SEX SLAVE FOR HIRE

                           Chapter 1

                    My first Day on the Job

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

     "You want me to be a call girl."

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

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

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

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

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

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

click in my mind.

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

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

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

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

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

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

those hills somewhere, back behind Stanford University.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

need advice about?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

employer any more.  What have you tried?"

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

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

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

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

it?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

work for you."

     "I thought maybe you need a personal assistant."

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

     "You're not married, are you?"

     "No.  Divorced, years ago."

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

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

     "No."

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

     "NO!"

     "Then I'm applying for the job."

     "I don't understand."

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

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

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

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

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

     "No," he said, "do you?"

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

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

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

snow."

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

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

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

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

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

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

so I'm a natural-born American citizen.

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

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

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

things."

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

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

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

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

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

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

cleavage.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

restaurants, mostly.  Do you cook?"

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

willing."

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

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

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

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

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

without hesitation or complaint."

     "What about weekends?"

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

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

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

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

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

speak of.  "So far, that sounds OK."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

     "I'm adaptable," I replied.

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

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

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

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

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

that sort of treatment?" he asked.

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

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

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

me."

     "And maternity benefits?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

or disobeyed your orders?"

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

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

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

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

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

right?"

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

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

name on it.  No lawyers!"

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

need know about us."

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

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

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

     "Now?"

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

orders.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

     "No, Master."

     "But you masturbate, play with yourself."

     "Yes, sometimes, Master."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

cool for you?"

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

have some juice?"

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

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

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

antifreeze in it.  Tomato juice agreeable with you?"

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

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

you try to sub-let them."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

door open."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

vulva.  I thought I was going to faint.

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

said.

     "Thank you, Master," I replied.

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

of the bed.  "Fellate me," he said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

     The best was yet to come.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

being prepared.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

     "Master?  I don't understand."

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

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

place.

     "One," I said.  "That hurts."

     "How many?"

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

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

     "Yes, Master."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I was moaning, "Master...Master,

please.. Fuck me!  Fuck me!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

distraction.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

then I must have fallen asleep.

                           Chapter 2

                      Saturday and Sunday

     I woke up in my beautiful room with the sun already high, the sunlight flooding through

the curtains.  I felt really good, and lucky to be living in luxury, when only yesterday I was

wondering where my next meal was coming from.  After a while, just enjoying my nice bed, I

got up and took a quick shower.

     The bathroom was almost as fancy as my master's.  It even had the padded toilet seat.  I

dried myself and realized I had nothing to wear, nothing at all.  So that's what I wore, nothing.

After Friday night, there wasn't a bit of me my master hadn't seen and touched, so what was the

point of covering myself?  I walked, stark naked, to the living room, picked up my purse and

clothes from the floor, where I had dropped them.  I got my copy of the contract and took

everything back to my room.

     I was hanging up my skirt in the big, empty, walk-in closet when my master walked into

my room, casually dressed in slacks and a polo shirt.  Before I  could turn around, he gripped my

right buttock with one strong hand and kissed me on the neck, while his left hand cupped my left

breast.  Having asserted his ownership of my body, he released me and asked if I was hungry.

     "Yes, Master, I guess I am," I said.  He motioned me to follow, and I padded after him,

barefoot, bare all over, into the kitchen.  "I'll fix breakfast," he said.  "I wouldn't ask you to fry

bacon in the nude; that's very dangerous.  Really, I like to cook, so just sit there.  Orange juice?"

     He served me a traditional bacon and egg breakfast, and we sat there like any married

couple, except that I was stark naked.  When we had finished, I started to get up and said, "I'll

wash the dishes."

     "OK," he said, but then he kept teasing me while I worked.  When my hands were full of

plates, he smeared strawberry jam on my breast and then licked it off.  When I reached under the

sink, put his hand between my legs, from behind, and grabbed my pubic hair, so I couldn't

straighten up and nearly banged my head.  As I was stacking clean plates in a cupboard, he

snapped a towel at my ass, and I dropped them.  He just laughed.

     "Master," I said, as I squatted to pick up the pieces, keeping a wary eye on him, "how can

I do my work when you keep hindering me?"

     "Don't worry, Slave," he said with a chuckle, "the novelty will wear off soon, and you'll

be begging me to pay more attention to you."   When the kitchen was tidy, I went to make his

bed, the scene of my adventures the night before, and I made my own and generally straightened

things up.  Strangely, doing housework in the nude didn't bother me at all, and my master, while

he watched, didn't get in the way.  Before noon, everything was tidy, and I presented myself to

him for instructions.

