert Morgan – the name by which Joan knew Aaron Clarke) decided on his own to change them from a B to a full C cup.  She squeezed them again and felt a twinge of passion that jetted from her swollen teats to her pussy.  Joan moaned and hurried out of the operating room, it would take hours for her patient to begin to shake off the effects of the anesthesia, and she desperately needed to milk her boobs; besides, it was almost time for her mandatory 5:30 AM milking.  She rubbed her tummy with one hand and held her bouncing boobs with her other, Joan was several months pregnant and she’d been lactating for five months, ever since she’d ‘allowed’ herself to be placed on a special hormonal diet by Joseph Loftus, her lean and domineering rancher husband.

Joan had returned from her ‘vacation’ trip out west newly married, weeks pregnant, and already with swelling hooters.  Her formerly beautiful but pampered body had been sculpted into a precision running machine during her strenuous Ponygirl training.  Several months after she returned to Miami, she’d traveled to the Saudi Peninsula for the adventure of a lifetime; a Ponygirl race impossible to finish.  It was the grueling ‘Ocean of Fire’ [read E.C.S.O. – 11: A Race to End All Races], a thirty-five day race across more than a thousand miles of inhospitable burning desert, a certain path to death or slavery.  Somehow, she and her new husband had not only survived the impossible race, they won it and returned to the states with money and slaves.

Her cramped run toward a well-secured, locked room at the back of the clinic was graceless and reminded her of how the changes in her body had already made her into an unlikely Ponygirl.  It was almost 5:30 in the morning, and she didn’t dare be late.  She locked the door behind her and desperately began to strip off her clothes.  Her milk-swollen torpedoes were making her desperate; they were anything but the size B and then size C cup she’d had in her life before conversion to a Ponygirl.  The hormones had puffed them up into obscenely heavy, meaty Double Ds at the least.  The pressure made her glad she’d made it to her ‘milking room’.  Joan barely took the time to lock the door behind her as she hurried toward her ‘milking station’.

Joseph Loftus, her fiancé at the time, found out before the start of the Ocean of Fire race that Joan had placed contraceptive slivers in his new Ponygirls, thwarting his plan to breed them and to make milk mares out of them.  Ultimately, he realized that she had been correct in what she did; but nonetheless, he had to either punish Joan or take steps to ensure that she would follow even the orders she found distasteful.  The ‘milking station’ was the result.

Completely designed and built from scratch to capture, milk, and inoculate lactating Ponymares, the frame was a piece of art that could best be described in common terms as a hyper-modified bicycle frame linked to a computer workstation and high-speed internet access.  Three times a day, Joan straddled her milking station and kicked one bare foot into a self-locking stirrup.  Then she grabbed a tiny set of handlebars and raised her crotch high up over a floppy six-inch long dildo.  Desperate to get relief from the pressure in her breasts, Joan slammed her drooling cunt down a little too hard on the cock and grunted when her pubic area struck the tiny saddle extending an inch from the base of the cock on the sides and three inches forward and aft of the rubbery dildo.  A click heralded the locking of Joan’s other foot in a stirrup. 

The talented doctor then leaned forward and eased her aching boobs into a set of soothingly cool, clear breastforms, each with a deep recess for her elongated nipples.  She leaned down, bit her teeth into a hard rubber mouthpiece slightly protruding from a facemask, and stuck her hands down and forward to grasp a pair of handgrips.  Her teeth gripping the mouthpiece activated the mask that released four hinged sets of locking fingers to fly backward, gripping the back of her head to hold it tightly in the mask.  Simultaneously, her fingers triggered a set of locking wristcuffs.  Joan Miller was now mounted at her milking station until such time as the computer or her husband released her.

Joan sighed in relief as a vacuum started to build in the breastforms that could barely held her ballooned-out tits; the pull brought her nipples deeper into the center cutouts and into contact with the milking cylinders.  Even without her vision, Joan felt the suction bring her nipples from their now permanent one-inch stiffness to two-inch long cow-like udder tips.  The digital stills Joseph had e-mailed her were quite graphic in depicting the vacuum-induced growth.

