Macho Sluts (42 page)

He put one foot up on the bed, then gradually insinuated the toe of his boot between her legs, nudging Mike's fingers aside. At the feel of that smooth boot leather against her clit, she couldn't hold back any more. She mashed her pussy down onto it, cried to be fucked, and came each time Mike's long cock slammed past her cervix. ‘At least,' she thought, ‘I didn't come for this fucker behind me, I came because Don's boot was pressing against me.' It was small consolation. The humiliation lingered, and it lit a fire that made her orgasm dwindle into irritation. She wanted more.

Joe came back with a paper cup of water and held it for her to drink while Mike turned her loose. When he went to remove the nipple clamps, Don said, “Don't. Leave them on. You, cunt. Go squat and piss.”

She trotted into the bathroom and left the door open without being told. It was hard to get it started, with her insides rearranged and all of them staring at her. Finally, a hot stream spurted out. Before she got a chance to wipe herself, Don had her in handcuffs and headed toward the cage. He was impatient to get going. That meant he was planning to have a lot of fun. Shit. “You two climb into bed and amuse yourselves,” he called over his shoulder.

He opened the cage door and thrust her inside, locked it, then reached through the bars for her tits. He had some chain and padlocks in his hand. In seconds, she was chained to the bars by her tits. Her ass pressed against the bars on the opposite side of the cage. He removed one handcuff, passed it around a bar, and put it back around her wrist. She could not straighten up because of the way her tits were chained, and she could not crouch either. Her ass was held in an inviting position, and with her hands cuffed behind her back, there was nothing she could do about it. Except suffer. Which she did, grudgingly.

She could only see part of the bed. Joe's hands were twined in Mike's hair, and he was urging Mike to suck harder. Sweat ran down his thickly furred chest and made his abs glisten. Mike's hands were busy below his waist, and Joe growled, “If you come in your hand, I'm going to make you eat it off your fingers.”

Her jailer examined her through the bars. He prodded her experimentally with the smooth, rounded end of a wooden truncheon. She moved a little, but the tug on her nipples made her wish immediately that she had not.

“You are my prisoner,” he said softly. “Cop-meat. And I'm going to fuck you. Guess where.” His gloved hand fondly squeezed her buttocks. “This is something I've wanted for a long time. But I really do want you to enjoy it. That makes it better for me, and more embarrassing for you. So I'm going to get you ready.” He showed her the well-greased butt plug. She averted her eyes. She always found the bright punk rubber they made sex toys out of garish, even offensive. It made them seem silly. Well, she wouldn't have to look at it, because he was pushing it into her. True to his word, it didn't hurt—just discomfited. Once she felt her anus close around the small neck of the plug, he moved her rear end over a little, so that a cold steel bar pressed into the cleft of her buttocks. “If you wiggle up against that,” he said, “you should get yourself warmed up real nice.” He regarded her in silence for a few seconds, then said, “What's the matter? I've got two more, size large and extra-large, if you need any more encouragement.”

It's odd, she reflected, how you can get into a scene and lose some of your inhibitions and go crazy, and while it's happening, you think you'll do anything, but of course you won't. There's always a hitch, always another barrier you don't want to cross, another step that somebody has to push you down. I hate his guts, and I will not squirm around on this horrid thing while he stands there staring at me and jerking off. Fuck him.

“You stubborn, stupid, ungrateful, ill-trained bitch,” he cursed. “I don't know why I bother. But if you think you're going to start holding out on me at this stage of the game, shit-head, you better think again.”

A puff of air cooled her backside, and she realized she was dripping with sweat and that both of her shining, wet ass cheeks protruded slightly outside the frame of the cell. Then the source of the cool breeze—the doubled-up belt—landed on her butt, and there was no thinking, only pain. Not only was she crying out with each solid, flat impact of the belt, she was moving her ass provocatively, helplessly.

