The Secret Journey (18 page)

Except there’s no therapist here, though
Ninja Girl might yet excise my possessing demons. My eyes slide
down from hers, it doesn’t seem to be my place to meet her gaze.
Instead I focus on the tip of her riding crop, black and menacing,
a symbol of power. I find myself wishing she’d just use it on me
now and spare me the suspense, but she doesn’t do any of the things
my twisted little mind desires her to do. Instead she turns and
goes down the stairs. I hesitate but follow her. The stairs are
long, and the music grows louder as we descend. At the bottom is a
door, and a short corridor, and another door, and behind it…

Behind it is decadence. The room is dark, dim
lit with neon squiggles of red and blue. Three couples fuck on a
wrestling mat, bodies intertwined, undulating like sex crazed
snakes, glistening slick with sprayed-on oil. Beyond them a naked
woman is locked in a set of stocks, her mouth gagged open, a
mechanized, flywheel driven phallus driving into her from behind,
deep, powerful, rhythmic. It glistens with her juices, obscenely
distending her cunt with every penetration, and her eyes are rolled
back in her head, caught between anguish and nirvana. There’s a
dance floor full of grinding bodies in various stages between
leather and naked, and some of them are fucking, too. A redhead
with a whip sits spread-legged in a throne-like chair while a
blonde kneels submissively between her thighs, lapping at her cunt
with adoration in her eyes. My head swims and I feel faint, the
rush of my pulse now loud enough to compete with the driving
beat.

“Here.” Ninja Girl points to a padded bench.
Three women kneel there already. They’re blindfolded, their lips
are parted, their fingers are interlaced at the back of their
necks. They look like they’ve been waiting awhile, and their
expressions are strangely serene in this anything-but-relaxing
environment.

I kneel beside them and lace my fingers in
the back of my own neck. The motion raises and presents my breasts,
and I wait for the blindfold. Ninja Girl gestures with the riding
crop, and hands appear from behind me to take away my vision. The
world disappears into darkness, and my other senses heighten to
compensate. The pounding beat fills my head, but I can suddenly
feel the body heat of the women next to me, I catch the raw scent
of female arousal. I sense the movement of people in front of me,
behind me. A hand touches my breast and I start, but I don’t move
from my imposed position. The hand explores, weighing my flesh,
testing my firmness, squeezing my nipples to test their
responsiveness. I’m proud of my breasts, firm and high set as they
are, and this intimate examination is somehow both degrading and
exalting.

And it’s certainly arousing. My breathing
gets short and my clit stiffens as I wet the already soaked crotch
of my leathers one more time. My mind drifts away, surrendering to
the anonymous hands, though I know somehow it is Ninja Girl who is
touching me.

The hands go away and I wait for a timeless
time, so long that I begin to worry that my husband will wonder
where I’ve gone. I should call him. I should stop just to let him
know that I’m still alive, but I find myself unable to unlace my
hands, unable to get up. I remember the peaceful look on the other
women’s faces and I realize that my own expression must now be
similar, my lips parted, an expression of calm resignation on my
pretty features. I feel that way, and yet beneath that my heart
races like my bike at top revs. My cunt drips steadily, split by my
leathers in this position, my nipples stiffen until they hurt, but
I don’t move, I barely even breathe. My arousal is like the
invisible bubbles built up in a bottle of chilled champagne, giving
no clue to the pressure contained until it explodes in frothy
ecstasy at its uncorking. I want to be uncorked, I want to explode
for Ninja Girl, yield myself up to her, give her everything until I
am consumed, drained, and if she then casts me aside like an empty
bottle, I will accept that as my natural fate. I want the
realization of all my throbbing Harley fantasies, I want to be
sacrificed at last to the swollen full moon. I want everything, and
yet I’m not even sure what
everything
will mean here. I
realize in that vision I don’t even know her name. Time passes and
my arms grow sore from their position, and then my knees, and then
my back, and yet still I don’t want it to end.

Eventually the music stops. Voices rise, then
fade, silence. I wait, aware of the breathing of the women next to
me. Someone moves, and then I feel hands, once more on my breasts,
tweaking the nipples hard enough to hurt, hard enough to make me
gasp, and then they move to my leather riding pants, undo the belt,
undo the zipper, slide them down over my hips.

