Chapter One

Bobby Lomax sat in the back of the room and lusted for his teacher. Rail-thin, cursed with unruly mouse-brown hair, an overly large nose, and the hygenic habits of an Indian untouchable, by the time he had reached the age of sixteen and Eleventh-grade English Literature, he was enough of a realist to know that he was fated to finish high school not only as a virgin, but without so much as a heavy date. He was not overly worried about this unpleasant fact, because along from the active fantasy life which would tide him over through an adolescence of no sex, he had a consuming interest in computers and excellent grades, which he confidently believed would make him enough money within the next ten years to allow him to buy the stimulation he so desperately craved. So he sat patiently through what he considered the utterly useless study of classic literature, careful to keep at least a spiral notebook balanced in his lap to cover the burgeoning boner which resulted from daydreaming about his teacher.

The subject of his erection was Mrs. Camilla Witherspoon, currently standing in front of her desk delivering a lecture on the sonnets of William Shakespeare. Mrs. Witherspoon was a twenty-six-year-old natural red-head, who stood nearly five foot seven, and had the ample breasts, well-shaped butt, and long, slender legs to drive a teenager wild. Ironically, it was her strictly conservative dress and demeanor which put most young men—including Bobby Lomax—over the edge. She habitually appeared at school in expensive and immaculately tailored suits, pleated skirts topped with silk blouses, or cashmir sweaters worn above tasteful slacks. Nothing she wore was ever, in itself, suggestive, although nothing she wore could ever disguise the appealing lines of her body. Her skirts and dresses reached to within a careful two inches or so above the knee, her cleavage was never exposed, she always wore stockings, and inevitably low heels as well.

In some ways it was that conscious conservatism which so aroused him. Bobby dreamed in great detail of stripping those suits and sweaters off her gorgeous body. In his fantasies he somehow had Mrs. Witherspoon in his power, and could compel her, however unwillingly, to give his hands and tongue and penis free rein to fondle, probe, and abuse her at will. Unlike many of his peers, Bobby had no illusions that she would suddenly (in the way of cheap pornographic novels) find herself moved to unwilling orgasm at the strength and sensuality of his attack, improbably transiting from "Don’t! Stop!" to "Don’t stop!" and bowing down at the end of their session together to kiss his rampant prick in overt worship. He not only knew that this would never happen, it didn’t really interest him. Bobby wanted to take her, to dominate her, to abuse her—even, he admitted on some level that scared him—to hurt her. He did not want her to enjoy it, he wanted her to suffer it, but not to be able to resist it.

As he furtively touched himself through his jeans, Bobby concentrated on Mrs. Witherspoon’s hair. Today she had worn it in a tight braid which reached halfway down the back of her charcoal grey suit. He envisioned her on hands and knees, naked except for that jacket, with himself behind her, slamming into her tight little ass, one hand knotted in that coppery braid, pulling her head back where he could watch her features contort into a scream. There were days when she wore her hair loosely about her face and falling down her chest, and then he imagined himself standing above her supine form, as her hair framed both face and breasts. He would be pumping his prick and watching endless gobs of hot jism spurt out and fall on her. That red hair fascinated him, and he hoped that, even as he had fantasized, her pubic bush was the same color.

His fantasy life extended well beyond the classroom. Bobby had tinkered with the digital camera his unsuspecting parents had gotten him last Christmas, eliminating its case and reducing its size to something which could be successfully secreted in his carefully hollowed-out Literature text. He used it daily to record Mrs. Witherspoon’s appearance, building a library of computer images which he spent much of his evenings studying in great detail, From that study he had learned one very intriguing fact: Mrs. Camilla Witherspoon did not wear panty hose, but secured her stockings in the old-fashioned manner with a garter belt. He had suspected this after a chance shot of her leaning in toward her desk showed an indistinct line along her briefly exposed thigh, and had then spent a week maneuvering for conclusive evidence. Proof had come from the old "drop-the-books-to-position-yourself-to-look-up-her-dress" routine, disguised by the fact that only the concealed camera was ever in the correct position for a shot at the netherworld, but he had been rewarded with the crown jewel of his collection: a detailed if angled shot of her panties, garter belt, and stockings, clear enough that Bobby Lomax could delude himself into believing her could make out the faint impression of her vaginal lips against the white cotton.

His English Lit teacher, it should be noted, was not the only object of Bobby’s observation (there were, after all, five other periods a day). He had collected an extensive candid album on several of his classmates, though if the truth were told only the sizeably endowed and sneeringly disdainful cheerleader Tina McDougall came even close in his mind or his collection to the place held by Mrs. Witherspoon. He not only wanted to get his hands on Tina’s huge mounds, but had long sought revenge for a seventh grade taunt which labeled him for far too long as "Pig-nose." If Bobby’s fantasies for his teacher involved rape and abuse, the terrors he planned to visit on Tina McDougall were much further along the spectrum towards outright torture. To her body on his most depraved nights he planned such outrages as can only be perpetrated on victims who will never escape to tell the tale, because their bodies bear the marks to prove their case.

Yet pride of place in Bobby’s sexual universe was undistputably given to Mrs. Witherspoon, and if his fantasies—and his photographs—represented a more extreme form of worship than that of his fellow students, it was only a difference of degree and not of kind, Mrs. Witherspoon’s exquisite body was the subject of locker room praise, restroom graffiti, and even the occasional lewd drawing furtive posted on some bulletin board. Where Bobby Lomax differed from all of his peers was in one significant particular, of which even he himself was only dimly aware.

If he ever got the chance to make his fantasies real, he would not hesitate for an instant.

* * *

Sitting in the same class, two rows over from Bobby Lomax and completely unaware of his existence, was the previously mentioned Tina McDougall. Tina was cut from simpler cloth that Bobby—her imagination was less vivid, her talents far less valuable, either to herself or to society at large. She knew that she had scaled the heights of high school through two major attributes, both of which sat squarely on her chest. Her face was attractive, bordering on just the other side of pretty. Her long hair was brown and somewhat coarse. Her waist was not nearly as thin as she would have liked it, and her legs, despite all exercise, remained a shade on the chunky, athletic side. Yet Tina possessed a certain animal cunning, which she used in place of genuine intelligence, dressing always to accentuate her forty-inch breasts, and being selectively willing to let the right person get his hands on them from time to time. The right person had been, in recent months, a boy in her pre-Calculus class willing to do her homework and leave his paper uncovered during tests, the husband of the judge in the cheerleading trials, and the aging Chemistry teacher who would otherwise have failed her as flat as her sister’s chest.

Tina had ambitions of making it into a really good university, where she fervently believed that a judicious application of mammary charms would ultimately land her a man with a future. causing her fortunes to rise before, as was inevitable sometime after thirty, her boobs began to sag. For this she had assiduously cheated her way through school with excellent grades, relying as her last resort on what was becoming known among certain male faculty members as "the lube job," in which young Tina accepted extra assignments in the late afternoons. For a "B" in a tough course the teacher in question could expect to fondle and even pinch on a reasonably regular basis. An "A" entitled the grantor to a hand-job and a chance to spill himself across her chest. (An "A" in Chemistry had been a special case of need, and had been purchased with one of the very rare blow jobs Tina had ever bestowed.) You could not say, all suggestions to the contrary, that Tina lacked standards, at least of a sort. She had resolutely remained a virgin, determined to preserve her hymen for the service of landing a doctor or a stockbroker, who would be duly impressed with having "taken her innocence." And it should also be pointed out that for all her casually broadcast sluttly sensuality, the reality for Tina McDougall was that sex remained a means to an end, not an end in itself, and the concept that she might actually enjoy it was rather foreign.