     "Put on your skirt and blouse and shoes.  We're going shopping.  No underwear," he said.

     "Please, Master," I said, "I don't mind you looking at my body, but I don't want to be out

in public with my tits showing.  May I wear my bra, too?"

     "You weren't wearing one when you came here last night."

     "Well, I have job now.  I don't need to show off my tits to everyone, do I?"

     My master laughed.  "Yes, Slave, you can wear your bra, today.  We don't want to push

your training too fast."

     He put on a suit and tie and we went shopping.  While I gathered up my things from my

room and stowed them in the trunk of his car, my master paid my rent and talked with my

landlady about forwarding mail and such.  As we left, she wished me luck in my new job and

told me not to let the little monsters bully their new nanny.  I smiled at my master, imagining the

lies he must have told her.

     At a mall, we stopped at Frederick's of Holly wood and bought all sorts of sexy stuff that

I would never have thought of wearing, certainly not in public.  Things like a harem girl

costume, and crotchless panties, push-up bras, see-thru teddies, stuff like that.  We visited

several department stores and boutiques, bought half a dozen dressy outfits and some casual

wear, tee shirts, shorts, jeans.  I got shoes to go with the outfits, and other shoes for walking or

sports.  We even bought three wigs, so I could have long hair any time he wanted.  You'd have

thought he was planning on a European tour together, not keeping me imprisoned at the ranch.

He left me window shopping, looking to see if there was anything more I would like, while he

did some shopping of his own.  Hours later, he found me sitting on a bench, near an indoor

fountain, reading a magazine.  "Did you find anything more you would like?" he asked.

     "No, Master," I said, after making sure we wouldn't be overheard.  "You have bought me

more than I can imagine needing, more than I'd ever dreamed of having."

     "OK," he said, "are you ready for dinner?"

     "Sure, if you like, Master."

     We had taken our purchases out to the car, so we went out into the parking lot and

Master selected my wardrobe for the evening.  Then he sent me into the ladies room to change.  I

came out changed all right, a totally different woman.

     For one thing, I wore make-up for the first time in years, eye shadow, false eyelashes,

blush, glossy lipstick, the works, including a perfume with a woodsy, but sexy, scent which my

master said he especially liked.  He had selected a long, black wig.  I wore a sleeveless black

cocktail dress that showed a lot of cleavage and fit as snugly as a "slimmer long-line bra."  The

skirt was short, and flared, and since I wore no underwear at all, except a garter belt and

stockings, from Frederick's, I felt very naughty, with the cool evening air wafting up my skirt

around my naked thighs and crotch.  The shoes had high heels so high I could barely walk.  

     When I got in the car, my master pulled the skirt up behind me, so that my bare buttocks

were against the cool leather of the seat.  With his finger tips, he lightly stroked the inside of my

thigh, just above the stocking tops, before he started the car.  I couldn't help feeling sexy.

     We went to a seafood restaurant down by the bay, Redwood City or some place near, and

I felt proud to be going in on his arm.  I'd never been to place that expensive.  When the waiter

seated us, I was careful to pull my skirt down and keep my knees together.  I realized that anyone

who happened to look up my skirt would see no panties, just a thatch of black pubic hair.

     My master ordered wine for himself, a double marguerita for me, even though I was

technically under-age and didn't drink.  The alcohol went to my head, and I didn't even mind

when, at one point, Hank dropped something and got down on the floor to look for it under the

table.  I felt his hand pushing my knees apart, and I realized he was looking right at my private

place.  Then he got back in his seat and finished eating.  It was a real turn-on.

     Back at the ranch, it was still like being on a date.  Master lit a fire -- a gas log, because

of the clean air regulations -- and fixed more drinks.  Then we cuddled on the couch, watching

the flames, until he slipped his hand down my front and cupped one breast.  I reciprocated by

placing my hand on his fly.  We just sat there, quietly, holding each other.  I thought to myself

how lucky I was.

     If I had met Hank someplace else, been introduced by a friend or something like that, I

would have thought him attractive.  Though he was twice my age, he was trim and athletic.  He

had money and power.  There must be something inborn in females to be attracted to the

strongest males, in humans as it is in horses and seals and so many other species.  The fact that I

was being paid to be his slave, to call him Master, didn't turn off his attractiveness.  Maybe it

enhanced it.

