Slave Lover (3 page)

The man above her began to moan consistently. She knew that he was very close. She licked harder and sucked more strongly. The cock throbbed and pulsed and grew hot in her mouth. It was every cock she had ever sucked and she flung herself into eating it with abandon. She was approaching her own climax, one which would go light years beyond anything she had ever known or imagined. Being fist-fucked in the ass and cunt, being abducted and turned into a slave, these were not mundane occurrences, and the test of her soul would be whether she was truly transformed by them.

The man let out a cry. His back stiffened. The cock popped out of her mouth. She opened her lips wide. His sperm shot all over her face. She curled her tongue up. He plunged his cock back in. The sperm kept shooting. And shooting. And she sucked and sucked until he was completely dry.

Then she put all her strength into her jaw, flexed, brought her teeth together in a single, horrible bite, and severed his cock from his body at the very root.

The man, as predicted, let out a scream, a cry of pain and shock, fell from the table, and was dead within minutes. Constance spit out the member and, after taking a deep breath, swallowed the blood that had spilled into her throat.

“Blood and sperm,” she thought, “a fitting combination.”

A few more minutes went by and then she sensed someone else standing next to her. She tensed in apprehension.

“Interesting,” said a male voice, one which she identified as Smoothy. “But, of course, I warned him. And he, of course, got caught up in his triumph and forgot. Well, no great loss. We have his money and can dispose of his body.”

She felt his hands on her breast and realized that he was removing her nipple clips. Then his hands went to her feet.

“But I think we’d better get you out of these ropes,” he went on, “before anything else happens. Your extremities are beginning to turn blue, and we wouldn’t want you to get gangrene before you’ve been of full use to us. Especially not since you’ve proven yourself such a promising victim.”

With that, he leaned forward and kissed her on the lips. She thought she detected a trace of affection in the kiss, but thought that that must be pure hallucination.

The room was as pleasant a space as any she had ever lived in. It was some twenty feet long by twenty-five feet wide, with a large private bath, and sported a balcony which received continual sunlight. The appointments showed imagination and taste: an oversized double bed with a large mirror for a headboard, a walnut writing desk, a walk-in closet, bureaus, wall-to-wall forest green rug, a very subtle use of lamps to provide modulated lighting, a stereo, a radio, a television. The effect was that of a personalized and expensive hotel room.

Constance didn’t know where she was geographically. From her window she could see only the sea. The grounds seemed to be situated at the edge of a cliff; the surrounding terrain was very heavily wooded. After her ordeal she had been taken to her room by Smoothy, who formally introduced himself as Robert, and given a preliminary overview.

“This will be your room for as long as you are with us,” he said. “While here, you are assured complete privacy. Later, someone will show you where the kitchen is. Also, we have a swimming pool, exercise courts, a free commissary where you can get beauty aids, sanitary napkins, magazines, newspapers, and so forth. The grounds are perfectly guarded with a combination of electronic devices, trained dogs, and armed guards. Escape, of course, is never, strictly speaking, impossible, but your chances of getting out of here are practically zero.”

Robert had delivered this all in a pleasant, lilting tone. He was a man in his late twenties, with soft, wavy brown hair cut medium-long to his shoulders. He was a bit over six feet tall, wispy thin, with a delicate, fey manner of speaking and gesturing. He gave the general impression of taking daily milk baths and having his fingernails buffed. He was dressed in forest green velour pants—a color that dominated the entire establishment—with a pure cotton, dark brown turtleneck shirt. He wore silk slippers. Constance had been naked, bruised, caked with sperm and dried blood, and aching for a hot bath. He had seemed sensitive to her condition and need.

“I know you want to be alone, to clean up and to gather your thoughts, and I’ll save the rest of the orientation talk for later. I just needed to let you know this much. I’m sure you’ll be bursting with questions after you’ve cleaned up and had a good night’s sleep.”

He glanced at his watch.

“Your next shift is at four tomorrow afternoon, so I’ll be by in the morning to take you to breakfast and we can talk then. And, by the way, if you need anything, there’s a buzzer next to your bed for room service. And a maid will be in each day to make the bed and clean up.”

He had smiled with what looked like genuine warmth, cast a quick, appraising look at her body, and then said, “Sleep well, my dear.”

Constance flung herself on the bed and shook for five minutes. Up to that moment she had maintained perfect control. When she was tied up, she reasoned that panic would only inflame her tormentors. And after her brief walk to the room when Robert had taken her blindfold off and given her that brief talk, she was too stunned by the rapid change in ambience to do anything but hold tight. Then, as soon as he left, the dam burst and her feelings flooded through her with uncontrolled force. In such a short period of time she had been captured, drugged, fucked in the ass, fist-fucked, and had murdered a man by biting his cock off, and all of it had flowed with a sort of surrealistic ease that threatened to pull away all the pinnings of what she ordinarily considered reality.