He didn't have much of her to work on, so there was no hope that he would alternate blows upon her thighs and shoulders with the blows to her ass. Concentrated in such a small area, the beating hurt worse than it would have otherwise. There was no respite to gather courage and breath. So she tried to curve her lower back and thrust more of her ass through the bars, adding just another inch of available skin to spread the pain out and make it easier to take. She succeeded (at the cost of drawing her nipples out to maximum tautness in the clamps) in flattening her thighs against the bars, and the belt kissed them for a few seconds, but returned inexorably to her ass.

Oh, yes, he was good. Thorough, hard, unstoppable. She had the feeling he could go on and on until she was deeply bruised, then bleeding, then showing bare bone through her flayed and shredded flesh. The pain was lightning in the marrow of her bones. And the animal noises she was making, the sweat flying into her eyes, hurt her pride just as much as the flying belt hurt her ass.

Under severe and continuous pain, the soul reaches a certain kind of clarity. Confusion and hope cannot be tolerated. Anything that deflects energy from withstanding the pain becomes useless, impossible to hang onto. Such ballast is jettisoned automatically. Pride (which clenches muscles and makes blows bruise instead of merely sting, which stiffens the neck and thickens the tongue until one cannot plead for mercy, which forbids the use of any clever, demeaning slave ploy to cajole the master and stay his anger) is the first thing to be thrown overboard.

After all, what justification is there for pride when you are locked in a cage, you breasts are suffering, your hands are locked behind your back, your ass has been filled by a foreign object, and someone is beating you black and blue? Your bestial need to survive the ordeal in one piece makes pride superfluous. And the seeping fluid of sexual arousal that makes your thighs slip together as he punishes you makes pride seem hypocritical, not to mention pretentious.

No, it is better to scream freely, without restraint, to plead for mercy, to cry, to struggle beautifully, to sweat and strain, to be marked and marked again, to ask him what he wants, to agree to everything he says, to ask for more if that is what he wants, to confess, to grunt like a pig or howl like a dog, to promise anything—anything—if only it will stop.

Once the emotions have been simplified and the illusion of free will destroyed, the body also needs to purge itself. Dancing under agony, scant attention is left to control any sphincter or restrain excretion until it can be performed in a seemly, civilized manner.

Now he was using a very thin riding crop. The pain escalated sharply. From the feel of it, it had a whalebone core. It was horrifying. Beyond expressing with a mere scream. She was convinced that the sweat rolling down her legs must be blood, knowing that it most certainly was not. It was too much—too much—too much for decency—

So she pissed. Uncontrollably. From fear and anguish. All over herself, the floor of the cage, and anything else close enough to get splashed.

Then he was enraged, as yellow drops of her urine beaded up on the toes of his mirror-shiny boots, and the strokes he laid on her with that evil, skinny crop made her shimmy as though she were possessed and yell until she lost her voice.

When it stopped, she felt as if she were in the eye of a hurricane. There was respite from pain, but not from drama or tension. The only question was, when would it start again, and how? She hung her head, weeping, in fact blinded by tears, slobbering and sweating, her nose dripping snot, every pore and orifice opened up, wet, and slack. If it were not for her tit clamps and the steel circlets around her wrists, she would have slid to the floor and passed out.

His hands were lifting the swollen masses of her buttocks, moving them to one side of the bar that divided them, his fingertips admiring this or that particularly purple spot. “Say that you love me,” he said, intense and tender.

“I love you,” she sobbed. What broken-hearted prisoner does not love her torturer after a beating stops?

“Say that you're sorry.”

“I—I'm sorry.” She was blubbering now. God, how disgusting.

His questing fingers removed the butt plug—or rather, received it as it fell out of her. They probed—tentatively—and the by-now familiar feel of his rubber-clad erection against her raw cleft replaced his fingers.

“Say you want me.”

“I want you, sir.”

“To do what?”

Surrender. Quivering. Bowing to the inevitable.

“To fuck my ass, sir.”

“That's good. That's very good. I'd really like to.”

The leather-gloved hand was moving up and down his cock. She had never met a man who loved handling himself so much. The back of his moving hand pressed against her, making obscene insinuations. “Persuade me, cunt. Talk me into it. If you make it sound sweet enough, maybe I will … put this inside of you. But hurry. If you don't make it fast, I might come in my fist, and all this good hot stuff would go to waste. Talk to me, darlin'.”