     I was pleased when he peeled my dress off me.  I kicked my shoes off and was thrilled as

he rolled my stockings down and removed the sexy little garter belt, leaving me wearing nothing

but perfume and the long wig.  "Stand there and let me look at you," he said.  I swished the

cascade of hair, long enough to sit on, so that it fell over my right breast, ornamenting my

nakedness.  I remembered something about Lady Godiva.

     I watched him get undressed; I was turned on by the rippling of his muscles.  Then he sat

down in the middle of the sofa and invited me to sit on his knees, facing him.

     I did, and then I pulled myself toward him, until I was sitting with our curly pubic hairs

intermingled and my breasts pressed against his hairy chest.  His arms went around me to hug

me to him, and I rested my head on his shoulder, saying, "Mmmmm, I like that, Master."

     For a long time, we hugged each other.  Then Hank arranged me on my back.  My lower

body rested on the sofa, with my head and shoulders on his lap.  I could easily have turned my

head and suckied his cock, but he was not in any hurry.  He caressed my breasts and reached out

to take hold of my right foot.  He pulled it toward him, making me lift my knee, and spent some

time fondling my foot, stroking it, playing with my toes.  I lay with my head back, my eyes

closed, a smile playing on my lips.

     I was surprised when my master forced my heel into my crotch.  My knee was limber

enough that it didn't hurt and, as his strong hand pressed my heel into my soft vulva, I felt that

thrill of sexual arousal.  Being toyed with was pleasant, sensual, but this was sexy, and I could

feel my own juices wetting my foot as my master forced me to rub myself.  His other hand

kneaded my breasts, more vigorously than before, and I found myself slipping into that euphoric

state that accompanies intense sexual arousal.  I felt my master's hardened member pressing

against my back.  "Master," I said softly, "aren't you going to put it in me?"

     Wordlessly, my master lifted me and sat me astride his legs, except that this time I was

impaled upon his prod.  He hugged me to him, mashing my breasts against his chest, and I put

my arms around him, too.  He said, "Squeeze."  I hugged him tighter.

     "No, let me breathe," he said.  "Squeeze with your vaginal muscles."

     I tried, but he seemed dissatisfied.  "You need some training, Slave," he said, "but not

tonight."  We sat like that, quietly.  I could feel him within me, and his strong arms around me,

and I felt content, confident that he would fuck me until I went crazy, when he felt like it.  I let

myself fantasize that we were married, and I realized that whether or not we were actually

married probably wouldn't make much difference.  Either way, slave or wife, I was going to feel

his manliness inside me.  From time to time, I would wriggle a bit, perhaps bounce up and down,

enough to keep him stiff and to enhance my own sense of being filled with his meat.

     The clock struck twelve, and before the last bong, my master lifted me off his still erect

prong.  "That was nice," I said, "but you didn't finish the job."

     "Tomorrow."

     "I won't charge overtime, Master," I joked.

     "No, of course not," he said, distractedly.  "Well, it will give you something to look

forward to."

     "Please, Master," I pleaded.  "You shame me.  You make me feel inadequate.  I want you

to feel you are getting your money's worth."  He looked at me strangely, but didn't say anything.

I struggled to again get on his lap, kneeling with my knees either side of his hips.  With some

effort I was able to impale myself on his pole, and when I succeeded I bobbed up and down on it

desperately.  I could hear slurping sounds as the piston of his penis pumped air in and out of my

dripping tunnel.  I began to move my ass in circles, so that the friction was increased, and I could

feel his pole stretching the wall of my vagina.  He just lay back, semi-supine on the couch, while

I rode his pole, desperate to get off, yearning for the sort of orgasm only my master had ever

been able to give me.

     If he had come first, I could have lived with that.  At least it would confirm that he found

me attractive, sexy.  But he did not ejaculate into me.  His penis stayed hard and straight, as I

bobbed on it until my thighs quivered from the unusual effort.  He wouldn't, and I couldn't.  At

last I stopped and fell against his chest, feeling his chest hairs tickling my sweaty breasts.  I felt

defeated, a failure as a woman.

     "You need some training," he said softly.  "Not to worry."  He slid a finger between us

and skillfully found my love button.  He rocked his hips, stirring me with his rod, as my clitoris

sizzled with sensation and he fingered me to an beautiful orgasm.  I threw my head back and

screamed with joy, glowing, gasping, with the ecstasy of it.  My cunt gripped his shaft, and

seconds later I felt him gushing into me.  I collapsed into his arms and savored the little

aftershocks, as my body quivered and my breathing slowed toward normal.  Once or twice, he

teased me with his finger tip on my clitoris, until at last his soft, semen coated organ slipped out

of me.