All of which brought her to Mrs. Witherspoon, whom Tina hated fervently for a variety of reasons. The first among these was that she was miserably failing English Literature, and unless her married teacher proved to be a closet lesbian, she had little chance of utilizing the McDougall assets to improve her standing. Nor were most of the boys she knew doing any better, which ruled out more indirect forms of sexaully augmenting her grades. While this in itself was cause enough to hate her red-haired nemisis, Tina was dimly aware that there was more to it than that. She also undeniably knew that Mrs. Camilla Witherspoon, at the advanced age of twenty-seven and wrapped in the most outdated clothing, exuded a subtle sexuality that Tina could not have matched if she had shown up for class fresh from a wet T-shirt contest. It was in English Literature that she had to endure the greatest humiliation possible for a sixteen-year-old with big boobs and bigger ambitions: no one noticed her. She could see it in the faces of boys who otherwise would have been at her beck and call for the chance to "climb Mount Tina." Their eyes were only for that middle-aged bitch who strutted around the classroom like she had a board up her ass, and who never showed them anything. Not only did this infuriate Tina, but it conflicted strongly with her well-developed instinct for how the universe should unfold.

As she cast about with increasing desperation for some way to salvage at least a passing grade in this abominable course (and secondarily to take an adequate revenge on Mrs, Witherspoon), Tina did not and could not know that she stood on the verge of making the greatest mistake of her life.

* * *

Oblvious to the undercurrents of lust and malice focused on her from different parts of the back of her classroom, Mrs. Camilla Witherspoon (known to her friends as "Cammy") concluded the last lecture of her day, and prepared to dismiss her students. It had been an exceptionally long day, and she was by now feeling wilted and tired in that comprehensive way that only an hour in the hot tub followed by ten solid hours of sleep would cure. And it was only Wednesday. . . .

She collected her papers and notes into her tote bag after the bell rang, and fifteen minutes later (officially sanctioned quitting time for the faculty), Cammy headed wearily down the hallway to the back parking lot. Picking up the cell phone as she slid into the driver’s seat of her Nissan Maxima, she attempted to call her husband Marcel and let him know she was on her way home. The line was busy, and she frowned after trying two more times to no avail. Marcel hated it when she did not check in, and he was often unreasonably unwilling to accept the fact that it had been his own fault. Disconcerted slightly, she pulled out of the lot and headed home.

As she drove the usual route, Cammy was aware that traffic was heavier than usual, and quickly realized that she was going to be at least half an hour late reaching the house. She might even get there after her husband, and therefore have taken no steps to prepare dinner. Even if the meal came straight out of the microwave, Marcel was enough of a traditionalist to expect it to be at least in preparation if not on the table when he walked through the door. Cammy tried to call again, but this time there simply was no answer. She shifted gears savagely as she cleared an intersection, muttering under her breath. This was not what she needed, not tonight, not as exhausted as she already was. He would not be unhappy, he would be angry.

Then a chance memory dropped into place within her mind, almost as if her subconscious was plotting against her, delivering bad news just in time to upset her further without leaving her the opportunity to do anything about it. His drycleaning. She had not remembered to pick it up, and now she was so far past the laundry that turning around would add an extra half hour to her trip. Cammy shook her head in weary anger at herself. Marcel had made a point this morning of reminding her to get it, and with her husband one reminder was all he expected her to require.

Cammy turned into the driveway of their grey colonial home with a sinking feeling in her stomach which became more pronounced the moment she saw his Blazer in already in the garage. She cut the engine and sat for a moment, unwilling to walk inside. A stray wisp of hair had blown loose from her braid, and flitted back and forth across her face. She swatted at it petulantly. Next she realized that not only was she sweating profusely, she was physically trembling as well, with the threat of nausea lurking in the background. Cammy wanted to sit in the car until she was under better control, but she also knew that if he chanced to glance out the window and see her there, there would be hell to pay. As she exited the car, conscious as always of appearances, she waved despite her sick feeling to her neighbor across the street, who saw nothing but the assured professional woman, dressed for success, home after a long day.

Cammy entered the hallway of her house, shut the door behind her, took off her jacket, and kicked off her shoes. She next shrugged the cream blouse over her head and laid it, neatly folded, on a waiting chair by the telephone. The bra came off after that, freeing her breasts from their day-long confinement. She took a deep breath to try and get her shakes under control, and unzipped her skirt, stepping out of it and skinning off her panties in one practiced motion. The garter belt and stockings went last of all, with the practical part of her brain noting a run in one of them that would ruin the set. After a moment’s internal debate, she decided to leave her auburn hair in its braid.

Marcel would be in the basement. That was where she always found him when he got home first. He would be sitting there with a drink, watching some old movie and letting his anger build. With only the slightest visible hesitation, Cammy padded through the living room, crossed the kitchen, and opened the basement door. Down the steps she could hear the sound of the television. The creaks of the wooden steps announced her arrival, despite her best attempts to walk softly. He did not turn or acknowledge her from the far end of the basement, but she knew that he knew she was there.

The floor was concrete, moderated only by a throw rug near the TV and the mattress over near his computer workstation. For the past month their combined schedules had prohibited making even a cursory attempt to clean it, and it was covered in a quarter-inch layer of dust and grime. Sighing, Cammy dropped to her hands and knees and crawled slowly across the floor, her tits swaying beneath her as she moved. When she reached his easy chair (the only chair in the basement), she saw him glimpse her out of the corner of his eye and studiously ignore her. The only over sign Marcel gave that he was even marginally aware of Cammy’s existence was to stretch and spread his legs.

Taking this as her cue, Cammy crawled between his feet, and without looking up unsnapped his khakis, let down his fly, and carefully extracted his flacid penis from the confines of his boxers. Squeezing closer, and incidentally scraping her left knee on the bare floor, she took his entire member into her mouth and held it there. She did not suck on it or tongue it, or in any way attempt to arouse him. That, she knew, was strictly forbidden in the present circumstances.

Instead, Mrs. Camilla Witherspoon, conservative school teacher and feared disciplinarian of rowdy high school boys, prepared to squat uncomfortably with her Master’s cock in her mouth until he told her do otherwise.

Chapter Two

Cammy had plenty of time to think, kneeling in front of Marcel and cradling his limp dick in her mouth, for he kept watching the movie for at least another hour. She was vaguely disturbed that, even without any other direct stimulation from her, he had not become any more rigid, because that was usually a reliable indicator of just how unhappy she had made her Master.

As it did at similar times, Cammy’s mind wandered back across the half dozen years of their relationship. She had been an ugainly, late-blooming, superficial girl of nineteen with romantic notions about bondage and submission when they met, but nothing in the way of any real sexual experience, except for a single episode of attempted rape by a family friend at age sixteen. Perhaps that had been the pivotal event of her life prior to Marcel, for though it had terrified her and made her feel as dirty as her attacker had intended, it had also refused to disappear from her masturbation fantasies. In them the unconsummated assault took on far darker, far mre complete dimensions. Instead of merely a torn blouse and a split lip resulting from the struggle, she inflicted upon herself a rough beating, which always ended up with her laying on the ground, face in the dirt, being violated from the rear.

As the months passsed, Cammy came to realize two very significant facts. The first was that she had deserved to be abused, and that it was her fault, not his, for the lack of completion. Her fantasies were correct, not reality. When she fought back, he should have used the force necessary to subdue her, and then to punish her for her resistance. This was, at first, a profundly disturbing notion, this idea of her own worthlessness, but she had to admit that the seeds of it had been there all along. She had never felt truly safe unless she could prove to herself that someone would limit her or even hurt her to keep her within appropriate boundaries. As a result of her assault, she began to covertly seek out and devour any literature on submission she could unearth, from classics like Pauline Reage’s The Story of O all the way down to crude paperbacks like Tormented Teens in Bondage. At night her imagination received free rein as she lay throbbing in her bed, deeply ashamed as she dreamed of nipple clips and wrist restraints, and attributed to every male teacher the desire to slam her down on a desk and brutally use her.

