The Slave (59 page)

Muscledog, who was making his debut, wore a
gleaming black latex wrestling singlet that left his ass completely
exposed and allowed his cock and balls to jut through a hole in the
front. Long straps passed his swollen nipples and marked a lane
framing his taut abdominal muscles. The only thing the scant
garment did was accentuate his impressive build. He also had wrist,
bicep, and ankle cuffs, black rubber and sporting locks as well.
His heavy cock was secured into a series of connected rubber rings,
each one smaller than the last, a classic item of torment often
called the “gates of hell.” Naturally fair, he had a California
all-over tan, and the black latex and rubber fetish gear looked
cruel on him.

But Carl was dressed in
leather. The older man had a full body harness, down to the thick
chrome ring around his cock and balls. The straps crossed
his chest, formerly
the brawniest in the house before Muscledog’s appearance, and a
single strap ran down his tight stomach to the ring around his
package, well hidden by something Robin had never seen before―a
leather
kilt
. It was crafted of buttery black leather, and caressed
Carl’s legs when he walked. Her mouth went dry when she saw it;
she’d never seen a man in a kilt in person before, and regretted
that now to the core of her being. It was intensely sexy, even
moreso on the one man she regularly had sex with. He was the only
male slave in boots, and Robin now knew every inch of his Wesco
Highliners.

There was no doubt who the most beautiful
man was, though. Eric was a professional model, after all. He had
chosen to start the party in one of his many uniforms, this one in
midnight blue leather, from the tailored breeches to the
short-sleeved shirt complete with pockets and epaulets. His Sam
Browne belt gleamed against his chest, his slender hips making a
classic V-shape of masculinity. Under his cover, his wavy honey and
platinum hair caught the light, and when he slipped on dark shades,
he became a walking fetish. Robin had only been allowed to watch as
Carl personally shined the tall Dehner boots that completed the
ensemble.

“
If only your catalog fans
could see you now,” Jimmy said
with a grin. He was in classic leather―chaps over jeans with
harness boots on his feet and a vest over his bare chest. And he
was the one least likely to change over the day; Eric had arranged
several different costume changes for himself and for most of the
slaves.

But not for me,
Robin thought with
a sigh. She felt self-conscious in the layers she wore, very unsure
of her ability to pass even the most cursory of inspections. After
many discussions and modeling sessions, she was outfitted in Levi’s
501 jeans under suede chaps. A compression vest held her small
breasts down to insignificance and made her catch her breath from
time to time; over that, she wore a black cotton uniform shirt that
looked like it came from a gas station; it even had a name
embroidered on it―Rob.

“
Why make up a new one?” Raul had
asked when he gave it to her.

A leather bar vest over the shirt
furthered the goal of making her upper body appear more masculine.
She had leather wristbands that extended ha
lfway up her forearm, and tightly laced
military boots that were at least one size too big. Her feet,
according to the boys, were a dead giveaway, even worse than her
hands. So, she was also wearing three pairs of socks. A leather
bondage belt not only threaded through the loops in her jeans, but
had two locking straps around each leg, as clear a signal to guests
as the “hands off” sign on the serving slaves.

Carl clipped her hair short, but not as
short as she expected. “Kiddo, we expose the full shape of your
head and face and people will know you’re a girl from fifty feet.
Instead, Eric thinks you’ll pass as a sort of gothy poet kinda guy.
You already duck your head about a thousand times a day; just make
sure you toss your hair in your eyes a lot.” And he’d
snickered.

So now, she had her hair short in the back
but long over her eyes and in front of her ears, styled with an
unhealthy amount of mousse and gel. Her chain collar was
temporarily replaced by a thick leather one, the lock dangling over
her absent Adam’s apple. The last stage of her transformation had
been makeup, which Eric did himself. He hadn’t liked Raul’s efforts
in the dress rehearsals. With careful, precise hands, he darkened a
little under her eyes, and used a mascara brush to bring up the
tiny, almost invisible hairs on her upper lip and in front of her
ears. Keeping with her goth-boy persona, he also gave her a little
bit of liner around her eyes. His gentle touch on her face was
almost unbearably intimate and tender, made more so by the memory
of the back of his hand when he’d called her a thief and tore up
the very foundations of her life in his household.