     "Thank you," I breathed.

     "Get along to bed, now," he said, pushing me off him.  "I've stayed up too late.

Remember, Slave, in future, if you don't improve, I'm going to leave you frustrated, until you

do."  He picked up his clothes and walked to his room, his limp penis glistening with the mixture

of our juices.  I turned off the fire and the lights, picked up my own clothes, and went to my bed.

I should have showered, but I just pulled off my wig, collapsed into bed, and fell asleep.

     I don't often dream, or perhaps I don't remember my dreams, but that night I had a

particularly memorable series of nightmares.  In one, he told me I was useless as a slave and sent

me melodramatically out into the night, naked and ashamed.  In another, I was lusting for him,

but he showed me that his penis had shrunken to a little nub, and he said it was my fault and I'd

get no more orgasms from him.  I kept waking, anxious, only to dream again.

     When I awoke Sunday morning, I showered, dried myself, and put on perfume but no

cosmetics.  I chose a sexy pink satin teddy, from Frederick's, and wore it as I walked, barefoot, in

search of my master.  I found him in the kitchen, eating some toast.

     "I will cook breakfast for you, Master," I said.

     He kissed me tenderly and fingered my crotch through the

satin.  "No, thank you, Slave," he said, releasing me.  "Do you have anything you need to do

today?  Church or anything?"

     "No, I haven't attended mass in years.  I'm at your disposal, Master."  His fleeting grope at

my sex had reminded me of "tomorrow," and I hoped that he would begin my training soon.

     "I'm going out, to do some shopping.  Anything you want me to get?"

     "I need nothing, Master," I replied.  "choose what you want to eat, and I'll cook it."

     "You can have a day off, if you want it," he said. "Or would you rather spend it in

training?"

     My spirits soared at the idea of spending the day learning to be sexy, and I remembered

my anxious dreams of failure.  "Master," I said, "I am most anxious to please you, and I will do

anything you suggest."

     "Very well, Slave, come with me."  He led me to the library and took out two videos.

"You will eat, and get out of that ridiculous garment.  Get used to being naked.  Then you will

view these two videos.  This one is instruction in belly dancing.  You have six days to become

proficient.  This," he said, waving the other, "is an instructional tape on the use of the various

machines in the gym.  Don't do anything to hurt yourself.  Don't try any gymnastics.  I want you

to work on your pecs and abs and buns, to begin with.  Too much lazing around the house and

you'll go all flabby.  And when you are too tired to work out any longer, read this book."  He

grabbed a book, seemingly at random, and handed to me.  It was a textbook on Cultural

Geography.  "It's time you improved your mind, too."

     "Master," I replied, "I will do anything to prevent your being disappointed with me.  Shall

I cook dinner?"

     He smiled briefly. "I'll get take-out from a restaurant and bring it back, OK?"

     "Of course, Master."

     Hank drove away.  Right away, I took off the teddy and walked naked to the kitchen,

where I had a bowl of cereal.  I watched the two videos, then went to the gym and worked out on

the machines for an hour or so, discovering muscles I didn't know I had.  I stripped the beds,

washed the sheets, made the beds again, vacuumed, dusted, whatever, until there seemed to be

no more work to do.  Then I showered, put on fresh perfume, and added the wig, figuring he

liked women with long hair.  I even got the first chapter of the book read before I heard him

coming up the crunchy gravel drive.  As he entered, I was standing at attention in the entry.

     Wordlessly, he gave me a kiss on the cheek, while he fondled my breast with one hand

and felt my ass with the other.  That was enough to get me breathing heavily.  I would have

loved to have him fuck me right then.  But he didn't. 

     He moved the car to the side of the house and unloaded his purchases directly into the

forbidden workshop.

     About six o'clock he came into the kitchen with a bag of plastic containers.  "I'll just heat

these in the microwave, and we can eat," he said.

     The dinner was from a good French restaurant, and while it wasn't the same as having it

served by a waiter in a tail coat, it was quite good, better than I was used to.  "Are you trying to

fatten me up?" I asked, smiling, trying to make a joke of it.

