Forced Submission (14 page)

Now she followed him into the suite, which was nice enough,
she supposed, though nowhere near as nice as Sir’s home. There were two rooms,
one a bedroom with a king sized bed and a bureau, the other a sitting room with
sofas, chairs and a desk. There was a kitchenette off to the side of the
sitting room, separated from the main area by a high counter with bar stools in
front of it.

Sir set the duffel bag he was carrying on the counter and
turned to M. “Take off your coat and hat and hang them in the closet.” He
pointed to a small closet by the door. “Then kneel at attention in the center
of the room, hands behind your head, eyes down. Master J will be here soon. You
will not move or react when he enters the room. You will obey everything I tell
you. Are we very clear on this, M?”

“Yes, Sir.”

M’s heart was beating over-fast at the thought of seeing
another man. Though she had become used to her bald head and marked body, and
understood it pleased Sir to keep her like this, what would Master J make of
it?

It doesn’t matter,
she told herself.
You belong to
Sir.

There was a knock on the door. “Remember,” Sir warned. “This
is a test. Fail it, and you will pay a heavy price.”

M kept her eyes on the carpet as Sir opened the door and
greeted the other man. He had a high, nasal voice, nothing like Sir’s deep,
sexy one. They introduced themselves, with Sir referring to himself as Master E
and the man replying that he was Master J. She saw the man’s boots come into
view as he halted in front of her.

“Whoa. The bald head thing is awesome. And those nipple
rings are intense.” The stranger paused, and M could feel the man’s eyes on
her, raking her body. “She’s a serious pain slut, huh? Look at all those welts
and bruises. Jesus, if I didn’t know you guys were into the scene, I’d say she
looks like a battered wife or something.” His voice, which had started out
enthusiastically, seemed to grow small and hard as he finished the sentence.

“M,” Sir said sharply. “Look up at Master J and tell him who
you belong to.”

M swallowed and lifted her head, staring into the face of a
beefy, heavyset man who appeared to be in his mid twenties. He had large,
fleshy lips and a bulbous nose, his cheeks ruddy, his appearance incongruous
with the tenor voice.

Sir had moved to stand behind M, and he placed a hand on her
shoulder. M took a breath and said fervently, “I belong to Sir. He is the
Master of my body and soul. He allows me to serve him. I live for him. Without
him, I would die.”

“Holy shit!” the guy breathed, staring down at her and then
looking toward Sir. “Is she fucking for real?” His voice rose even higher. “You
serious, man?” The man laughed, the sound not unlike a braying donkey. “I guess
I hit the jackpot in the chat room! Man on the fucking moon! No offense, but
I’ve met with plenty of couples before, and more often than not, the girl ends
up being about ten years older and fifty pounds heavier than advertised, and
not really into BDSM, once you scratch just a little below the surface. ”

“She’s for real,” Sir said, his hand still on her shoulder,
which he squeezed. “Eyes down, M,” he ordered, and she promptly obeyed, glad
not to have to stare into the stranger’s face any longer. “M is a highly
trained sexual submissive, and she’ll do anything I tell her to do.”

“Wow, that’s so awesome.” M could see the man’s scuffed
black boots in her peripheral vision as he collapsed onto one of the sofas.

“Care for something to drink?” Sir asked.

“Sure. What do ya’ got?”

“Johnny Walker Blue suit you?”

“Shit, yeah.”

M heard Sir moving toward the kitchen counter, where he unzipped
the duffel. She heard the sound of ice falling into glasses, and a moment later
she saw Sir’s elegant Italian loafers appear next to the scuffed boots as he
sat beside Master J.

“To swinging,” the man said.

“To complete sexual submission,” Sir replied, and M heard
the clink of their glasses.

“I’ll drink to that!” Master J enthused. “Show me what this
slave girl of yours can do.”

“M, crawl on your hands and knees to Master J. Then turn
around and show him your ass and cunt. Don’t move from that position until I
say so.”