The hands probe at my cunt, parting my labia
with sure, strong movements, peeling back the hood from my rigid
clit. I can feel rubber gloves on them, and that only fires my
imagination, and the clinical distance they add to the process
increases my humiliation. The hands cup my buttocks and squeeze,
hard, then part them expose my anus. A finger slick with my own
juices finds it, slides in, violating me with casual ease. The
tight muscle contracts reflexively, and my clit jumps as my heart
rate spikes. Some distant part of my mind wonders at how easily I
have been objectified, intimately, impersonally inspected by a
total stranger I haven’t even seen. And yet that same part of my
mind understands exactly why this is happening, how this reality
fits exactly with my dark, violent fantasy life. I have been
needing this for a long time, and now, by accident or fate, I have
it.

Reflexively I moan and push back against the
invading finger, opening myself to its systematic degradation. Too
soon it’s withdrawn. I hear the rustle and snap as whoever is
wearing the rubber gloves removes them, and perhaps puts on another
pair. More sounds come from beside me, a feminine whimper, a gasp,
a moan.

We are being tested, my nameless sisters and
I. My suspicion is confirmed when a male voice says. “This
one.”

“Of course,” answers Ninja Girl. The male
voice was deep, resonant, calm, casual, as if accustomed to being
presented with a line of eager sluts. Ninja Girl’s response
supports the idea that this is true. But which one is
this
one
? I dare to hope that it might be me, though I have no idea
what being chosen will mean. Excitement still shoots through me,
engorging my cunt anew, tightening my nipples to still harder
erection, stiffening my clit. And then someone puts their head
close to mine, lips grazing my ear, breath hot against my neck. “Do
you want more?” The voice is barely a whisper, but I recognize
Ninja Girl, and it’s like she was reading my mind.

I try to answer but my words catch in my
throat. I manage to nod my head.
Yes.

Her hands find my chin, pull my jaw open, and
something goes into my mouth, forcing it open. Straps buckle around
the back of my head, holding it in place. I taste rubber, explore
with my tongue, find a rubber coated ring holding my jaw wide. It’s
big enough around to accept quite a sizeable cock, if someone
chooses to use me that way. It’s big enough around that my jaw
aches under the strain already. The hands move on, and a stiff,
heavy collar is buckled around my neck. My wrists are cuffed behind
me, and my riding pants stripped the rest of the way off. A rope is
run from the wrist cuffs to the floor, attached there somehow, and
tightened, pulling my shoulders back and pushing my breasts out and
up. I have become a sexual package, ready to be express delivered
to my new owner.

“She needs to be broken.” The voice is the
man’s, and a thrill of sudden rebellion shoots through me.
No, I
don’t need to be broken!

“Of course,” Ninja Girl replies.

I try to protest but the ring gag renders
intelligible speech impossible. Trussed as I am I can’t even
struggle, and suddenly I’m afraid. Despite my harsh fantasies, my
experience of sex has always been loving and gentle.
I don’t
need to be broken. I don’t want it.

But it’s going to happen. Something, another
rope, pulls the ring-gag’s harness up, pulling my head up,
straightening my posture. My position is taut, caught between the
rope on my wrists pulling down and the one on the harness pulling
up. I have no idea what’s happened to the other women who had been
beside me, but I sense that they’re gone.
I don’t need to be
broken!
Another rope goes around each knee, pulling them wide,
increasing the tension in my body even further. I'm kneeling, open,
helpless, completely vulnerable, and it’s far too late for me to
exert any influence on the course of events. What’s going to happen
is going to happen. I try to cry out and I can’t, panic rising in
my heart. Sex games are one thing, this is something else.
Effective protest is impossible, but I jerk and wriggle and make an
inarticulate approximation to “No!” What happens is going to
happen, but I don’t have to go along with it gracefully.