     "Fear not," he said, solemnly, "I won't let you get too fat.  I own that body, and I'll make

sure it stays in good trim."

I took a minute to tidy up the kitchen, throw away the plastic containers, while Hank sipped

some white wine. "Is there anything else I can do for you, Master?" I asked, striking a pose in

front of him.  I was hoping he would make love to me.

     Maybe it was the word, Master, but a change came over him.  He stood up and ordered,

"Slave, stand at attention until I get back."  He came back with some cuffs.  "Slave," he said,

"whenever you are in my presence, or on duty, unless I say otherwise, you will wear these."  He

watched while I buckled them on my wrists and ankles.  They were leather, and they were lined

with padding and some sort of synthetic fur, so they weren't uncomfortable, even though they fit

snugly.  A steel snap hook was sewn into each one.  It felt strange, but I didn't mind them.  I

thought of them like big wedding rings, or perhaps the way a faithful dog feels about its collar.

Then he placed a blindfold on me, a sort of mask with no eye holes.  He pulled my arms behind

me and snapped wrist cuffs together.  "Come," he said.

     My master, playing the role of Master, not lover, led me to the gymnasium.  I felt and

heard him releasing my wrists, then snapping something else into the self-closing hooks of my

cuffs.  I stood waiting, wondering what would happen next, but not afraid.  I was confident my

master wouldn't hurt me.

     I felt ropes attached to my wrist cuffs pulling my arms up and apart, until I stood, arms

raised and spread like an Indian praying to the sun.  Then my ankles were pulled apart, until I

was stretched in an X, spreadeagled, with half my weight supported by my arms, the rest by my

toes.  There was a thrill of excitement, but no real fear.

     It seemed as if a long time passed without anything happening.  Some sensuous

orchestral music came on.  My calf muscles began to ache, supporting half my weight on tip toe,

but the discomfort seemed to focus my attention on the passage of time.  Then I felt, but of

course I could not see, my master's hands roaming over my body.  He cupped my breasts, played

with the nipples, which instantly swelled erect.  He ran his hands over my ribs, across my taut

abdomen, along the curve of my hips.  He stroked my lower cheeks, and slipped his hand

between my widespread legs from behind, fingering my curly hairs.  "You are damp," he

observed.

     "Yes, Master," I replied, "you turn me on."

     "But you seem to be uncomfortable.  It must be a strain to stand tip-toe."  He loosened

the ropes to my wrists, so I could stand flat footed, but my arms were still pulled straight.

     "Thank-you, Master."

     He didn't speak, but I felt his hands on my right forearm, just below the cuff.  He

annointed me with something oily and perfumed, and he began to rub it in with long, sensuous

strokes of his strong fingers, kneading my muscles as he did so.  Then he oiled my left arm, and

softly stroked the unguent on my neck and shoulders.  It was, I thought, the sort of treatment rich

women pay for at a beauty salon, and here I was getting paid to enjoy such treatment.  The wig

got in the way, so he pulled it off.

     Hank's hands smoothed the emollient over my back, stroking, rubbing, kneading my skin

in a sensuous massage.  He came to my round, firm buttocks and spent what seemed like a long

time oiling them, stroking them, working the flesh between his fingers.  I almost purred,

entranced by the sensuous massage, something I had never experienced before.  It occurred to

me that no had ever spent so much time trying to please me, loving me, before I became Hank's

slave, and I realized that I was very happy.  I wondered when he would reach between my

buttocks and stroke the place where I was getting wet and warm.

     My master, however, had his own agenda.  He smoothed the sybaritic lotion down the

tapered sleekness of my thighs, avoiding the place between them.  My spread legs were

extended, and he did not knead the muscles, lest he hurt me.  His hands rubbed balm into my

knees, and the feel of his fingers behind my knees seemed especially exciting to me.  Down my

calves his strong hands went, embracing my tapering limbs with strong, slippery fingers.  He

stopped at the cuffs.

     I felt his hands on my collar bone, as he again anointed my shoulders.  His hands

slithered downward, rib by rib, and my nipples hardened in anticipation.  I actually sighed as his

hands enclosed my breasts, and then his fingers worked the lubricant into my soft mounds until

they slipped easily beneath his fingers.  My nipples seemed to get trapped between his oily

fingers as his hands enclosed my breasts and pushed them this way and that, reminding me how

nice it was to have boobs, something we could both enjoy.