M could feel a steady pulse in her throat, and her mouth was
dry. Though she’d become completely used to exposing herself in any way Sir saw
fit, and keeping her position for as long as it pleased him, the thought of
doing this for another man sent a hot flush of embarrassment through her body.
Still, she didn’t dare disobey, and so she lowered her arms to the ground and
crawled the short distance to the sofa. Stopping in front of the boots, she
pivoted on her knees and lowered her head to the scratchy carpet, stretching
her arms out along either side of her head.

“Sweeeeet,” Master J breathed.

“Would you like to whip that ass?” Sir inquired. “She can
take quite a lot.”

“You have a whip?”

“Of course.” M heard Sir moving toward the counter and knew
he was going to retrieve a whip from his duffel bag. She felt the stranger’s
fingers brush along the crack of her ass and she stiffened but remained in
position.

“I call this one the stinger, for obvious reasons,” Sir said
as he returned to the sofa.

M was well acquainted with the stinger, a purple rubber whip
with knotted ends that left painful welts and tiny bruises from the knots in
its wake. “M, you know the protocol,” Sir said. “You are not to move a muscle
or make a sound while Master J whips you.”

M felt a surge of something hot and fierce well inside her
and realized with a small shock that it was anger. She was angry at Sir for
making her submit to this stranger.

No. No, no, no. You may not be angry with Sir. Sir knows
what you need, even if you don’t. He is the Master of your body and soul. He
allows you to serve him. You live for him. Without him, you would die.

The frightening emotion eased away, and M took a deep,
cleansing breath and closed her eyes. The first stroke wasn’t too hard—it hurt,
but nothing she couldn’t easily tolerate. After several similar strokes, she
heard Sir say, “Do it harder. She can take it.”

M gasped in pain as the first real cut of the stinger moved
over her ass in a line of fire. Several more stinging strokes landed on her
ass, and tears filled her eyes. “Jesus,” she heard Master J whisper. “This is
fucking awesome. Look at those welts. And she really gets off on this?”

“She lives for it,” M heard Sir reply.

The stranger continued to whip her with flicking, brutal
strokes until her ass felt as if all the skin had been flayed from it. She had
to bite hard on her lower lip to keep from whimpering.

Finally, Sir said, “That’s enough. Turn around and thank
him, M.”

Her face wet with tears, M forced herself to turn around.
“Thank you, Master J,” she managed.

“Hey, you’re more than welcome, babe.” Master J rubbed his
crotch, where an erection was clearly visible. “Say, how about she thanks me by
sucking my cock? That would be totally awesome.”

“You will use a condom,” Sir said. It wasn’t a request.
Master J frowned, but apparently the look on Sir’s face convinced him to go
along. He reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a condom packet, which
he tore open with his teeth.

Master J pulled open his fly and reached into his jeans. He
pulled out his shaft without bothering to take down his pants, and rolled the
condom over it. M had never sucked a cock that was covered by a condom, but she
appreciated Sir was looking out for her—not wanting her to catch who knew what
from the stranger. She wished she didn’t have to suck it at all, but Sir wanted
her to, and that, of course, was enough for her.

As Master J pulled the condom into place, Sir reached for
M’s wrists, catching both in one strong hand, while he used the other to push
her head toward Master J’s crotch. Trying not to let the dismay and reluctance
she felt show in her face or body language, M let herself be guided, opening
her mouth as the sheathed head snaked its way past her lips.

She closed her eyes as the stranger pushed deep into her
throat. His cock was shorter and thinner than Sir’s, which made it easier to
handle. The condom tasted like a balloon, but she supposed that was better than
tasting the man’s flesh. He began to grunt as he thrust in and out of her
mouth. After only a few minutes, Master J let out a guttural groan and pulled
back suddenly, jerking himself from M’s parted lips. He stood abruptly, ripping
the condom from his shaft. He jerked himself a few times and then aimed the
head of his cock toward M, shooting his load over her face and chest.

Startled and disgusted, M wanted to rear back. She wanted to
wipe the gooey mess away, but Sir held her in position, her wrists caught in
his grip as globs of jism slid over her breasts.

“That was awesome,” the man breathed, this apparently being
the only word of appreciation in his vocabulary. “Let’s go into the bedroom and
get it on, man. How about some more of that whiskey?”