Two vacuum pumps in the milking station worked in perfect offset synchronization to squeeze a breast outward into the breastform, to pull strongly on the nipple, release the breast and nipple, squeeze a breast, tug on the nipple, release …  The act of her milk letting down brought real sexual relief.  Relieved it was started, Joan’s cunt squeezed the dildo, her own pussy juiced up with each cunt squeeze.  Greedy for more, Joan brought her butt up a few inches and then slammed herself down on the pad that held the inflatable dildo.  The harder she slammed down on the base, the more the cock inflated; the faster she fucked herself, the longer the cock remained inflated from each pumping of air.  The cock was a cleverly designed pneumatic device with a unique feature that let the air inflating it slowly leak out, necessitating her continued fast pace of fucking to keep the cock fully turgid.

Blindfolded, face down in the mask, with soft music selected by her husband playing in her mask’s ear speakers, the Ponymare had no idea of her milking progress other than the increased respite from the pressure in her milk glands.  She sped up her fucking pace a little and moaned into her mouthpiece at the sensation, knowing that if she went fast enough and hard enough, the computer would reward her after analyzing the signals from the four micro-switches on the cock base.  Voice recognition software receiving her grunts and muffled voice sounds from her mouthpiece analyzed the input and rewarded her for appropriate moans and yelps of ecstasy.  The tugging on her boobs was now taking her milk smoothly, one side spurting, and then the other.  Joan moaned into her mouthpiece, she was enjoying the cock ride.  The fake dickmeat was fully engorged now and the feather-soft, warty extensions on the sides were extended, caressing her entire vaginal sheath as she raped herself up and down the ten-inch cock.

Joan’s music cut off with a click and she groaned aloud as the reality of her situation interrupted her self-sexing session.  “Hello, Milk Cow Nibbles!” a crude voice grated on her ears as it greeted her.  “I want you to hold yourself up on the tip of that big giant dick and wait for my signal.”

“So close,” she moaned to herself, “I was so close to cumming.”  Her only consolation was that the computer was on pause now that a paying customer had paid to directly interface with the slut getting milked.  Each time Joan mounted the milking station, a series of e-mails launched out at the speed of light to any customer that wanted to know when the huge-titted bitch was on her machine.  They already knew her ‘milking schedule’, it was surprising how popular she was.

“Hold it, Bitch!  No moving, … I got my finger on the punishment button if you move.”

Customers paid a mere two dollars a minute to watch a silent live feed of her acrobatic demonstrations on the combination fucking and milking machine.  For an additional two dollars a minute, they were able to move among the twenty or so video feeds available and even vie for control of the ones not in use.  Her most dedicated customers could also control certain other mechanical devices, for varying fees.  For fifty dollars a minute, customers could actually speak with her and control certain punishment devices.  Joan recognized the voice as belonging to a sadistic bastard that loved to taunt her while paddling her butt and zooming in on the action.  She cringed and howled into the rubber mouthpiece that held her teeth locked in place and wriggled her ass about to placate his lust as the paddle stung her ass.  Customers could also pay to pump different colored ‘insemination fluids’ (sex lubricant) out of the cock, creating a rainbow jism, resulting in the oddest colors frothing up at the base of the artificial cock.  This was her punishment for intentionally thwarting her husband’s plans.  Registered customers could also watch and listen to recorded sessions as part of the monthly subscriber fee, increasing the site’s popularity and increasing her humiliation.  The most popular download on Nibble’s the Dairy Cow website, the computer moving a full syringe to her ass for her daily injection of lactation hormones.  The favorite nicknames given to her love nest on the section of the site dedicated to viewer comments:  cock sock, cockpit, brakepads (her long, flapping pussy lips), cream canal, cum dumpster, the grandest canyon, packin’ shack, and the slurpee machine.  Nibbles was a popular little milk cow.

Joan’s bachelorette lifestyle in Miami, so far from her husband’s ranch in New Mexico, was centered around the three, one-hour sessions she spent on her milking station (5:00-6:00 AM, 11:00-12:00, and 5:00-6:00 PM).  Additionally, her house had a workout room with a running machine and video cams also hooked to the internet.  She had to run and walk two and a half hours a day.  Doctor Miller had a very busy schedule.  In order to make her early morning milking session, Joan had to let herself into her darkened clinic at 4:30 every morning.  At a conservative count, at six seconds for each dick-thrust, Joan fucked the ten-inch cock at least eighteen hundred times a day, meaning her body sucked in at least thirteen hundred and fifty feet of fat cock daily (assuming she only backed off nine inches of cockmeat on each outthrust, keeping her insatiable pussy centered on the final inch).  Shamefully, Joan found herself having more orgasms on her milker with each passing week.  Once, she orgasmed so hard just mounting herself, that she fell over and hung suspended by one ankle and the dick stuck up her twat.

