As She's Told (56 page)

I'm not at all claustrophobic, quite the contrary. More of a claustrophiliac, if there is such a thing. I knew my master wasn't far away; that this discomfort would end eventually, that I was safe. I knew I deserved to be punished. I'd endure it all right. When you have no choice, endurance is what you do. And I've never been scared of the dark.

But I'd rather have been caned than left alone this way. Being stored away in the narrow trailer wardrobe had been a miracle of human warmth compared to incarceration in this cold hard dungeon. Only a very bad girl deserved a punishment like this. Tears slid and tickled along the metal bands beneath my eyes.

Bridles and close confinement were the stuff of my daily life; they kept me secure, like a bauble safe in its fitted case. You'd think I would have been happy that my master had upped the ante. But just as the cane took me well beyond the point of pleasure into real punishment, so did this. I swallowed with difficulty, and whimpered. Recollection of my master's words, tinged with the dreaded accent, added weight to the steel round my sinking head: 'Deceit.' 'Lies.' I felt awful. He wasn't pleased. Oh, god. I must tell him everything in future. Like it or not, no excuses.

Why hadn't I told him? Had I really just been avoiding punishment?

That absolutely was not allowed. I hadn't wanted to be the one to raise my discomfort with women. But why? For fear he'd feel obligated to change his plans? I knew him better by this time, surely.

In fact, the discussion with him had been a relief. There would be no accommodation to my preferences; that was a given. I could trust my master by now not to bend to any whim of mine. His expectations remained perfectly clear: absolute obedience, no matter what sturm und drang was going on inside my skull. But at least my reactions were on the table. If a 352

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female guest got off on reluctance and a bit of distress, she was in luck. If not, she could find her pleasure elsewhere. I rather think Val had liked it. Ria I was sure didn't care one way or the other. My hidden resistance was out now, and the fact that my master had been accepting took the wind out of my sullen, bratty little sails. Reaction was setting in. What kind of excuse for a slave was I, anyway? Some born slave I was, all turned on by being shared out and used without consent – as long as the users were male. As long as my preferences were honoured. Awful. I broke into a sweat just thinking about it. Who the hell did I think I was?

And yet – and yet the thought of those women's hands still turned me cold.

What had Nikki been angry about? I'd have to call her. Anders' ideas had been insightful, but my guess was that she had simply given up on me, at least for the moment. Despite all her warnings, I had given over all control and now was paying the price. She was fed up. There had been a 'fine, you made your bed now go lie in it' tone in that flat voice.

Would she even want to talk to me? She'd imagined she was talking to a human being, after all, or at least she'd tried to maintain that pretense, as had I for her benefit. But maybe now she was beginning to see what I really was.

Still a person, of a kind. But not a human one. The animal rights people talk about animals as non-human persons. I was a slave person. The usual assumptions associated with homosapiens didn't apply.

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My punishment felt days long: a minute for every one of the ten thousand nerve endings in my tongue. But I was out and forgiven, relieved of weights both outward and inward, by the time they all came back.

They towered, tall and self-assured, and sat down to a talkative and convivial dinner. The conversation was mostly in Danish, with random English sentences thrown in. I couldn't follow these odd scraps, which were mostly about people I didn't know. Karl and Ria's English originated in the U.K. rather than America by the vowel sounds: half Copenhagen, half BBC.

Karl seemed to have the more extensive vocabulary, but Ria had the English word order down, which he didn't, quite.

The occasional glance my way was ominous; something told me it was going to be a long night. Apprehension in my belly crowded out all appetite as I knelt over my bowl, dutifully forcing the food down.

Coffee finished, they got up, chatted some more, went out. Drawer and cupboard sounds that I knew well. Before I knew it I was teetering spreadeagled beneath the track light beam, balancing on my toes up on the coffee table, ankles parted by a spreader bar. Heart thumping, I watched as they sorted through and discussed Anders' collection of striking implements.

Then they blindfolded me and tried things out one by one, making me name each one, giving me additional samples to go by until I got it right. Along the way they paused to confer on the results both visual and aural, now speaking a mixture of Danish and English.