She finally finished trembling and staggered into the bathroom where she treated herself to a very long, hot soak, a shampoo, and then brushed her teeth, rinsed her mouth, and brushed out her hair until she had regained some modicum of normal identity. She went into the closet and found a soft linen bathrobe which she put on. On the night table next to the bed she found a pack of Pall Mall, her brand of choice and habit, and a flashy lighter. She lay down, lit up, and sank contentedly into the soft springiness of the mattress.

She was into her second cigarette and the beginning of a sense of calm when there was a light tapping on the door. Constance was a woman of high survival instincts, which meant she spent no time on foolish meandering over questions to which she didn’t know the answer. Things would be made clear or they wouldn’t; meanwhile, the major issue was to center herself, to become one with her new environment.

She thought it was Robert at the door and called out, “Come in,” without hesitation. But when the door opened, she was more than a little surprised to find three beautiful women standing there, each scantily dressed. For an instant she feared they might be coming in to “get” her, but their vibes were friendly. She pushed herself up on the bed and smiled.

“Come in,” she repeated.

The three women moved in slowly, like cats sniffing out a new territory. Then, seemingly satisfied that the place was safe, they closed the door behind them and fanned out to approach Constance from three sides, to end by sitting in a semicircle around her on the bed.

“Hi,” said the one to her right. “I’m Sally.” She was a woman of about nineteen, blond hair down to her waist, gently cupped breasts, and a wide, lush mouth.

“Sally Carter, Sioux City, Iowa,” Constance said. “Disappeared, May 23.”

The woman gasped.

Constance turned to the other two. Madge Campbell, Five Corners, New Mexico, and Sheila Dean, Moon City, Colorado. The first woman was a dark-skinned beauty of Indian extraction. Very short, a lean, hard body with disproportionately large and soft breasts. Sheila was a freckle-faced redhead, seventeen years old, with the abashed look of the perpetual virgin setting her green eyes at complete variance with the dirty-girl body under them, a broad, fleshy, simmering torso with the slight musky odor of randiness always hanging over it.

Constance smiled complaisantly. “I’m a reporter,” she said. “I began to learn about the disappearances of young women all around the country. And I wrote an article about it. Maybe that’s why I got grabbed. Anyway, I’ve seen all your pictures and know your stories.”

She paused. “My name is Constance, by the way, and I’d like to ask, where the fuck am I and what the fuck’s going on?”

The three women started talking all at once, but Constance silenced them and pointed to Madge, who seemed to be the most adult of the group.

“I don’t know too much,” Madge said. “I got kidnapped and chloroformed and when I woke up, three guys were fucking me at once. I tried to pull out but somebody slapped me and I was injected and put under again. Since then I’ve been on call about four times a week for the past three weeks. It’s about an eight-hour stint, and sometimes it’s easy and sometimes you get put through changes that turn your hair grey. And on off-duty hours I can take it easy and pretty much do what I want.” She nodded at the other two. “Their stories are about the same.”

“Any idea of how long they intend to keep us, or who they are?” Constance asked.

The faces of the other three darkened.

“I don’t know anyone in the organization except Robert,” Madge went on. “And as to how long . . . well, until somebody pays a high enough price to get a girl he can kill, and then they choose one of us and that’s the end of it.”

Constance felt a knot in her stomach begin to tighten and burn.

“You can’t be serious,” she said.

“I’ve already seen one go. A nice kid, too. Name of Wendy. They told her it was her time, and she cried and screamed but they dragged her away, and she’s never come back.”

“Oh my God,” said Constance, the true horror of her condition beginning to sink in. “What can we do?”

“Forget it,” Sheila put in. “When you get a chance to walk around, you’ll see how impossible it is to even think of getting out. A sheer four-hundred-foot drop in front. A twenty-five-foot wall around the other three sides. And dogs and guards and invisible electronic screens.”

“I ran into one of those,” said Sally. “I was walking on the other side of the garden and all of a sudden bells started to ring and in about ten seconds I was surrounded by three men with rifles.”

“So it’s a prison,” Constance said.

“And we all have the death sentence,” Sally added, and with those words lost her composure and burst into tears.

Madge immediately leaned over and slapped her hard across the face. Constance was stunned by the action. But Sally stopped crying at once.

“It’s a pact we’ve made,” Madge explained. “The one thing that will destroy us faster than anything else is self-pity. So if anyone sees it in anyone else, the others are authorized to step in and stop it.”

Constance’s eyes lit up. The feeling of camaraderie was infectious and she found herself, in this most bleak of all circumstances, smiling broadly.

“I know this is weird,” she said, “but I’m really happy to be with you ladies. I read about you and wondered about you, and even though it will probably cost me my neck, it’s good to see you and feel the strength you’ve acquired.”