Cammy’s second discovery, which took longer than the first, and still had implications that she had not fully worked out, was that submission gave her power. She first realized this when her unsuccessful assailant reluctantly reappeared at a family function he could not avoid, patently nervous that she would denounce him in front of everyone (how was he supposed to know that she was quivering with the hopes that he would grab her by the hair, pull her off into the bedroom and complete his rape?). When Cammy said nothing, but searched out and met his eyes in what she thought was obivious invitation, he quailed, and retreated to another room. Intrigued, she followed, eventually finding an excuse to get close enough to him to brush unmistakeably against his crotch, only to feel him shrink away from her in fear.

This was something totally new and completely unexpected. Cammy mulled it over for days, and decided that it meant that not only was something wrong with her, but that her very willingness to prostrate and degrade herself constituted the acid test for finding a man with the self-possession she needed. Throughout her last two years in high school and first two in college she began a serious quest to find the kind of man who could bring her fantasies to life. She was horribly disappointed, time and again, to find the boys to whom she offered herself to be bumbling incompetents, without the slightest understanding of how to meet her needs. One seemingly ambitious (and even ruthless) jock backed away from her in horror when she point blank asked him to throat fuck her. (Later, somewhat astounded, Cammy realized that he had not even known how to distinguish a throat fuck from a blow job—her own knowledge at that point was academic as well.) Instead of the rough sex she desired, she got inexpert fumbling. By age nineteen she had retreated back to her literature and the only relief she could find for the pressure building inside her was provided by her own hand.

Then she met Marcel.

Cammy never quite knew what had attracted her to him. He was quieter and more thoughtful than her usual run of men, but she had, as usual, worked the thread of dominance and submission into the casual party conversation. Marcel had looked her directly in the eye and said, "You have no idea what you’re talking about."

She blushed, and looked away to avoid becoming trapped in his derisive gaze like a deer in the headlights.

"Look at me," he commanded over the roar of bad rock music penetrating the room.

Unwillingly, Cammy did. And as she met his eyes she felt an unaccustomed wetness growing between her legs.

Marcel shook his head.

"I don’t think so, You don’t have the guts to do what would be necessary to satisfy your own fantasies." He began to turn away, and Cammy panicked.

She reached out an touched his arm. "Wait," Cammy implored. "Whatever you want, I’ll do it."

Marcel turned slowly back to face her, a look in his grey eyes that she would later come to fear as much as she needed it. They were standing in the middle of a room crowded full of frat brothers, and sorority sisters, isolated by the noise and mayhem around them. He reached out and stroked her coppery hair hanging down around her shoulders, running his fingers through the strands and then slipping around to cup her left breast. Cammy stood completely still, as if realizing that something so important she could hardly grasp it was about to happen. Marcel moved his thumb and forefinger slowly up her chest and located the nipple beneath her T-shirt. He flicked it with his index finger and she gasped.

"Be quiet. If you make a sound, or fail to do what I tell you in the next five minutes, I will never come near you again."

Cammy became silent.

Taking the nipple between his fingers, Marcel slowly increased the pressure, until stimulation began to turn into pain. His eyes were locked on hers the whole time. He began to twist the captured nipple like a bottle cap, and Cammy began to tear, but she said nothing. He tugged at it, distending her entire breast out from her chest for several seconds, watching her grit her teeth before he let it go,

A drunken football player beside him had seen the end of the action, and murmured his approval. Cammy flushed, realizing that she was on the verge of becoming a public spectacle, Sex was not all that rare at these parties, but she had always pursued her misadventures in private. Marcel stood stone still and did nothing else, and the drunk quickly lost interest.

Marcel spoke again, so low that she had to bend forward to hear him.

"If you want to come with me tonight, get down on your knees, undo my pants, and suck my cock."

"You mean right here?"

"If you come with me, you will not be allowed to ask questions. I thought you would already understand that. I don’t think I’m interested. You obviously can’t take orders."

"Wait," she said desperately, sensing something vital about to pass out of her life. Her knees were weak and her pulse was pounding in her ears. "I can do it," Cammy insisted. "I’ll show you."

"No. That’s not good enough, You weren’t ready to obey the original command, and there has to be a consequence for that reluctance. If you want to come with me, get down on your knees without another word, and when you have sucked my cock I am going to cum all over your face. Then you will stand up, wearing my semen, and follow me wherever I decide to take you. You have ten seconds to decide."

Cammy dropped to her knees in what seemed be slow motion, carefully tuning out the sounds and images around her. She knew in the back of her mind that no one would notice her immediately, but that once she began to pump his dick in the middle of a crowded room she would become the center of all attention. She didn’t have the luxury of time to think about whether this was what she really wanted or not. This strange man had demanded immediate commitment, and public proof that she would do what he required, and he had not even promised to give her what she needed. But when Marcel looked at her, Cammy knew that he saw through her for what she was, understood her true nature, and was the only man she had ever met who might just hold the key to her bizarre lusts.

From the floor, she reached up and unbuttoned his fly. She was not surprised to find no shorts confining his prick, which sprang free of his clothes and pointed, already half erect, down at her face. Cammy heard someone shout, "Whoa, guys, porno alert!" and was barely conscious of the movement of the crowd around her, but she tuned it out. What was important at this moment—all that was important at this moment—was not to disappoint Marcel. And that would take some doing, for as she brought her lips up to the head of his cock, Cammy was all too aware that her actual experience in giving head was lamentably limited. What would be worse than sucking the cock of a total stranger in public? Sucking it badly.

She kissed the tip of his dick, and moved her lips slowly up the shaft in a continuing caress. Her tongue tickled his slit, and she was rewarded by the small jerk that indicated his growing arousal. Marcel’s penis was both longer and somewhat larger than the others she had encountered, and Cammy realized, while sucking in her cheeks to create some pressure against it, that she would have difficulty taking it all in her mouth. She had read about something called "suppressing the gag reflex" in order to take a dick all the way down her throat, but had never seriously considered how to do it.

As the drunks gathered round to watch, Cammy realized that Marcel had remained completely motionless. He was not going to help her by probing foreward, or even by grasping her head so that he would seat more firmly in her mouth. He was silently insistent that she do all the work, and so she reached up behind him and cupped his buttocks, pulling his crotch toward her, forcing his now engorged member deeper into her throat. Cammy felt its tip hit the back of her throat at the same moment her nose nestled into his pubic hair. Holding on to him for balance, she began working her head back and forth along his cock, bathing it in saliva and trying to keep as much pressure on it as possible, which produced a distinct slurping noise.

"Lookit that hot little cunt’s mouth go," somebody said.

"Hey," said another voice. "I know her! That’s Cammy from our English class!"

Cammy felt rather than saw someone crouch down beside her, studying her face as it rocked back and forth on Marcel’s prick from a distance of only five or six inches. He belched directly at her, and without any particular haste or self-consciousness reached out with beefy hands and lifted up her T-short, exposing her breasts. They were swaying back and forth, excited from Marcel’s earlier stimulation.

"Hot lil’ fuckbag, ain’t you," he said, grabbing her right tit roughly.

Cammy, never breaking her motion of sawing back and forth on Marcel’s dick, looked up at him with imploring eyes. His arms were folded on his chest. When her eyes met his, he looked away. As she closed her eyes (suddenly tearing again), she heard him answer a question calmly, "Well, she’s not particularly good at it, I’ll grant you, but she’s here."

The blunt fingers with the broken fingernails were pawing her breasts, twisting instead of kneading, forcing her to squirm in involuntary reaction to the distracting pain. Cammy blocked it out and concentrated on the penis between her lips. It had become straight and totally erect, despite Marcel’s bland disclaimer, and she could feel his body tensing. She increased the speed with which she jacked her head back and forth, gaining additional momentum when the drunk enjoying her chest suddenly lost his balance and fell away amid general laughter. In trying to catch himself he grabbed for her shirt, but succeed only in ripping it open on his way down.

There was a tremor from Marcel’s cock, and she thought she felt a droplet of pre-cum emerge from his slit, but Cammy was too new at this whole process to be sure. She kept pumping her mouth up and down, fluttering her tongue along the bottom of his dick.