"What a lot of ways to put marks on a beautiful butt," Svend commented. "I'm starting to see why you need a house. Somewhere to put it all. Can I try?"

Half a blow ensued, and some mild cursing in Danish. Svend complained that the chastity belt caught too much of the impact.

"Aim better," said his brother unsympathetically. "You're up too high."

Leather strands lashed hard, right across the lower curve of my ass and a dozen previous stripes, and a small scream escaped me.

"That's better."

Ria's smooth high tones jarred down my spine. "He just wants to see 354

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more of your little doll. Isn't that so, Svend?"

Svend laughed. "So do you, Madame Ria. Can't that thing come off?

She's not in any position to play with herself."

"Oh, it can come off," said my master. "As long as it's understood. No contact without my supervision. One careless grab could take her over the edge. She doesn't come without my say so."

The discussion that followed was solely in Danish. Apparently their agreement was sufficient to convince him; the belt came away, and open air caressed the swollen leaves of my vagina, which I could feeling pouting nakedly for that one careless grab.

More incomprehensible discussion. Fingers lightly tracing the shape of my public bone, making me shudder. Other fingers. They made me guess whose. Anders and Ria were easy, the one through utter familiarity, the other by way of fingernails. Svend and Karl were harder to distinguish. They got to punish me when I got it wrong.

My arms and calves were aching by the time they let me down. I blinked into the light beyond the blindfold, focusing on the beautiful, complex planes of my master's face, the tree root muscles of his neck as he lifted me down, the denim blue of his shirt.

"All right, hunhund, since our guests want to be able to see your needy snatch, we'll just make sure you contain yourself." He attached a handle he used sometimes when he wanted especially tight control of me. This was of heavy-duty metal, riveted to a long metal plate along my backbone that he belted over the corset, around my ribs. The effect was of a solid handle along my spine, with which he could move me around like luggage. Then he crossed my arms up high behind my back on either side of the handle and fastened them there, so tightly that I couldn't mistake the pre-emptive, punitive warning.

I was shifted down the stairs and kept in a close grip as he showed off his workshop. It may have been a longish tour, or it may have been cursory for Ria's sake; I was too preoccupied with my state as a slab being shoved around to know for sure. I was a thing, so controlled that the leeway at the end of a leash would have been freedom in comparison. There was almost an illusion of his grip being inside my body and round my spine, as if my backbone itself was the handle. Not painful, just – luggage.

Language was filling the space around me, crisscrossing the air above 355

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my head, a network of meaning that overlooked me completely; none of the verbal lines had me as their anchor. The only communication for me was the push and pull at my spine, forcing my legs to move to stay under the rest of me. My head felt denser and denser, a Pinocchio turning back into wood.

Then suddenly words chimed high, the meaning clanging like a church bell air raid warning. "Can we tease her?" I knew the English had been used on purpose. No, no, no! Not in front of her; please not…

I found myself propped on the work table, the handle fastened to something behind me, ankles tied wide but loose. Whimpering at the sight of these tall pillars, capricious gods converging between my legs. Svend was arranging lights. Karl helped my master tie back my labia, rings to thighs, and suddenly there were four sets of light eyes staring. I tried to look anywhere but at those eyes. I saw them anyway. Then there were three pairs, and footsteps on the stairs. Then four again, and a slippery slide into my gaping vagina. Vibrator on low, forcing a moan from my throat in a matching frequency. Nipples clamped painfully, tied by cords to ankles.

Two floggers taking turns on my inner thighs, one harsher than the other, making me kick painfully. My helpless hands writhing behind shoulder blades; tears starting. The vibrator's hum, turning my flesh only semi-solid, ready to liquefy at the touch of the catalyst.

There was a stroke along saturated inner tissues. And then gone.

Another touch; gone again. I ground my ass against the table and wailed.

Long fingernails scraped down, perpendicular to the sore stripes on an inner thighs, circling lightly over pubic bone and up the other side. Hard pinches and pulls on stretched outer labia.