Talk to him? And why was this harder (well, just as hard) as squirming on a butt-plug to heat herself up for his cock? It was another barrier—but this time she recognized the danger, refused to postpone her pleasure or invite more punishment, and pushed the words out of her mouth as fast as she could.

It was not a very elegant confession, but it was effective. A few vulgar sentences, interrupted by her last few sobs and soft cries of pain when he pressed his big hands into her bruised hindquarters, persuaded him to push his thumbs, side-by-side, into her ass. Lubrication followed. It was cold and thick. Jesus, it was creepy, having something in there. It gave her goosebumps and made her skin crawl, that awkward feeling of needing to shit, the fear of pain in the most tender of all places, anxiety about being dirty—and despite all that, the fierce hope that his strong cock would follow his fingers and pierce her deeply, take pleasure in her ass.

“You're nice and snug,” he murmured, smooth leather hands reaching through the bars to stroke her, hands returning to her ass to lift and separate the cheeks, massage the sides of her asshole, position his cock and push a little. She held still, letting him work on her, while her hands gripped the bars and tried to pull them apart. There was a popping sensation as the head of his dick slipped past her sphincter, then the smooth length of the shaft dilating—filling—

And the bastard had one hand around her waist, fiddling with her clit! Damn him! It was distracting. She wanted to feel her ass hugging and milking him, delighting him until he came. The possibility of coming herself was annoying. He kept it up anyway, holding her firmly against the bars, then began to withdraw from her ass. There was a sensation of relief—oh thank heaven, it's coming out—then dismay as he pushed his cock back in—oh, no, my ass is still full, it can't close up and get comfy, I need to shit, he's going to hurt me—

It seemed to go on forever. Apparently he could fuck her as long as he wanted to without losing control or coming. Damn. She twisted, pushed back when he pushed in, tried to get her hands free to stroke him, tried to twist her head around so she could see him, kiss him—

Impossible. “I can't touch you!” she cried in exasperation. His strokes speeded up. “Damn you, I can't move! My tits hurt—my ass hurts—let me go!” He panted, on the brink of forgetting about her and fucking her only to please himself. She told him in a fierce, insistent voice just how much he was hurting her by fucking her this way, how dirty it made her feel, how much she wanted his cock to hurt her, to use her, to let the cramping, clinging lining of her ass masturbate his cock. He groaned and gave up, then practically flew into her, battering her ass. His hands no longer felt for her clit. Instead, they squeezed her buttocks hard, until she screamed with anger and pain, and he came. Oh, oh, the way he came—the thought of that happening, up inside her ass, where he was so unwelcome and so much needed—made her shake with her own convulsions, a series of contradictions that actually pulled the clips off her tits and left her seeing exploding stars that faded into clouds of red mist.

There was more after that, but she had trouble remembering it later. Joe and Mike got her out of the cage, and the three men took her back to the bed and used her some more. At one point, she had someone's cock in her mouth, another in her cunt, and a third in her ass. When you finally surrender, anything becomes possible. They also made her masturbate, just to show them how she did it, and watch them fuck each other. When Don couldn't get it up any more, he pulled on a surgical glove and fisted her cunt. At some point, she passed out and was allowed to remain unconscious. She had vague memories of furry bodies grunting and fucking while extraneous limbs, even heads, fell on top of her.

She woke up when Don prodded the bottoms of her feet with a nightstick. He was fully dressed, even shaved. “Clean up,” he said.

What for? The federal penitentiary? The bathroom floor was icy. She leaned on the wall of the shower, rubbed soap into her body, and could barely lift her arms to rinse it off. Jesus, what a night. She dried herself off with a threadbare towel that left enough moisture on her skin to make it difficult to get back into her jeans. The marks didn't help, either. Don stopped her so he could touch the welts. His fingers, cautious at first, pressed on them enough to make her hiss. “Don't get too sexy,” he warned, “or I'll want to put some fresh ones on top of these.” He leaned against the door while she finished dressing, an indecipherable expression on his face. She had to turn her back on him, so she went looking for her boots and put them on.