- - - Across town at the original slave processing facility  - - - 

Helen watched her Master nod in satisfaction as he reviewed the files that she’d just handed him.  She found herself sighing contentedly as well.  “Is it so easy to slip back into the role of one of his Top Sluts after my freedom?” she mused wonderingly.  “But, … if he’s happy, … then for some reason, so am I.”  Helen Powell was one of three women that Aaron Clarke freed in his ‘catch and release’ program.  As planned, Helen and Regina Tyre each applied for a job at the F.B.I. Academy in Quantico, Virginia that could be shared with their ‘friend’ Karen Rigden).

Helen and Ingrid Gaviard were still awake after more than thirty intensive hours.  The file Helen had just handed to her Master was a synopsis of their tasks and the results of the long night’s work.  Refusing to think about her illegal night’s work right now, she instead dwelt on her two friends back at the F.B.I. Academy.  “I sure have had a busy week,” she thought.  “By now, Karen should be getting settled in my job back in Quantico.”  Helen remembered ‘reporting for duty’ in Miami after her six-month stint at the F.B.I. training headquarters concluded.  She and Karen Rigden, an ex-undercover agent from Customs Immigration and Enforcement had a joyous, though brief, reunion before Karen was whisked off to Virginia.  “At least, after this, I’ll always be free for a year at a time,” she told herself.

Helen, the eldest of the three federal agents in the slaver’s ‘catch and release’ program knelt respectfully beside the overstuffed chair her Master sat upon in one of the warehouse bedrooms.  Her black hair had grown out in the last six months and cascaded down her bare back, almost to the delicious crack of her ass.  The 5’6” twenty-seven-year-old’s ass and pussy still tingled from her first anal, and vaginal, sex in months.  “In fact,” she told herself, “this was my first sex since I got out of the hospital after Regina and I ‘escaped’ from the drug dealers.  He knows I like it in the ass, … I sure squealed like a little piglet last night when he fucked me.”

Helen took a quick look at the blonde bimbo still spread-eagled on the bed.  She was awake and squirming, whether from the vibrating dildos still humming away at her secretion-streaked crotch, or from the need to pee, … Helen didn’t care if her Master didn’t.  She ignored the slut and remembered how she’d first seen the new captive.  She’d been directed to meet her Master at the warehouse entrance.  The sight of the nearly naked blonde tightly secured in the passenger seat of the little Mercedes had given her some pause.  “I never get used to the sight of fresh, new meat,” she thought before mentally correcting herself, “I never get used to the sight of the women he captures.”  She appreciated the calm way her Master explained that the woman, Harriet Lynch, was a trophy wife who was perfectly willing to cheat on her husband and that she’d intended to have a girlfriend seduce her unsuspecting hubby in order to get a divorce and a cheat him out of a huge settlement.  “Somehow,” she told herself, “the fact that she is a cheating whore made my job of processing her much more palatable.  Of course, …” she reminded herself, “I’d even process myself if He commanded it.”  Helen shivered in remembrance of her own brutal introduction to slavery.  “Not me!  I am always an obedient little slut!”

Helen had assisted the blindfolded, bound, and softly whimpering blonde out of the Mercedes and through the warehouse.  A strong stench of lust and sex surrounded the just-fucked woman who’d thrown herself into the hands of a slaver.  She’d mocked the woman about her musky perfume and than about her clothing rucked about her waist.  “Just part of the job,” she told herself,” as the woman’s clear humiliation at being naked and handled by a woman showed in her red face and flushed breasts.  Helen had forced the woman to her knees while she prepared her bed for the night; it was actually a king-sized bed in a classroom.  The upper sheet and comforter were carefully folded down at the foot of the bed and a body-sized pillow was set in the middle of the bed.  The blonde was bound atop the pillow, her limbs pulled tightly out from her body with fur-lined leather cuffs at ankles and wrists.  The nice, plump C cups of the blonde protruded straight up into the air. 

“Bitch!  You’re not a natural blonde!  I don’t think Master is gonna like that.” she’d hissed to the housewife mounted on the slaver’s bed.  “I recommend that you act the very obedient slut if you don’t want to draw his punishment.”  Helen had to hurry to stay on schedule and the unruly mess at the woman’s cunt was an additional chore to take care of.  She plopped a warmed washcloth down on the puffy cunt mound and caressed the woman’s stomach while she waited for the pubic hairs to soften from the moist heat.  Helen made sure to digitally capture every step of the indignation Harriet Lynch was being subjected to.

