The Slave (16 page)

And with that, Rachel pulled
away from Robin, leaving her kneeling at the foot of the bed, blind
and bound. Robin moaned, slightly, keeping back the wail that
threatened to explode from her. She trembled, and her pelvis shoved
forward in a futile attempt to calm the driving need between her
legs.
Oh
please, please, please!
One word, no images, no hard desires, just that
one thought, reverberated within her. She could not have asked for
a specific favor if she were forced to, but her need for some kind
of attention or direction was maddening. Robin cocked her head,
leaning her forehead against the side of the bed, trying to listen
for an invitation or command. She heard a tearing sound, and then
jerked up in surprise as something light brushed her face, falling
across the edge of the bed and landing on her chest. She shivered
and pulled back, and as it fell, realized that it was an open―and
empty―condom package.

She felt another wave of
dizziness hit her.
It’s perfect
, she thought, tears beginning to dampen the
blindfold.
Oh, it’s so terrible, so perfect.

Above her, in front of her, the sounds of
fucking became clear. The bed was firm, but the shifts in position
and the rocking movements of the bodies caused the mattress to
compress in places, and Robin felt each movement. The rhythm was
established early, and as Rachel gasped and urged Chris on, Robin
bit her lip. And clenched her fingers so hard that they burned.

“
Oh yeah, Parker, do me, fuck me, slam
that fucker in me!” Rachel’s voice was low in fierce joy, and she
laughed as the shaking and the tempo increased. And when there was
a long and sharp change in the positions on the bed, and Rachel’s
voice now came from higher up, Robin knew that they had switched
positions and Rachel was on top, riding Chris, thrusting her body
down against him. Robin couldn’t help it anymore; the combination
of her personal heat and the images of what was probably happening
before her, her gentle bondage and the warm stinging of her pussy
lips and nipples, it was all too much. She leaned against the bed
and pushed her hips against the crumpled mass of bedspread that had
been shoved off the edge by the energetic fucking. The first touch
of the heavy fabric between her legs was electric; she gasped and
humped forward again, trying to capture more of it. Above her, she
could hear panting and smooth heavy breathing. She barely realized
that she was the one panting.

Rachel moaned and urged Chris on with sounds
like growls, until they built up and up in range and volume.
Finally, she was not so much urging him but holding herself back,
and the strain of that frustration drove her growls to grunts and
then to hard, slamming exhalations. Beneath her, Chris breathed as
he thrust upward, and clenched her body down to him, each time
pulling her down, only to let her rise.

“
Now, Parker, now!” Rachel demanded.
Below her, a man complied with her wishes while down on the floor,
a woman thrust her way pathetically against the fallen bedclothes.
Rachel arched her back in an explosive erotic convulsion, taking
her own breasts into her hands, screwing her body down onto and
against the manly tool between her legs.

Chris pulled her down one more time with a
sigh of his own, and then pushed her onto her side. Carefully, he
eased out of her, letting her collapse back and stretch her limbs
out.

“
Oh you sweet fucker, oh I needed
that,” she said, her voice a little hoarse. She coughed to clear
her throat. “But you better stop the little dolly, she’s humping
the linens.”

“
Yes, I know. You relax. I’m not
finished with you yet.”

“
Good. I hoped you weren’t. G’night,
dolly!”

Robin had frozen the moment she realized
that the activity on the bed had stopped. Her heart sank as she
heard Rachel so casually report on her forbidden activity, and she
trembled again as Chris moved off the bed and took an agonizingly
long time to get around to coming to her.

“
I’m sorry, sir, I’m sorry,” she
whimpered as he dragged her across the hall and into the other
bedroom, half on her knees, half struggling to get her feet under
her. When he unfastened the cuffs but didn’t remove them, she
panicked and pulled away from him for just a second. He ignored her
and pushed her down onto the bed.