Anders and Karl conferred, heads together. Now Karl was standing over me, his voice caressing. "You want more, girl, don't you?"

I blinked to clear the blur, stared up, breath coming hard. Whispered the truth. "Yes, please, sir."

"But all this is not enough, is it? Your clit is very rude, you know; it thrusts itself forward. It is red and shiny, and displays itself shamelessly. As if it was entitled to some attention."

Unbearable words. Beyond assimilation. Words that would lash me, far into the foreseeable future. I turned my face away, and my body writhed, trying to disappear from view. Silence, and the ring of eyes pressing in on me, my master's among them, insisting on a response. I squeezed my own 356

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eyes shut to block out the view. No use. Blindly I whispered, "No, sir. Not entitled. But…”

“Open your eyes, slave. You want me to touch it?" Obeying, voice shaking, I said, "Yes, sir.”

“How much do you want it?"

His thumbs stroked the area around the vibrator, and I whimpered. "Oh, god … please …." The required words were stuck in my throat, about to choke me. It was impossible to say them, more impossible not to. "Please touch – touch my clit, sir."

Karl obliged with a hard flick, too painful and brief for pleasure, and observed me as I winced and cried and thanked him. My clit throbbed harder, and I almost hoped that the aftermath would take me over the edge, but it wasn't enough. There were some amused exchanges above me. The flogging started again, nipples were yanked to soreness; there were more brief touches, pinches, fingernails. The vibrator twisted, shoved. More painful flicks. Guttural groans from deep in my belly, unstoppable.

My master took over then, with fingers gentle and sure, closer and closer. Then the touch of his tongue, and then another, taking me instantly to the brink of madness, making me shriek and arch desperately, and pray and beseech…. He straightened, and I howled, frantic, "Please master! – more –

please – please let me – please don't stop, I beg you, please! – "

To my despair he turned away. There were snorts of laughter, spontaneous applause. My ears sang. I heard Ria's mock-soothing voice as she mopped my tears.

"Happy, Ria?" said Anders.

"Very nice, thank you. That was delightful. How long can we keep her like this?"

"As long as you like."

Svend said, "What, that close?"

"Not that close continuously. But very near. Back and forth to the edge."

Then they were elsewhere in the room. A sound of metal scraping on concrete. Language again passing me by. Cool air drying my pulsing cunt.

More salty tracks drying on my face. I was truly a thing, an organic machine engineered for purposes of recreation. Existing there on the bench, running on idle until required again. On power saver mode.

Eventually my master was back, workmanlike over the removal of labia 357

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ties and nipple cords and vibrator. Taking me again by the handle, off the table and across the room. Then I was folded at the waist, right angled over the Workmate table, pushed down by the handle, my breasts trapped between the slats, which got cranked together until I squeaked.

Exclamations, laughter, long incomprehensible discussions while taut and painful tits were fingered. Big hooks in the rings, and then something heavy hanging from the hooks, making me groan. Light footsteps up the stairs, then down. Slender fingers on my already-sore behind. My head turned as far away as it could from those fingers. And then the whistle and the crack and the fiery river of pain. What had I done? I sobbed through the calm discussion behind me, screamed at the next blow, and at the one after that. Then the dreadful pulsing. Tears and snot dripped to the floor, while the gods walked and talked above me.

Hands on my hips. More hands in my hair, under my jaw. Four hands.

Cold, long dab on my asshole, making me whimper. Voices: Karl, Svend.

"Open up, hunhund." Not easy to relax for one while tensing lips and jaw around the other. Slaps, making me cry around the latex-covered cock in my mouth, forcing me to try harder. Moaning past the exquisite pain, giving the man in front of me the benefit of those vibrations. A heavy hand pressing me down by the handle into the table, and despite this, feeling the vice grip around my tits challenged by every thrust.

And my vulva ached, wide, empty. A famished mouth open, begging for food. Receiving only the occasional slap of a heavy ball sack. A painfully engorged clit still throbbed desperately against nothing but air. Growls and urgent thrusts; more pain. My need for one single touch so great my unblocked howls would have shuddered the roof beams.