What happens is a line of pain burned across
my left breast, right across the nipple. Belatedly I register the
whoosh
and
snap
of what must have been Ninja Girl’s
riding crop. I howl, something the ring gag doesn’t prevent, and
another stroke burns itself into my right breast. The pain is
unbelievable and my instinct is to fight, to run, to curl up in a
ball, anything to protect my most tender flesh from the punishment
applied. I can do nothing, and more strokes scourge my tits, steady
and systematic, covering them completely. They move to my belly, to
the front of my thighs, then, most cruelly, to cut up between my
legs to chastise my cunt.

The tip of the riding crop finds my clit and
I am nearly blinded by the pain, tears now welling from my eyes. It
strikes me there again and I’m sobbing openly.
I don’t need to
be broken!
Whether I need it or not, it’s happening. I scream
and try to beg through the cruel gag as the crop comes down,
fighting against the restraints to no avail. The steady punishment
continues, striping my inner thighs, burning the cheeks of my ass,
cutting up between them to punish my pussy, and the tight ring of
my anus. The burning streaks fade and blur into one
all-encompassing ache, refreshed each time the crop comes down, and
finally I am too exhausted to scream to struggle, even to cry, and
I just hang there, accepting my fate because I have no choice.

I don’t need to be broken.

Whether I need it or not, I have been. There
is a pause in the crop’s steady rhythm, but I am still surprised
when I feel the cock in my mouth. The ring gag and my bonds make it
impossible for me to resist its penetration. My nose is clogged
from my crying, and the cock makes it suddenly hard to breathe. I
gag and try to turn away, and at the same time realize that it
represents my salvation. While I’m sucking, while I’m serving it,
the riding crop will stay still. If I can bring the cock to orgasm
I will earn my relief from its sting. I know what’s expected of me,
what’s required of me.

With suddenly renewed energy I bob my head up
and down as much as the restraints will allow, eagerly fellating
it. I run my tongue around the head, huge and swollen and salty,
filling my mouth to overflowing. The ring gag denies me the use of
my lips, but I know that the most erotic part of this encounter is
not the touch of my flesh but my eager participation in my own
humiliation, in my willing self-reduction to a sex object, and so I
do my best to demonstrate that eagerness. The cock swells further,
and I can feel that even the overstretching ring gag is a tight fit
for it. I can taste the sweet-salt of precum on my tongue, feel its
slippery texture oozing from the slit at the cockhead. It becomes
my world, and even as I struggle to breathe around it, I want more,
I want it forced all the way down my throat, I want to die impaled
on it. I service it eagerly, desperate now to feel the splash of
seminal fluid, no longer because his orgasm will save me further
punishment but just because I want it, because I need to be fully
complicit in the degradation of my essential self.

Degradation.
It is hard to imagine a
more humiliating position to be in, bound, stripped, my tits
whipped, my cunt punished to the point of tears, and now forced to
suck a total stranger’s cock. I have no identity here, I’m just a
fleshy masturbation aid, my value beginning and ending with my
sexual openings. Nobody here cares about my first class degrees,
about my carefully nourished career, about my wonderful, gentle
husband. Nobody cares about anything except that I suck hard and
long, and that I swallow when I’m done.

And oh, how I long to swallow, how I long to
demonstrate that I am not just obedient, not just eager, that I am
compelled, addicted, helpless before this cock. I need to prove
that I am willing to do more, to go farther than anyone else he’s
ever been with, that I can take all he can give me and still beg
for more, that I am worthy of being his chosen slut tonight. The
cock grows stiffer, the head swelling to bursting tightness as I
urgently tongue it in between thrusts. I should perhaps wonder
about this man, but I don’t. Whoever he is, he enjoys special
status at this club. Whoever he is, Ninja Girl approves of him.
Whoever he is, four women were lined up to undergo this initiation
at his hands. These things are recommendation enough for me.

Is tonight a special night that I have
somehow stumbled on, or does he do this every night? It doesn’t
matter. I hear him grunt, his thrusts coming more vigourously,
gagging in their depth, and I work his cock harder, silently
praying for him to anoint me with his white hot juice. And then
suddenly he is, his hands pulling hard on my hair, his cock forcing
itself to the back of my throat and beyond, swelling, exploding,
jetting his sperm so deep, so forcefully that I don’t even have the
choice of not swallowing. His orgasm subsides, but he leaves his
stiff swollen member in my mouth, and I diligently clean it with my
tongue.