In a minute, her wrists were securely locked
to the sides of the bed, making it impossible for her to do
anything but lie on her back. He took the blindfold off, and she
blinked. He was still dressed, the T-shirt no longer tucked in. His
hair was slightly rumpled. You would never know he had just come
from such passionate sex.

“
Please, sir, please, I’m so sorry,
don’t leave me like this all night!” she managed to get out,
desperate in her fear of his anger and her own
self-recriminations.

“
It’s very uncomfortable to sleep in a
gag,” Chris said, laying a finger across her mouth. “So shut
up.”

And he left her there, closing the door
behind him.

It took an inhumanly long time to fall
asleep. She had rarely been left alone and in bondage; she could
remember each time with a sharp clarity that made it impossible to
relax.

Robin’s Story: Maria’s Girl

Robin stretched her limbs out to the fullest
she could reach, and lessened the tension on the ropes that held
her wrists down. As she arched her back for a moment, she sighed in
pleasure. It always felt good to stretch every once in a while,
even if it lessened the illusion just a little bit. She knew that
if she moved just slightly more, one of the ropes might slip from
the hook and accidentally free her. It had happened before, and
although she had been punished delightfully for her transgression,
the feeling of being able to slip your bonds that easily really
ruined the feeling of the scene. And it kept sliding back to annoy
her, like a gnat, an insistent little buzzing reminder that it was
really just another game.

She couldn’t know what time it was, but she
could feel the warmth of the sunlight on her belly. It might be her
imagination, but that warm spot seemed higher then it was before.
Again, she could easily rub her head alongside the pillow until the
blindfold shifted a little and she could peek under it, but that
would ruin things too.

Damn
, she thought, wiggling her
toes.
It
takes as much effort from me to continue this as it does from the
top! Whoever said that slaves just lay back and take it and get all
the pleasure was full of shit.

But then, what kind of source am I talking
about? Desperate men who would just love to have a girl named Bambi
wait on them like a late model June Cleaver. A woman who looked
like she walked off the cover of the swimsuit issue, or at least
from some porn rag, dressed like a Frederick’s of Hollywood window
display, who could suck a golf ball through the proverbial garden
hose, and lusted mightily for their masculine essences. And would
bring them a cold one in a long-necked bottle afterwards, of
course.

She tried to control the little giggle that
escaped her lips. How many times had she sat on the phone with the
other women who called that old trusty phone sex line and
complained about the lack of suitable play partners? Their
complaints about the men they talked to and met could fill volumes,
as long as you didn’t mind the eternal repetitions. Thank goodness
for the courtesy line; if she hadn’t gotten it, she would have
spent a small fortune for all the hours she utilized. And all the
numbers she had in her little phone book! Dozens of them, men and
women, with notes under each listing, describing the kinds of
scenes each one liked.

As she predicted, it helped to get her
through some nights but didn’t do much for her sex life on the
whole. And th
e more she
spoke to some of the regulars, the more familiar she became with
the “scene”―the SM world outside fantasy and pornography. And the
more she spoke to people who actually did these things with each
other, the inevitable moment came closer. She would have to get out
and meet someone.

A finger came out of nowhere and lightly
stroked one nipple, and Robin gasped in shock and pleasure.

“
Are you OK, slave?” a warm and sultry
voice asked.

Robin sighed and pushed her body up to
meet the hand. “Yes, mistress,” she sighed.

But Maria would check anyway, brushing a
cool hand over Robin’s palms and feet, making sure they weren’t
lacking for oxygen. Robin suppressed a sigh of exasperation, and
immediately felt guilty for feeling that way.

But how should I feel?
she asked herself
furiously.
I
told her I was fine. I’d tell her if I was getting cramped or
something. But she still has to check; it’s like she doesn’t trust
me to be honest with her.

Or
, an even less charitable thought
intruded,
because the rules say she should check anyway.