     I almost regretted it when my master moved downward once again, leaving my

stimulated breasts yearning for more.  But the thrills of feeling him oiling my flanks made up for

the deprivation.  His fingers seemed to count my ribs, and his palms slithered over the

convexities of my hip bones.  Strong hands rubbed my stomach, circling from just below my

breasts to just above my pubic bone, circling my navel, then playing with it, then circling again.

My master did not stop until every bit of skin between my wrist cuffs and my ankle cuffs had

been rubbed with sweet smelling, slippery oil, all except the part which counted most, where my

curly hairs adorned me.  My body was screaming to be fucked, but of course I was absolutely

helpless.  He could do anything he wanted with me, and I couldn't move an inch.

     Blindfolded, I could sense his hand, hovering near my sex spot.  I heaved myself onto my

toes, thrusting my pelvis forward, and just succeeded in touching his hand with the tips of my

pubic hairs.  He quickly snatched his hand away.  "Slave," he said, "can you see me?"

     "No, Master," I replied, "but my body yearns for your touch.  It has a mind of its own and

could sense your nearness."

     "As you wish.  Ask and you shall receive, perhaps more than you expected."  I felt a gush

of oil pouring down my belly and running in rivulets through my curly hairs.  It seeped between

my labia and began to drip from the lowermost parts of my vulva.  My master's hands massaged

the oil into my bush and rubbed it into all the creases of my skin, not forgetting the wrinkles

around my anus.  It was driving me crazy with desire.

     Then, I felt him put a belt around my waist.

     I was entirely helpless; my body was his to do with as he pleased, and it seemed he had

some new "torture" in mind for his slave.  He pressed something cold, smooth, and hard into the

groove between my slippery lower lips.  He did not push it into me; rather it lay, like the ice

cream of a banana split, embraced by my outer lips, nestled in the warm valley of my sopping

wet sex.  In seconds, my heat warmed it.  Next, I felt my master leading straps from the thing,

one up between my buttocks, to be hooked onto the belt, the other up over my oily belly, to

attach to the belt in front.  My master tightened the straps, and I realized they were elastic.

When he pulled on the object between my legs, it snapped back into place, snuggled between the

hot, loose lips of my hungry vulva.

     It was a vibrator.  When he turned it on, it sent shivers all through my lower body.  At

first it was an almost annoying tickle, but it soon became an inescapable stimulus to my labia

and clitoris.  The whole length of my sensitive slit was stimulated, and the pressure on my

clitoris, my love button, was insistent, inescapable, sending shivers of sensation like electric

shocks radiating from my sexy focal point, spreading through my abdomen.  I could feel my

body running away with the sensations, whatever my brain might think.  I started gasping, crying

out, and I writhed, straining at my restraints, the incessant stimulation driving me to distraction.

At last, as I breathed hard and struggled against my restraints, I had an explosive climax, and

then another and another.  Finally, my master turned it off, and I hung from my suspended arms,

my knees weak and rubbery.

     When my breathing had abated toward normal, and I had the strength to stand once more

on my feet, my master, without a word, turned on the machine again.  Instantly my membranes,

pressed tightly by the smooth device, vibrated with it, transmitting strong signals of intense

stimulation.  "OH, ahh!" I cried, "You are going to ruin me.  Ohhh..."

     I writhed and strained at my ropes, thrusting my pelvis as if to shake off the vibrator.

Held tightly by its rubber straps, it only pressed more, until, as if in agony, I shook with

successive waves of ecstatic passion.  My womb leaped in my belly.  My vaginal walls spasmed,

trying to grip the phantom penis which wasn't there.  Sweat gleamed on my breasts, and I

blushed as my heart pounded and I gasped, as if running for my life.

     My master took pity, removed the vibrator and released me from my suspension, holding

me from behind with one strong arm around my body, below my breasts.  Before I knew what

was happening, he pushed me forward over some sort of padded table or bench and entered my

gaping, wet love tunnel from behind.  Weak from my multiple orgasms, I lay there, passively,

while my master pumped his meat in and out.  Despite my exhaustion, my body responded and I

found myself once more reaching that plateau of arousal, of exquisite sensitivity, when the

friction of his prod within me was like electric shocks, and I came, moaning, helpless to prevent

it.

     I realized he must have come at the same time, when his soft penis slid from my wet,

semen-sticky vagina.  "That was fun," I said, panting, "I like my new job.  But I didn't know it

would be so strenuous."

     He carried me to my room, and I fell asleep almost as soon as he placed me on my bed.