Harriet had been in mental turmoil.  She’d turned herself over to her powerful lover in the elevator at her nice, safe condominium and now she was somewhere not familiar, … not secure, … in fact she was terrified.  It was one thing to be wrist-tied while an exciting, anonymous lover took her roughly; it was another to have no control at all over her destiny beyond knowing that she was going to experience a lot of sex and some significant humiliation.  The hot cloth on her loins proved that.  “I’m going to be shaved, like a little girl,” she complained to herself.  Secretly, the thought of having the bare slit of a young teen while having sex was a delicious one.  Her pussy was just starting to pulsate with rising lust when one edge of the cloth was removed.  A feather light touch of a soft hand pulled her skin tight and then a razor slipped smoothly across.  The hair of her pubic mound disappeared in just a few swipes and the rough cotton of the cloth rubbed away the foam and hair.  Her back had arched up in need when her labia were pulled this way and that to give the razor access to the last hair below her neck.  The woman shaving her did not hesitate to pull on her inner lips and the hood over her clit while the shaving was going on.  “Oh, what a slut, you are Harriet,” she’d acknowledged to herself.

As if her unseen, and completely unknown, handler had heard her admission, a hot breath and sexy voice had whispered in her ear, “You are a hot little firecracker, Harriet.  That little cock cave you have down there is going to see quite a bit of action over the next few weeks.”  “A few weeks!” had been her horrified thought.  “I didn’t mean for this to go on for weeks.”  Her thoughts were interrupted when the woman began to smooth some sort of soothing lotion over the just-shaved area.  The fingers left and then returned, this time coating her inner pussy lips with something slick and fruity smelling.  “Ekk,” had been her only brainless response when the fingers delved down below her puss and spread the slippery stuff on her butt.  “I’m not sure that I can take it back there again,” she worried.  “Once was fine, … but, … now I’m pretty sore down there.”

She remembered how she’d stewed in anticipation of sexual depravity and then been shocked when the fingers returned and wormed something up her butt hole.  “Oh, shit, a dildo.  Please, God!  Make it a small one!”  Harriet had several ‘pocket rockets’ at home and she was an expert at getting her own little treasured clitty to tingle and give her a cum.  “Never in my ass,” she thought.  Before she’d accepted the fact that a fake cock was up her backside, something much larger began to nudge about her sex.  Way bigger than her own slender vibrators, this one nonetheless seemed to slip inside her with little effort.  Something else pinched across her clit and didn’t let go.  Puzzled, she had no idea what the third thing was.  Any question she might have had about whether the sex toys were motorized was answered when first the one in her butt vibrated to life, followed by the log in her pussy, and lastly, … oh how she moaned like a true slut in heat when the last one turned on, … the butterfly vibrator on her clit.  After her preparation, Harriet was left alone for a long time, hours in fact; alone with the buzzing toys arousing her to climax after climax.  “Never-ending,” had been a simple mantra that she spoke each time the vibrations woke her to more arousal after each almost painful orgasm.  “Then,” Harriet told herself, “that woman had turned on the dungeon sounds.”  The low sounds of female moans, yelps, and screams along with the much harsher sounds of leather swooshing around the air and whacking against soft flesh.  Even though she knew it was a fake recording, Harriet’s sexual heat increased notably with the implied promise of her joining the wretched slaves making the noise.

Helen still had work to do that night after the initial preparation of the blonde slut.  She approached the passenger side of the van and paid her respects to the older, dark-haired woman already there, “Mistress, this slut is happy to be back working with you.”  She was still very much in awe of the woman that had so efficiently ‘processed’ her after her abduction from a stakeout at a drug dealers that had gone very wrong.  Respects paid, she crept to the back of the van and made sure that the proper gear was in place.  The vehicle lurched out of the warehouse and headed toward its destination.  Everything was in order.  The Mistress and her sweet little F.B.I. slut had work to do.

Ingrid Gaviard waited until her assistant, and submissive, crawled to her place at the back of the van before starting the engine and opening the warehouse door.  She tentatively checked her black combat clothing and shuddered at the weapons in her thigh pockets.  Ingrid was an expert shot with both the nine-millimeter automatic and the taser.  She checked the directions that her Master had given her and she pulled out into the humid Miami night.

--- To Be Continued ---

Author: Desert Dog  ******  E-Mail: Desertlickingdog at yahoo dot com

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