Rules. Even as the world of phone and
computer sex (and dominance) were full of their own rules, so was
the new world of doing-it-for-real. And some of these new rules
(OK, most of them, Robin admitted) were just as silly as the ones
she had learned and followed before. Safe words, for example. Magic
words that, when said by the bottom, stopped a scene so that some
kind of inconvenient or dangerous activity could be halted. Robin
had nothing against the concept. In fact, she heartily approved,
and tended to like other people who used them. But you could go too
far with them. One safe word for “slow down.” Another for “don’t
use this emotional pain on me.” Another for “I’m uncomfortable, my
bondage/posture/whatever needs to be changed.” And then the one for
“stop.”

Having a code to use so that you were free
to pull against the bondage or whimper “no, no, no” seemed to be a
great idea. But having all these possible ways to orchestrate what
was happening seemed, well, contrary to the point.

I have nothing against all the
good reasons to do things that way
, Robin wrote in her newest
journal.
It
makes sense for most people. Hell, it probably keeps them from all
kinds of sad and angry scenes that have nothing to do with SM. But
I want to feel that I can’t stop it. I want to be really mastered,
taken over by someone who isn’t going to stop doing things because
I’m not getting off on it. Someone who knows enough not to endanger
me, unless that was what was intended....

But still, feeling another person’s hand,
listening to a voice as it whispered hotly into her ear, pulling
against restraints and moving with the thudding impact of a whip
were all so wonderful! Her first spanking taken as an adult was
electrifying, an experience in blinding joy. The first time sturdy
leather cuffs were buckled around her wrists, she had nearly melted
with the rush of heat that sped through her. Every new episode made
her shake with excitement, made her literally drip with her
neophyte lust.

She had tried to find potential partners
through the phone line. Taking Bob’s advice, though, she had been
extremely wary of meeting anyone, especially any of the men.

“
Once they get you alone and in
bondage, they can do anything they want,” Bob had cautioned her,
his voice earnest and harsh. “And you know what happens if you get
hurt. You’ll get all the blame. No court will want to hear about a
woman who was willing to meet a strange man and let him abuse her.
And that’s assuming that you survive the experience.”

There was a part of Robin’s mind that
rejected Bob’s paranoia. It all sounded like the advice that her
mother gave her before going out on dates, minus the bondage, of
course. But there was a kernel of truth in what he said, enough to
keep her from ever giving out her real name or her telephone number
to any man.

But Bob never said anything bad about any of
the women who used the line. So, when a woman with a girlish voice
and the phone line name of Dominique volunteered the information
that she didn’t live far from Robin’s campus and that she could
easily drive down for coffee or lunch one day, Robin accepted. It
seemed all right. They would meet in a public place, and Robin
still didn’t have to give out her name or where she lived.

How deeply Bob’s warnings had sunk into
her became apparent only after “Dominique”―who turned out to be a
middle-aged woman in a battered Volvo who insisted that Robin call
her “Peggy”―sat down opposite Robin in the coffee shop and asked,
innocently, “So, Perv, waddaya want for lunch?”

Robin stifled a giggle and shook her head
in exasperation. “Robin,” she said firmly, reaching across the
table to shake Peggy’s hand. “Please call me Robin.”

Lunch led to a long afternoon of
discussions, as the two women revealed their interest in their
sexual subculture. It was a real eye-opener for Robin, who finally
found out that Mistress Dominique was a lab assistant in a clinic,
and a divorcee with two kids and a houseful of cats. And that
Mistress Dominique, who had a whole stable of phoneline slaves, had
only actually met two of them.

“
Oh, it’s all a scam,” Peggy said at
one point, amused at Robin’s astonishment. “We’re only doing this
to amuse ourselves, right? These guys don’t really want a woman who
really has the power to order them around. They want a woman who
will order them to do exactly what they want to do, no more, no
less. But I like telling them to do things like put clamps on their
dicks and ice cubes up their butts, and I like hearing them whimper
and whine and say ‘Yes, mistress, right away, my mistress, thank
you, goddess!’ and stuff like that. So we both get what we need, it
only costs a phone call, and we don’t have to clutter up each
other’s lives with reality.”