It was still hard to look into
his cerulean eyes, despite her vows to be a good slave, patient and
understanding and forgiving. But as he fussed with different
touches of makeup on her, she thought, maybe this
is
my redemptive
moment.
Maybe this really is their way of saying, well, if not that
they’re sorry―
which she knew they would never say―
maybe they’re saying it’s all
buried in the past now.
Not only by letting her stay for the party, but
making sure she was disguised and included, even in this very
limited way.

Still, compared to the stripped down,
tightly strapped and buckled men around her, she felt short,
overdressed, and very, very forgettable.

Which is my job,
she struggled to
remember.
I
need to vanish. I need to be someone people will walk right by, so
I can be useful and not disruptive.
She had a flashback memory to her days
with WISE (Women Into Sadomasochistic Expression), the lesbian SM
group she had belonged to in New York. How diligent they had been
in their defense of womenspace! Not only would they not attend
parties with men present, they’d even argued about using a place
space after a group of men had used it for a party. “What if
there’s... bodily fluids everywhere?” one of the officers had
plaintively protested. Their fear of contamination by the mere
proximity to maleness had been one of the more annoying aspects of
belonging. And here was the reverse! Apparently, her mere presence
as a girl, even one who could be ordered to not touch or speak to
anyone all day and night, might ruin the entire party for some male
spiritual twin to the... masculinaphobe? Androphobe? Whatever. The
lesbian who thought boys were
icky.

If they could see me
now,
she
thought with a sigh.
Of course, they stopped liking me when I took up
with a man anyway.
She cocked her head at the mirror and considered herself
again.
Would
I have gone for me?
She wondered.

Hell no,
she decided.
I look like an
underage, clove-smoking Nietzsche-quoting piece of chicken too tiny
to get noticed for anything but pretension. Complete with a tiny
little dick, too.

Rolled up socks didn’t work as well as they
did in stories. They were too bulky and invited a touch to confirm,
or they were too insubstantial and slipped out of place with the
mere act of walking. Various dildos were tried, with and without
harnesses, and none of them suited Eric’s critical eye. It was
Muscledog again who came to the rescue.

Raul had picked up the item gingerly,
letting it dangle between his fingers with amusement or distaste or
both. “And
they call
this... a what?”

“
Mr. Cushy,” Muscledog said with a
grin. “A packing dick!”

It looked ridiculous; a pale and limp
facsimile of a penis, complete with a set of balls―it was short,
and soft to the touch, and looked flabby dangling from Raul’s
slender fingers. “Why,” the Latin houseman asked, making the item
bounce in his hand, “would a woman―a lesbian―want to put a limp
penis in her pants?”

“
So she looks like a guy
instead of a dyke with a huge fucking dildo,” Muscledog patiently
explained. “It’s l
ike... drag. Drag queens
tuck
, drag kings
pack
. Get it?”

Raul pursed his lips and nodded. Drag he
understood. He handed it over to Robin and shrugged. “Let’s see if
the Masters like this look better.”

Fastening it in place took more
experimentation, as the heavy leather dildo harnesses in the house
were far too obvious under the jeans. Robin figured it out using a
pair of stockings, wound about her hips and legs, twined in such a
way to keep the cock part dangling and the balls tucked up between
her thighs. Once Mr. Cushy was in the right place with her jeans
buttoned over him, it was remarkable how realistic the prosthetic
was! And comfortable, too, unlike a stiff dildo. Until, at the last
minute, Carl came to her with a final addition.