Abruptly, Marcel’s hands pulled hers away from his butt, and then took hold of the side of her head, fingers digging in through her hair to grip her ears. She had never been touched with such authority, and it almost provoked an instant orgasm of her own, right there in the middle of the floor. He pulled her off his rigid penis, and said sternly, "Jack it with your hands, slut."

Cammy immediately reached up and followed instructions. The fingers twisting painfully in her hair held her face immobile inches from the end of his cock. The head appeared to her to be purple and as large as the bore of a shotgun.

"Face shot! Face shot! Face shot!" the crowd was chanting.

The first spurt of Marcel’s semen hit Cammy across the bridge of her nose and in her left eye before she even realized he was cumming. She squinted the eye shut as a second rope landed across her forehead, running into her hair. Subsequent discharges (and there were at least ten strong ones that she counted) landed across her face at irregular intervals, including two which, courtesy of Marcel’s thumbs which had curved around her face and pried her mouth open again, hit her tongue. For the last, low-velocity emissions, he pushed her hands away and directed his jism atop her now partially exposed breasts.

There was general cheering and hooting, which grew even louder as Marcel calmly used her hair to wipe his dick clean of residual semen and saliva.

"Stand up, slut," he directed, and when she did, he leaned just a bit closer and whispered new instructions in her ear, careful not to touch her.

"Thank you, Master," Cammy said loud enough to be heard over the racket, "for allowing me to suck your cock. Thank you for honoring me by cumming on my face. May I please be allowed to put your dick back in your pants?"

He nodded curtly, and trembling she gently bent his now receding erection back into his pants.

"You may follow me out," he said quietly, "unless you’ve had enough." Marcel turned away and began threading his way through the throng, without even glancing back to see if she was in pursuit.

Cammy didn’t hesitate, although the forest of hands reaching out to slap her stomach or cup her butt slowed her down quite a bit. Most of her was so humiliated that she could only look directly ahead, trying futilely to blink back the tears which were becoming sobs. She heard every word of derision spoken as she passed, and they all struck home. Her face was flaming red, her hands shaking visibly. To her horror, as she crossed the final few feet of the room separating her from the door, she saw her English Literature professor, standing with his back against the wall, eyes fixed on her cum-covered face. This was the man she had privately thought might become her mentor, but in his expression she saw nothing now except unconcealed disgust.

What have I done? She asked herself, as she staggered through the door.

Marcel’s form was receding rapidly; she had to run to catch him. When she did, he took up back to his apartment, tied her face down to his bed, spending the night alternating between savagely fucking her doggy style and beating her upturned ass as hard as he could with a ping-poing paddle. Sometime around four in the morning this activity made him hungry enough to head out for an early breakfast, and he left her tied there while he enjoyed an order of ham and eggs. Before he departed, Marcel warned her sternly that he would really punish her if she lost control and wet his bed, knowing full well that she had not had the opportunity to relieve herself in at least six hours.

By the time he returned, Cammy was incoherent. Her face (and now her back) was covered with his drying cum. Her hair was matted. Bright red stripes, only now beginning to dull into ugly yellow-green brusies, crisscrossed her ass. There were red marks on her hanging breasts where he had squeezed them at climax as she howled in pain. A mixture of his own cum and her juices dripped out of her vagina and down her inner thighs. She could not see anything, because as an afterthought Marcel had blindfolded her on leaving for breakfast.

He sat down beside her and called her name softly.

Cammy whimpered.

Marcel gently turned her hooded face toward him.

"Get ahold of yourself, Cammy. We’ve only just begun. This is what you wanted, isn’t it?"

She groaned in answer, something incomprehensible from the pit of her stomach.

Marcel idly reached out and pinched a nipple. She was not too tired to flinch.

"That’s not good enough, you little slut. When I speak, you answer me, no matter what. This is what you wanted, isn’t it?"

"Yes," she breathed huskily.

"Yes, Master," he corrected. pulling on the nipple again, not playfully, but painfully.

"Yes, Master," Cammy replied.

"Ask me to keep on treating you like you deserve. Beg me to take you any way I want, and to ignore what you want. Ask me to humiliate you again. Make me believe that you want to stay."

Cammy’s voice caught in her throat, but she knew that she had to reply. "Please, Master. Keep me. Do whatever you want to me. I need it. Whatever and whenever you want."

"You don’t really have any idea what you’re asking," he observed. "But that’s okay, because I do. You really are a worthless little cunt with no style and even less experience, but I do need a hose bag for those nights when nothing better turns up."

He reached over and undid her blindfold. Her eyes were wide and feral. He took off his pants and kneeled on the bed, his dick level with her face. "This is your new Master, slut. From now on, when my cock is exposed you will keep your eyes on it and never look at my face without permission. Understood?"

"Yes, Master."

"For the remainder of the weekend you will not speak unless spoken to."

"Yes, Master."

"You will not be untied until you suck my dick again, this time doing a better job of it."

"Yes, Master," Cammy said, and opened her mouth dutifully.

It was the begining of a long and twisted road, which found her, nearly seven years later, naked on the floor of their basement, his cock still lodged in her mouth, more than ever her Master’s slave.

ChapterThree

At about 7:00 p.m., Marcel clicked the remote control and at the same time nudged Cammy away from his crotch with a knee in the ribs that was not hard enough to bruise her, but hardly gentle. She landed in a heap on the floor beside his chair, and Marcel, closing his pants, got up and left the basement without a word. Cammy heard him walking around upstairs, even heard him once go out to his car, but not having been given either a command nor permission to move she stayed on the cold floor where he had left her. She was quite aware that it was possible that he might even decide to leave her here all night—and that was hardly the most frightening thing he might do.

* * *

At almost exactly the same moment that Marcel left Cammy naked on the basement floor, Bobby Lomax was preparing to go porn-hunting on the internet. It was a nightly excursion in which he easily defeated the supposed checks for adult status and entered even pay-per-view web sites at will. He managed this courtesy of his mother’s credit card number. Jeannette Lomax was not only too lost in booze and soap operas to know that he had filched the number, she was too much of an addict to home shopping and psychic networks to ever question charges on her bill, no matter how strange the company’s name might be.

For Bobby the internet had first been a complete wonderland, where he could actually find photographs and even videos of men doing all the things he had ever imagined (and quite a few he hadn’t thought up yet) to women. Even when you eliminated the pictures that were obviously faked, the women who were overweight or three-bag ugly, there was a whole bonanza of weird erotica, much of which had been downloaded to his computer and printed at 1420 dpi resolution on his color laser printer. Bobby had binders devoted to each of his particular fetishes, with some images crossing over the boundaries and appearing more than once. He had a binder for women being pissed on, defecated upon, having their breasts pounded, prodded, pierced, and distended, being raped anally and orally, being hung upside down with gigantic dildoes crammed inside them. . . .

Bobby’s favorite collections was simply entitled "Pain." "Pain" included those all too rare shots when the action was not being faked, and the victim was in obvious, facially expressed pain. One of the prides of his "Pain" collection was a series of full-length photos of an Asian woman being hung entirely by cords tied tightly around the base of her breasts, which were themselves penetrated liberally with small needles. There were twenty-five images in all, which began with her breasts being bound and pierced, continued through her elevation into the air, and concluded with what he considered a delightful set of three pictures of two men grabbing her legs like the wishbone of a chicken and pulling down and apart as hard as they could, noticeably stretching her tortured boobs even more while her faced contorted into shrieks. His only wish was that it had been a video.

It was the seductive nature of really aberrant pornography that Bobby could never be satisfied with what he had already found on the web, and it was the nature of the internet that somebody was always finding something new to put up for public view. So Bobby surfed religiously, which was how—purely by accident—he discovered his favorite teacher, Mrs. Camilla Witherspoon, bound, naked, and submissive right there on his own computer. The website was called simply "Cammy, captures of a shy, submissive schoolteacher," and while the site avoided showing her face, too many details matched his close study of his teacher for it to be anyone else. He matched, for example, the clothes in which she appeared hooded and bound on the index page with a skirt and jacket Mrs. Witherspoon had worn to school three weeks ago. Then Bobby found the page where readers were encouraged to send in their fantasies about what they would like to do with Cammy in exchange for the site address to a facial photo. He knew better than to submit a fantasy, because there was too much chance he might give away some detail that would alert Cammy’s Master that he knew more about her than he should. But for a hacker of Bobby’s ability it only took a few minutes to deduce what the http address of the site had to be.