Sir let go of M’s wrists. She hadn’t been told to move, and
so she stayed as she was, the man’s come dripping from her body, her ass still
on fire from the whipping, her eyes downcast. The used condom lay on the carpet
nearby, and she looked away.

“I just got a text,” Sir said. “Something’s come up. I’m
afraid we’re going to have to call it a night.”

The man started to protest, but Sir interrupted. “I know you
traveled a long way, and I’m really sorry we have to cut things short. Let me
make up for any trouble.” A moment later, M saw in her peripheral vision that Sir
was handing the man a wad of cash.

“Oh, well. I couldn’t, well, uh, okay. Yeah, thanks.
Whatever.” The money disappeared into the man’s jeans. He patted M’s head as he
passed her. “Awesome,” he whispered, and then she heard the door open and
close.

A moment later, Sir’s shoes appeared in front of her. “You
pleased me, M. Now you may thank me.”

M lowered her head until her lips were touching Sir’s shoes.
“Thank you, Sir,” she whispered, again pushing down that curious and unwelcome
emotion that threatened to overcome her earlier in the evening.

“You’re welcome. Now go clean off that man’s filth. We’re
going home.”

Chapter 10

The flight attendant, a young man with slicked-back hair and
a crisp navy blue uniform, smiled in greeting as Ellis and M boarded the
private jet he’d chartered for the trip. “Welcome aboard, Mr. & Mrs.
Hughes. My name is Brian and my job is to make you as comfortable as possible
for the duration of the trip. The first leg of our journey will take us to
Addis Ababa in Ethiopia. There will be a brief layover to refuel and change
crews, and then we’ll take you on to Mozambique.”

He led them into the cabin, which contained four large seats
in rows of two, a sofa, a sideboard and a fully stocked kitchenette and bar.
“Is this your first time traveling on a private jet?” the attendant inquired
politely, directing his question toward M.

“No, no,” Ellis answered for her. M was under strict orders
not to speak to anyone until they arrived on Prince Kamau’s island. And even
then, she was to stick to her script. “We’re seasoned travelers.”

M looked up at him as Ellis said this, though her expression
remained blank. It was odd to see his slave girl in clothing. He had to admit
she looked attractive, even exotic in the silk turban and elegant but sexy
dress he’d bought her for the trip. The gold hoops in her earlobes matched the
rings in her nipples, and this, too, pleased him.

He’d considered not covering her head, but decided her bald
pate might draw unwanted attention and questions. For himself, he loved keeping
her head shaven smooth, along with her cunt. He enjoyed the process of
lathering her scalp with shaving cream, and drawing the sharp razor blades
carefully over her skin while she stayed still as a doe caught in the
headlights. He loved painting the hot wax over her pubic mound, and watching
her wince in pain as he ripped it away, leaving her skin smooth as whipped
cream.

When she stood, completely naked from her head to her toes,
eyes downcast, arms hanging loosely at her sides, she exuded the air of a lost,
delicate waif that he found quite appealing. He loved how thin she had become,
compared to the chubby thing she’d been when he’d first abducted her. He made
sure always to keep her marked, the welts and bruises a constant turn-on. The
nudity, the thinness, the marks—all of this defined her as what she
was—property. His property.

In preparation for the trip he’d forced himself to refrain
from marking her for the past three weeks, as difficult as it had been. He did
so love to watch her pale skin redden and welt as he whipped, spanked, caned,
cropped and paddled her. He’d had to content himself with more creative erotic
torture, like water submersion, breath play and intense bondage, and of course
constant rough sex, none of which left any lasting evidence.

Though he now took her several times a week into his bed,
after that initial deflowering he never again let her sleep in his arms. It
would be too confusing for her, he’d decided. No, it was better for her to stay
in her sleep cage at night, secure in her chains.

He was still angry that Prince Kamau had insisted on his
bringing M along, but he’d reconciled himself to this necessity, and had
decided to make the best of it. It would be the ultimate test of M’s submission
and obedience.

 “We should be taking off in a few minutes and I’ll be
serving you dinner once we’ve reached cruising altitude.” The flight attendant
moved to the sideboard, where a bottle of champagne sat in a silver ice bucket
beside two champagne flutes. “Would you care for some champagne?”

~*~