With the ease of a man familiar with her
body, Carl slipped the fat little dildo inside her cunt, and then
arranged Mr. Cushy over it, tying the packing dick in place. “Jimmy
thought there was no reason why you shouldn’t get a little extra
something today,“ he said with a grin. He buckled her bondage belt
over everything, and set the locks with three little snaps.

“
I’d rather it was your cock,” Robin
teased.

“
Baby, me too. I could fuck six trees
and a snake right now.” He could, too, she thought, seeing the edge
of his cock brush the kilt every time he moved. More than anything,
she would love ducking under that kilt and taking him in her mouth,
the scent of him mingled with the soft aromatic leather, the feel
of those tall handsome boots against her naked body...

Her hips jerked and he laughed and smacked
her ass, well tenderized by a week of beatings. Now, when she
walked, the dildo inside her awakened the tenderness of her pussy
lips as well. “Oh my God, this is going to be a long day,” she
said, with just the slightest of whimpers.

“
Rob, my boy-for-the-day, you said a
cotton pickin’ mouthful.”

* * * *

“
Do a good job, punk, and maybe next
time, you’ll get some dick,” sneered the third man in her chair.
Robin ducked her head and cursed herself even as she did it;
dammit, Carl was right, she did bob her head down a lot!

“
Yes, master,” she whispered in her
lower-toned boy voice. She wrapped the rag tightly around her fore
and middle finger, winding it around her hand in a firm series of
anchoring twists, and used it to rub and rub and rub until the
spotless gleam of polish seemed to pop up on the boot. Cigar smoke
floated over her head and she tried to breathe in short, shallow
pants. The smoke, the heat and the labor all combined to make her
feel light-headed... those, plus the taste of polished
boots.

The man in the chair lifted the boot she
wasn’t working on and planted it roughly on her shoulder. She
wanted to cry out but kept it tightly inside, offering only the
lowest, short grunt she could make under the circumstances. He
laughed and shifted, turning his attention to a man standing next
to the chair and waiting his turn.

“
Leave it to Eric to grab some cherry
chicken and keep him all locked up and licking leather all
day.”

“
Yeah, well, one debut at a time. And
his other bootblack isn’t going to be fucking useful today, is
he?”

There were two bootblack chairs, one next
to each other, installed under a freestanding canopy about five
yards away from the pool, situated so as to allow the man in the
chair full sight of the bondage and sling frames plus the array of
naked and mostly naked men lounging at the pool and Jacuzzi.
Muscledog had started out working the second chair and did exactly
one pair of boots before the man wearing them―and nothing
else―grabbed him by the collar and shoved his face down onto the
man’s erection. Shortly after the man came, splattering his
ejaculate all over Muscledog’s chest, the newest household slave
was dragged away to a sturdy beating-and-fucking frame that held
his mouth and ass at appropriate levels.

“
I guess that depends on what you mean
by useful,” the man in the chair said. “Getting ass-raped by thirty
horny fags sounds useful to me!”

They laughed and Robin felt heat rise up in
her as she continued to work on the shine. Oh, God, to be strapped
down and just... ganged like that! To feel cock after cock after
cock, to be helpless and just completely used...

“
Hey, faggot, finish up, I gotta go
f
uck one of your bigger
brothers!” The boot on her shoulder pushed against her and she
almost fell backward, but she set her teeth and nodded. “Yes,
master,” she rasped, and set to work with faster movements. The
speed of her arm was as―if not more important than―her strength, or
so she had been taught. In due time, she judged the boots
acceptable and lowered her head to press her tongue against the
leather.

She had kissed boots and shoes before, of
course. Every top she had submitted to, soft world to Marketplace,
had insisted on this sign of obedience or humility at least a few
times. Chris Parker had her masturbate on his boot the first night
he had examined her, and then shoved that boot, glistening with her
pussy juices, under her face to clean. She could still remember the
mingled tastes and scents―her own lubricating wetness plus tears
and that faint pine smell of what she knew now was a leather
conditioner.