And there she was—unmistakeably, Mrs. Camilla Witherspoon was Cammy the submissive slut slave teacher.

Bobby sat back, completely astounded. All this time, all those fantasies, and the bitch actually did it. Oh, from the looks of things this Marcel guy was reluctant to really take control in the way Bobby would have, but that certainly did not stop him from printing every single image and wanking off repeatedly before he stopped to consider his next move.

There would be a next move, and that was what was different about Bobby Lomax. He could not just know this and go back to class and have to watch the perfect tightass teacher waltz back and forward in front of him for three more months, knowing that within hours she would be on the basement floor, tied up and exposed to whatever abuse could be imagined. How many times have I seen her just before or just after he reams her ass? he wondered.

He sat back at his desk and began to think furiously.

* * *

Cammy realized that she had dozed when she heard Marcel on the steps. She was shivering uncontrollably, her knees hurt, and in the past hour she had developed a roaring headache. Nonetheless, she had not moved.

Marcel walked to his workbench and pulled out a large wooden saw horse, covered by a rough burlap cloth to prevent splinters. Without even looking in her direction, he said quietly, "Get on the horse." Cammy unwound herself awkwardly and walked obediently to the wooden stand. She knew what her position was supposed to be, with her body stretched along its length, the middle of the beam separating her breasts. Her arms and legs straddled the legs, where they could be easily tied. The horse itself was short enough that one end stopped at her collar bone, forcing her to hold her head erect, and the other end terminated just above her pubis, leaving both her cunt and ass hanging out in the air. Usually her Master used a light cord to attach her extremities to the legs; tonight he employed duct tape, which was not a good sign. It meant that he intended for her to be here for a considerable period of time, and did not want to leave her any leeway to thrash about, even minimally. After taping her down, Marcel wound a black scarf around Cammy’s head, cutting off all vision.

Then he left her there for another hour, with only the single admonition "Keep your head up." That was far easier said than done, but since he never left the basement, Cammy had no choice. She craned her neck painfully, feeling sharp blades of discomfort lance down her shoulders and back. Even through her discomfort, she could hear a variety of sounds emanating from his workbench, none of which made any sense, until at last he approached her again.

Marcel still had not spoken, which was perhaps the most unnerving thing, for he always spoke to her—with disdain when he was angry—but he always spoke. Cammy did not know what to make of it, and it frightened her. Now he said in a flat, toneless voice, "I don’t think this is working any more," before his fingers began smearing lubricant around her anus. She tried unsuccessfully to relax her ass. Penetration there was one of the few sexual acts that she found no pleasure in, and he knew it. It was reserved either for those moments when he wanted to have pleasure without caring about hers, or for those infinitely more ominous times of punishment. Moments later she felt the end of the plastic dildo probing her anal ring, and her heart lurched at what she perceived to be its size. It was at least an inch wider that her Master’s cock, and appeared to be covered with a host of irritating little nubs.

Marcel pushed it in slowly, about an inch deep, and then said, without particular emphasis, "There was a time when it was important to you not to disappoint me." The phony cock advanced another inch, turning slightly as it progressed. Cammy felt her anal tissues straining, and the tiny protrusions produced an internal irritation she had never before experienced. She winced along her entire body, biting her lips hard to keep from crying out. "But some how that’s all gone. It’s almost as if you’ve lost all respect for me." Cammy wanted to protest, but neither the rules nor the ever sharper ache of the now five-inches-deep dildo allowed for conversation.

Abruptly, Marcel yanked the dildo back out almost all the way, and then shoved it angrily up her butt to its six-inch hilt. Unprepared, Cammy screamed, and kept screaming as he repeated the action three more times. She was panting and moaning when he stopped, leaving the plastic rod firmly implanted in her intestines.

It took her nearly five minutes to stop screaming and crying, and when she did, even through the blindfold she sensed his figure directly in front of her face, and was terribly afraid. Something had gone completely awry here, something she did not understand, but Cammy intuited that whatever had happened could threaten her entire way of life and, most importantly her continued existence as Marcel’s slave.

He placed his penis at her lips.

Cammy opened her mouth wide, knowing that this position was one he favored for a throat fuck. She was determined, despite her fear, the numbness in her arms, the cramps in her neck and back, and the shooting pains up her rectum, to satisfy him. Her whole future might depend on his satisfaction now.

Marcel slammed his dick into Cammy’s mouth and as far down her throat as he could reach. He was not gentle, and his stomach collided sharply with her face. Wasting no time, he jerked back all the way to her lips and rammed it home again. He got what he was looking for when Cammy, by now a thoroughly experienced professional at this sort of thing, was distracted enough to gag and clench her esophagus, tightly trapping his prick, but also cutting off her air supply. This time he did not pull back, but strained forward, placing even more pressure on her glottis with a series of little thrusts, the depth of which was increased by fractions of an inch by placing his arms on her shoulders and pulling.

Cammy could not breathe. and she felt panic setting in despite her certain knowledge that Marcel would never really hurt her. Stars swum in front of her covered eyes, her head rang, and the blood thundered in her ears. Involuntarily she attempted to whip her head about and dislodge his penis from its stranglehold.

Which was what he was waiting for.

Marcel withdrew his cock completely from her mouth and stepped back.

"You don’t even trust me enough any more for a good throat fuck," he said grimly.

"No," she rasped desperately, out of her head and ignoring the rules. "I. . . ." But there was nothing to say, and she suddenly knew that by attempting speech she had only made it all worse.

Brusque hands untied her blindfold, which only allowed her to watch him pick up a ball gag and force it into her mouth. He tied it behind her head, gave the strap a hard yank, and stomped out of the basement.

Cammy remained there, strapped, gagged, and penetrated, for the next eight hours.

Chapter Four

Eventually, as exhuasted as she was, Cammy fell asleep, even draped over the sawhorse, but for Marcel there was no such relief. He was visibly trembling as he fled upstairs, for flight—although Cammy could not have guessed it, even had she been in any shape to think logically—was his motive. For the first and only time in their relationship things had gotten out of his conscious control, and he knew that he had come dangerously close to seriously hurting his wife. Part of him, he admitted as he poured himself a very stiff drink, had wanted to draw back the anal dildo and find blood. Part of him had wanted to choke her with his rampant penis until she passed out. He could not ever remember being so angry, and the depth of his emotions scared him

This was more than he had bargained for, a potential new metamorphosis of their relationship that he was all but sure that he did not want. Marcel thought about his expectations for his wife. Obedience to the point of discomfort, exhaustion, humiliation, and minor pain, but not anything destructive or permanent as so often surfaced on the more extreme pages of the Web. He got suggestions like that all the time from his site’s viewers—pierce her, flay her, mark her—and he rejected them out of hand, although he had to admit that there was a certain truly dark side of himself that longed for the steely will he had sometimes seen other masters display.

He could also, despite is fear, fell the very real anger boiling beneath the surface, for a moment held in check by his fear for Cammy and their relationship, but real and palpable nonetheless. Having gone this far with her there was a part of him that yearned to take a next step, and a next. There was a part of him that he had never quite consciously acknowledged, who wanted to find out how far a woman’s body and soul could be pushed. He made a second drink, calming somewhat as he examined this passion, and realizing that it was an abstract thing, something he wanted to do to some woman, not something he specifically hungered to inflict on Cammy. Marcel knew vaguely what he wanted for and from Cammy, and as he thought it through he began to understand the seeds of his immediate anger, and what she had done to provoke it

He wanted, quite simply, to be the most imporant thing in her life, that essential aspect to which all else was subordinated. She should be ready to sacrifice anything he asked on the altar of her need for his dominance, and she should be grateful to him for having provided her the chance to do so. For the most part, with a few lapses made enjoyable by the punishments which had followed, Cammy had done so. He recalled fondly the some of the stunts he had required her to pull in their first days together, in order to prove that she was serious about becoming his slave.