As she spoke, Madge held out a slip of paper which she motioned toward Constance, and at the same time held one finger to her lips. As Constance read the note, Madge said, “Well, since it’s hopeless that we’ll ever get out of here, the only thing we can do is to keep up our good humor. And, in between sessions, we’re treated pretty well. I mean, it could be worse.”

The note read: “The room is probably bugged. In a minute I’ll suggest that we have an orgy, and once that gets started I can tell you more from behind the moans and groans.”

Constance was completely taken aback. The note itself sent a shiver down her spine because, despite the fact that she was in a life-and-death situation anyway, the notion of revolt scared her. But the way in which the orgy had been so casually suggested was equally astounding. Constance had never had relations with a woman in her life. She had never even fantasized about it.

“It’s getting warm in here,” Madge said in a loud voice. “Do you mind if I take these things off?”

“No, go right ahead,” Constance found herself saying. “And you two can make yourselves comfortable too.”

The three women shrugged out of their various robes and panties and shorts. Constance held her breath. She had never seen so many naked cunts and bare tits in her life. The sight, however, was not nearly as powerful as the scent. Deep, musky, female, the trapped odors from between their thighs and breasts filled the air and the room became heavy with the smell of womanhood.

Madge winked at her.

“Oh, I’m a little weary,” she said in the same stage voice. “Do you mind if I lie down?”

Constance shifted her body a little to one side. She was surprised to notice that she was perspiring lightly. The oddity of the entire situation was now producing a new perspective from within itself. She was not only about to enter into her first lesbian act, but it was to be a foursome, and done as part of a revolutionary movement on the part of women who were plotting to save their lives.

“If I lived to write about this,” she thought, “it would make an extraordinary allegory. But the very point of my survival is why I am being drawn into this situation in which I will be licking the secretions from the cunts of three ladies I have known less than fifteen minutes, smelling their assholes, stuffing their tits into my mouth, and having them ream out my pussy with their fingers.”

“No, make yourself at home,” Constance replied.

Madge lay down next to her, her face near her thighs. She stretched out full, her tiny, lithe form a dark cutlass of flesh on the sheet. Sheila and Sally inched closer, their eyes gleaming. They sat cross-legged and Constance could see the pink slits of their cunts beneath the patches of pubic hair and elephantine outer lips. Unaccountably, her mouth began to water.

“It’s a nice thing to do,” Madge said in a low voice. “After being brutalized in the Parlor, we come together and remember what it is like to be tender, to be soft. We cleanse ourselves from the imprint of the male flesh with the juices of our female bodies.”

As she spoke, she slipped her hand under Constance’s robe. The fingers trailed lightly on her skin. She parted her thighs. Her cunt was already gooey with secretions. Madge’s fingertips found their mark and ran up and down the slimy slit. Constance shuddered and her buttocks contracted involuntarily.

“I killed a man today,” she said.

“Oh?” Sally replied. Her eyes were already clouded over with desire and her body swaying back and forth to some discrete inner rhythm. She leaned forward, both her hands falling on Constance’s ankles. Her fingers slid up, curving over her knees, atop her taut thighs, and up to the juncture of leg and torso, that slight indentation which forms the valley, left and right, of which the cunt is the throbbing core. Constance’s robe was lifted by Sally’s sweeping forearms and she was now naked from the waist down.

“Oh Mommy,” Sally crooned and buried her face between Constance’s thighs, her tongue slipping out at once and seeking the pungent juices. As Constance watched, Sally worked herself into an autistic frenzy rubbing her face into the rapidly engulfing cunt. She glanced over at Madge who shrugged and lifted her eyebrows and in general indicated that each human being has her own idiosyncrasies and who are we to judge? And, without missing a beat, she leaned forward and covered Constance’s mouth with her own.

Constance fell back on the bed, being kissed at upper and lower mouths. Sheila, not to be left out, unbuttoned the top of Constance’s robe and let her full breasts fall to the sides, then cupped each in one hand, brought them toward the center until the nipples touched, and covered the doubly-sensitive point with her hot mouth, tonguing the already wrinkled disks and their twitching tips with slobbering abandon.

Constance opened her mouth and spread her legs and let herself be had. At this point, it didn’t seem too much different than what had taken place earlier. Her bonds were not ropes and chains but the demands of necessity. On one level, everyone born on the planet was a slave, a slave of blind circumstance. The most joyful and exultant feeling possible to a human being is that of realizing that we are indeed one with all creation and that creation is finally and ultimately mysterious to itself. There is no one or nothing outside the totality from which the totality is viewed. And the totality can not know itself except insofar as it differentiates from within. Thus do we come to male and female, life and death. The totality did not choose to be here as it is anymore than any individual awareness within that totality. To exist at all is to be enslaved. The only question of any validity is the comfort of the condition at any given time and place.