The second weekend they had been together he had brought her back to another party hosted by the same fraternity, albeit a much smaller affair for the officers of the house. He had led her into the room on a leash attached to the dog collar around her neck, nude except for green stockings and a garter belt. She had been forbidden to speak, and required to kneel mutely beside him as he enjoyed himself. Throughout the evening interested men would squat beside Cammy and fondle or pinch her breasts, run their fingers down her flanks, or just pull back the long, tight braid into which her hair had been styled to watch the cords of her neck stand out as her jaw thrust up into the air. They were trivial little abuses, actually, as Marcel had intended them to be, and by the very triviality of their nature they served to undescore her lack of importance.

He delighted in taking her out to restaurants, and making her slip pieces of food off her plate and surreptitiously insert them into her cunt, leaving them there for a least ten minutes. After that, the item would be retrieved and she would eat it. On more than one occasion Cammy had been required to suck off the waiter in lieu of the tip, or even the bill. He made her masturbate every night, usually sitting naked in his lap on top of his penis, sometimes with her legs bound out at extreme angles to the corners of the bed. As Cammy fingered herself to climax, Marcel leaned over her shoulder, biting her neck, and twisting her nipples.

Marcel suddenly realized, as he trudged down memory lane, that he was thinking of these experiences as belonging to "the good old days," and that when he thought about the last year the images which occurred to him were of a woman who was not resistant, but not enthusiastic either. Too often Cammy appeared resigned, or even resentful rather than playful and willing, as she once had. She no longer seemed intent, as both of them once had been, on discovering reasons or creating situations which would allow for the most imaginative sex play. Until this evening, when she had been motivated by the fear of his anger, she had not even consistently obeyed the rule requiring her to undress the moment she entered the house, and with some suprise Marcel admitted to himself that he had neither been enforcing it nor punishing her at each transgression. As a result, the pressure inside him had simply built and built and built to dangerous levels.

They were drifting, that was it. The relationship had lost some sense of purpose that it had once had.

Some other masters had told him this could happen, especially as they noted Marcel’s tendency to sometimes subordinate formal training and control to his personal preference for rough sex. "When it happens," he suddenly remembered being told, "you either have to get rid of her, or retrain her. And by that time the retraining is usually a job for a professional, since she’s sunk into so many bad habits." The other master had handed him a piece of paper with a phone number on it. "If it’s really bad, there’s only one option: the House of Lords."

The House of Lords. Everyone in the lifestyle had heard of it. The legends were ominous, the rumors grim. It was an international organization which supposedly dealt in everything from providing kidnapped slaves for Middle Eastern rulers to custom creating videos and live shows for the most twisted of tastes. For enough money, it was quietly said, the House of Lords would kidnap the anchorwoman off your evening news show and provide you with the opportunity to fuck her to death. Lords also operated training sessions, initial and remedial, for all types of submissives. They were not cheap, but they were absolutely guaranteed to take. Marcel was desperate enough at the thought of possibly losing the essential passion of his relationship with his slut to pick up the phone and dial the number.

"Lords," a man’s voice said. "Trask here, What can we do for you, Mr. Witherspoon?"

Marcel gaped at the phone, speechless. Trask laughed. "Caller ID, Mr. Witherspoon, not magic. I presume you are calling about your slave, Cammy?"

"You did not get that from caller ID, Mr. Trask."

"Of course not. We keep a file on potential clients, and your website is something of a staff favorite here."

"I have a problem."

"Let me guess. Your slut has grown, shall we say, complacent. Instead of constantly seeking to please you, she simply attempts to avoid your displeasure."

Marcel was thunderstruck by the ease with which this unknowm man on the other end of the line had condensed his feelings into a single sentence. "Yes," he said. "That’s exactly it."

"Not uncommon in women trained by amateurs. Your initial enthusiasm will carry you both a long way, but eventually the lack of system and science will undermine you. Let me see. Your file suggests that you are not an extremist—no lacerations, no piercing, no hanging by the nipples. Actually, I like that. It makes us depend on more psychological means instead. We do have a very intensive short course of five days available right now."

"I don’t want her hurt. Not really hurt, I mean."

"Of course you don’t, Mr.Witherspoon. How does this sound? Five days. We agree that she will not be beaten, choked, or marked in any way. She may be restrained, but not so as to produce any permanent physical consequences. We will guarantee the freedom from HIV or any other sexually transmitted diseases of anyone with whom we force her to have sexual activity. At the end of the training, we warrant that you will find both her attitude and skills improved beyond the best you have ever experienced, and if you agree tonight we will offer a complimentary follow-up weekend in six months."

"How much would all of this cost?"

"It is not cheap,Mr. Witherspoon. Five thousand dollars a day for five days, plus a non-performance bond on your part."

"What kind of bond?"

"Non-performance. If Cammy fails to perform any act required, she will receive a consequence. If she fails at the consequence or still resists the original act, she will be removed from the training, and you forfeit twenty-five thousand additional dollars."

Marcel was silent.

"Come now, Mr. Witherspoon. If you expect us to operate without the ability to resort to physical coercion, there must be something ultimately hanging over her head. And if Cammy truly loves and respects you, as I am sure you believe, she will not want to be responsible for causing you financial ruin."

"I need this training for her, but I do not have that kind of money."

"May I be frank, Mr. Witherspoon?"

"Yes."

"Many of our customers in this area do not. But there are arrangements that can be made. You may pay the fee with five thousand dollars down, and finance the rest at reasonable rates. There will be a ten percent discount if you allow us to use photographs and videos of her training in-house for orienting our new staff. We will waive the non-performance bond in exchange for a lien on your house. Frankly, Mr. Witherspoon, that’s more or less a formality. We don’t make much money in the long run if we fail, and if we have to seize the bond we have obviously failed. Its primary use is motivate your slave to . . . shall we say . . . stretch her own boundaries. Are the terms acceptable?"

"I agree," he said succinctly. "To it all."

"I appreciate a decisive man," Trask replied. "I will arrive on Friday morning at 8:00 a.m. at your home to take possession of Cammy. Please have her dressed as if for work, and have her entire wardrobe of clothes prepared to accompany her. She will need neither money nor identification."

"That’s it?"

"That’s it. Not too difficult really. Oh, one thing. You should tell her she is going to be sent for training. You should not mention the House of Lords, nor should you mention any of the limitations to which we have agreed. We will not hurt her, but it is important at some points in the training that she not be aware of that fact." There was a pause, as if Trask was considering. "As a matter of fact, Mr. Witherspoon, it suggests itself to me that the interests of better training rquire me to ask for one relaxation of your standards."

"What?" Marcel said suspiciously. He had known this was too good to be true.

"I think that I will strike her once, and only once. A hard, open handed slap across the face, strong enough to leave her disoriented and leave a temporary red mark. I will want to do it in your presence, as it will convince her that you have indeed turned her over to our total control. Will that be acceptable?"

"It won’t be repeated?"

"No. She will not be seriously abused, although that does not rule out what she may see being done to other people."

"I don’t care what you show her, just that you don’t really hurt her."

"Very good. I will see you on Friday."

The line went dead, and Marcel, throwing his doubts to the wind, sat on his bed and gripped one of the largest, most painful erections he had ever experienced. Rubbing it hard, he staggered into the bathroom before he blew his load across the toilet.

* * *

When Cammy woke, she found herself lying comfortably in her own bed. Beneath the coverlet she was nude, and although she was stiff and covered with small bruises, Cammy realized that the dildo had been removed from her ass, and that her wrists and ankled, though chafed and abraded, had been massaged with aloe vera lotion. She tried to remember, but called up only a dreamlike vision of gentle hands untying her from the sawhorse, and being lifted like a small child into someone’s arms.

With a start, Cammy realized that through the window she cold see the late afternoon sun, which meant that she had been unconscious in the basement or sleeping in her bed for somethig like sixteen hours. She had obviously not gone to work today, and wondered briefly if Marcel had remembered to call her in sick.

Marcel. Where was was he? What was he doing? And why had he—for it could have been no one else—not only rescued her from her punishment but treated her with unaccustomed solicitude and tenderness? Cammy shuddered, wondering if somehow this was all just a game, if she was being tricked into something far worse than last night’s torment.

Make no mistake, last night had been one of the most severe, painful, and frightening sessions in all the years they had been together. Cammy had never felt such raw anger from her Master, never felt herself in such serious danger, never felt such pain as he had inflicted on her ass and mouth. For a few moments, when his engorged penis had blocked off her airway and the dildo had been pulsing against her rectum, Cammy had actually believed that Marcel intended not to stop short of at least maiming her—possibly worse.

But even as she shivered in the memory of that event, Cammy realized that her hand had drifted between her legs, fingering the hood above her clitoris. From even this slight distance there was something hugely erotic for the red-headed submissive in the thought that her Master became so passionately angry at her that he lost control. It made her feel paradoxically flushed with desire and warmly loved to have been threatened with destruction. It was, she thought, a reflection of the basic depavity of her character.

Cammy drifted into a sleepy reverie, reliving old sessions with Marcel, slowly masturbating. It was just as her back was arching, her breath coming in hurried gasps, and her fingers probing back and forth inside her cunt that Marcel entered the room, carrying a bed tray with food on top of it. Cammy stiffened, instantly aware that she had been interrupted in the act of masturbating without his permission, a major infraction of the rules. And based on last night’s performance, she could expect a hefty penalty.

But although Marcel’s face clouded for a moment, he then shrugged and sat down on the bed beside her. Placing the tray on the night stand, he leaned in toward her, sliding his left hand under the covers to begin diddling her himself. Within moments Cammy’s hips bucked high off the mattress, and she whimpered in pleasure. His thumb and forefinger flicked her clitoris at a rapid pace, not relenting until she sagged back down against the bed, face drenched with sweat, thighs covered with her own juices.

"That seemed like a good one," he said quietly.

Cammy tensed.

"Master," she began, "I’m sorry. I didn’t mean. . . ."

He placed a finger over her lips, silencing her.

"It’s okay. You’re not in trouble. You haven’t disappointed me."

Cammy relaxed, but she was still suspicious.

"Why did you bring me up here?" she asked, and both of them knew what confused her. In the course of ordinary punishment sessions, Marcel would have finally released her from her confinement, but Cammy would have been required to remain in the basement until she had showered and cleaned herself up. She would not have been surprised if she had been made to remove the dildo from her anus by herself. Then, on returning to the bedroom she would have had to present herself for inspection, to have thanked her husband for his attention, and to have gotten down on her knees and offered to suck him off again in appreciation. The routine had variations, but the concept was essentially the same: it was the slave’s responsibility to take care of herself after a session.

"I wasn’t happy with the way last night went," Marcel finally said. "I wanted to talk."

And then he said the word.

In almost every dominance/submission relationship there is one word or phrase by which either of the partners can signal a need to step outside the normal confines of their roles. Usually the word is spoken only to initiate a discussion of the entire relationship, a discussion which must be held as equals, since the submissive remains a slave only as long as she gives general consent to the process. For someone like Cammy, who was unused to being consulted in major (or even minor) decisions about their relationship, Marcel’s use of the word was completely unnerving. She had never forgotten a chance comment, made several years ago, that "If I ever decided to leave you, or throw you out, I’d say the word first, so that we could talk about it." Since he had spoken the word only twice in six years, Cammy felt a sharp stab of fear lance through her. Was he terminating their relationship? Had she failed him that badly?

Marcel caught the significance of her look, and smiled, shaking his head.

"No, we’re not done. But something was not right last night, and we need to fix it. I’ve made a decision, and I need to see if you agree with it."

Her mouth was dry, when she asked, "What decision?"

"I’ve decided that we’ve both been too lax at keeping the rules. You in obeying them, and me in enforcing them. I’ve let you develop bad habits, and then I’ve punished you for it, even though it’s not your fault."

Cammy shrugged.

"My role is to be punished, Master. It’s what I expect out of life, out of you."

"Last night wasn’t punishment,or discipline, or even bondage. It was closer to torture or something morbid. It’s not what I want for us. It’s not what I enjoy."

"Then what do I have to do? What do you want to change?"

"I’m going to change some of the rules," he said. "Though not for a few days. In order for this to work, for us to get back on track, you’re going to have to go away to get some remedial training while I revise the rules."

"Go away?" she whispered.

Marcel laid a calming hand on her exposed breast, rolling the nipple absently between his fingers. "No, dear slut, I’m not getting rid of you. I’m sending you to school."

"But, I. . . ."

Me placed a quieting finge across her lips, and Cammy realized that, having spoken the word or not, she was being informed of a decision already taken, not being asked for inuput. She tried to will herself to relax, but the tension in her muscles would not ease. School? Remedial training? What did it all mean?

Marcel seemed motivated to answer a few of these questions, and she listened intently.

"I’ve already called you in sick for a few days. Tomorrow a man will come to the house and take you with him. You’re to do whatever he says. You’ll be gone about five days. No, don’t ask what’s going to happen, because I won’t tell you. It’s all part of the surprise. What I want you to do now is to agree to go, and to agree to obey."

The finger withdrew from Cammy’s lips and stroked her cheek.

"Tell me that you’re still my slut, Cammy, and that you’re willing to do this for me. For us."

"Yes, Master," she said in a husky whisper.

"Tell me that you belong to me, that I can do whatever I choose with you, and that you will always be ready to prove your love."

"I will, Master. You know that I am yours. You don’t have to send me away, though. I’ll do everything you want. I’ll be a better slave. You can punish me like you did last night, or worse, if I’m not." Cammy was perilously close to babbling. Her fear that being sent to "remedial training" was merely some subterfuge for discarding her from his life had bubbled to the surface. A tear formed in the corner of her eye, and he leaned down and kissed it.

"I know you’re apprehensive," Marcel said. "And I like that in a slut. But don’t think I’m using this as an excuse to get free of you. You have as many chains on me as I have ever wrapped around you, little slave. You’re going away for awhile more because I’ve failed than because you have."

He had been about to feed her in bed, a gesture of comfort before she faced the difficult days ahead. But watching Cammy’s breasts heave as she tried to control herself was too much for Marcel, and he had to have her again. His prick leaped erect beneath his sweatsuit. "I’ll show you how much I still love you," he said, climbing atop the bed.

Marcel placed his knees on either side of her chest, and pulled down the waistband of his pants, exposing a rampant cock with a purpled head. It floated in the air inches from Cammy’s lips, and she smiled. This she understood. Her tongue snaked out and caressed him, he mouth opening wide to take him deep inside. He leaned forward, settling his weight on her and mashing her tits. She groaned with pleasure as he started sawing in and out of her mouth.

After he came, filling her throat with his semen, he fell into bed beside her, and they laid in each other’s arms, not speaking, for several hours.

Chapter Five

Trask arrived at exactly 8:00 a.m. in a Lincoln Continental large enough to require a driver, but not quite opulent enough to attract too much unwarranted attention on an upper middle class suburban street. He was a solid, non-descript man with close-cropped brown hair, graying a bit at the temples, deepset green eyes, and an immaculately tailored Armani suit. His most striking characteristic, Marcel later recalled, were extremely large and powerful hands, hands which easily might have belonged to a man a full head taller. On the ring finger of his right hand, Trask wore a simple gold band, adorned only with a brilliant sapphire cut into a precise triangle; it was, both Marcel and Cammy would both eventually learn, the sigil of the House of Lords, and the mark of a Senior Master, the likes of which only nine men on Earth were currently privileged to wear.

While Marcel greeted Trask in the living room, Cammy waited obediently in the kitchen. She had dressed very carefully, per her Master’s instructions, and appeared in much the same fashion as she might have worn to school that day. A conservative blouse with a flowery pattern (greens predominating), flattered the shape of her breasts, with attention being subtly drawn to them by the earthier tones of the full-length wrap-around skirt she had chosen. Her hair hung loosely down her back. She had not eaten anything, nor voided herself, in many hours. This was not in response to any command from Marcel, but an indication of stark terror. Cammy understood all too well that if she allowed anything down her throat that it would soon be coming back up, with the same certainty that she realized that all of her sphincters had tightened down as if held in vise grips.

He’s sending me away, she kept thinking, even though Marcel had repeatedly denied it. Cammy’s hands quivered, and she fought back tears, straining to listen to the barely audible sound of male voices from the other room.

"Cammy, come out here now, please," Marcel suddenly called.

Lightheaded and unsure on her feet, Cammy opened the door to the living room. Marcel and Trask were both seated, her Master on the sofa and the man from the House of Lords resting on the edge of a leather recliner. Idly, a rebellious part of her mind reminded Cammy of the time that Marcel had tied her naked over the arms of that particular chair, leaving her there blindfolded for the plumber to find as payment for repairing a toilet. When he had returned home, Marcel had found her, still strapped down and masked, but with a crumpled statement marked "paid in full" duct-taped to her reddened and abused buttocks. She realized, in a sudden, nearly blinding flash, that a significant percentage of Marcel’s more creative sexual escapades—at least those involving guests—had occurred in this room. And it was here, Cammy feared, that Marcel had finally tired of her and decided to toss her away.

The look on Trask’s face was so cold, so forbidding, that Cammy almost missed Marcel’s quiet command to kneel at the stranger’s feet. Nevertheless, years of training made her response appear almost instantaneous. She dropped to the floor just outside his widespread knees, keeping her eyes lowered—looking somewhere between his crotch and the floor.

"She is not as attractive as you led us to believe," Trask commented, a few moments later, in a voice that was matter-of-fact in its dismissal. He leaned forward and his huge hands bypassed her face and breasts to touch Cammy’s stomach, abruptly seizing a fold of her flesh through her blouse. "Gotten a little flabby, by the feel of it."

"She did look better when I married her," Marcel said, in what seemed almost an apologetic tone of voice. "That’s part of the problem, Mr. Trask. The slut just doesn’t keep herself up any more. I mean, look at the spread she’s starting to show on that ass."

Cammy felt her face burning as the blood rose up her neck, leaving her skin a flushed red that nearly matched her hair. Part of her knew, or at least suspected, that this was part of the ritual; after all, she had heard Marcel bad-mouth her body before. And she knew, intellectually at least, that her weight and her measurements were almost exactly what they had been as a teenager. An enforced (with a whip) daily regimen of exercise saw to that. But there was something so derisive in this particular conversation, something so blandly honest in Trask’s assessment, that she felt humiliated after only a couple of sentences in way that even public sex had never left her.

The powerul hands moved calmly up Cammy’s sides—still avoiding her breasts—and clasped her neck, inexorably forcing her head to tilt up. She struggled not to let her eyes rise as his thumbs forced her chin to do so. When he stopped, her neck was craned painfully back, forcing Cammy’s back to arch in an especially awkward pose, and Trask’s fingers had pried her mouth open.

"Hold it there," he said.

Cammy assumed that he was preparing her to receive his cock in her mouth, and let her eyes close to mere slits. This, at least, was something she understood, something she knew she was good at.

But nothing happened. Cammy did not feel him rise to position himself, straddled above her, as she had anticipated. Trask simply waited, saying nothing, and as for Marcel, he might have disappeared off the face of the planet. Minutes passed, and with her eyes nearly closed, Cammy found it more and more difficult to maintain her balance. She felt herself swaying slightly, almost weaving in little and (she hoped) imperceptible circles.

"Christ," Trask said finally, "she can’t even hold a pose for more than a few seconds. Are you sure you just don’t want us to sell her for you? To some place where they don’t really have standards?"

"No," Marcel’s voice came back, but there was a hesitation in it that sent daggers into the pit of her stomach. "I want her trained, back to the way she used to be, or better, if you can do it. I know she doesn’t have the quality you’re used to, but I can’t afford better right now."

Cammy almost felt Trask’s shrug: "It’s your money, Mr. Witherspoon." Then she did feel him stand, and sensed his loins just in front of her face. "Open your eyes and look at me," he said.

She did, and flinched in spite of herself at the blank look of disinterested superiority on the face peering down at her.

"Cammy, you need to understand something. Marcel has entrusted you into my keeping for training. To me, you are merely a slave who has less than desirable attributes, not a woman. If I touch you, it will be because my job requires it, not because you arouse me. The little tricks you think you’ve learned over the past few years mean nothing to me—you can’t divert me with you mouth or your cunt or your ass. I can have better and tighter and more expert sex at any moment than you have ever provided Marcel in your life."

He stopped, considering.

"I think it is important for a slave to know with utter certainty, at the very beginning, just what her status is. And to understand that your Master, Marcel, has forfeited any rights or authority over you for the duration of your training. Tell me, Mr. Witherspoon, when you let your friends have her, what are the limitations you place on them—as far as abusing her, I mean?"

"Well, sexually, they can pretty much do what they want. Humiliation, spanking, tying her up, that sort of thing."

"Serious pain?"

"Uh, not really. I mean, not anything permanent or marking. I’m into nipple clips, not branding."

"And what restrictions has the House of Lords agreed to respect, Mr.Witherspoon? For the record."

Marcel sounded like an uncomfortable man trying to appear casual. He said, "Our contract places no restrictions on you whatsoever, other than the obvious implication that she will be returned alive and in serviceable condition."

Trask looked down into Cammy’s eyes.

"I can hurt you, slave, I really can. I can have you ass-fucked by with a baseball bat if I choose, or I can use this"—he held up the sigil ring—"to leave a lovely little scar right across here"—drawing it lightly up over her cheek and across her left eye—" for everyone to see, wherever you go for the rest of your life. And just in case you harbor the delusion that this is empty rhetoric, served up only to impress you. . . ."

With appalling swiftness, Trask drew back his left hand and slapped Cammy across the face so hard that she crumpled bonelessly to the floor with a strangled shriek. The entire right side of her face felt as if it had been hit by a ball peen hammer, and she was not entirely sure that her nose had not been broken. There was snot running out of one nostril and blood seeping from the corner of her lips. Her disoriented mind only recorded the sound of his palm striking her face—a clap like a rifle shot—moments after she had collapsed. She realized that she was sobbing, and that through the buzzing in her ears she could hear both men laughing quietly. Somewhere, seconds later, in another disconnected sensory impression, Cammy heard the door to the kitchen open with its peculiar creak.

"Stand up," Trask ordered, and supplemented the command with a grip that jerked her to her feet. Cammy realized immediately that Marcel had left the room. She was alone with Trask. Abandoned. He steadied her with brusque efficiency rather than roughness, straigthening the front of her blouse, even patting down a wisp of hair which wanted to stick out at an odd angle. "Control your breathing. Deep breaths. Now look me in the eyes."

The vision in her right eye was still blurry, but the clarity of the half of Trask’s face that Cammy could see was unnerving. His face held almost no expression—perhaps the mild interest of a man channel-surfing who stops momentarily to glance at an old movie before moving on.

"You will not see Marcel again in your life, unless, sometime during the next week, you manage to rise to my standards. I doubt that you have it in you, but I am a professional. I will look for it. If the search breaks you, it is of little consequence to me. Do you understand?"

"Yes . . . Master."

He held up an index finger and shook his head.

"No. I am not your Master. You do not deserve me. You will simply call me Trask. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Trask."

"Good. Now open your mouth again."

Trask produced a ball gag built around a hard plastic baseball so large that Cammy knew immediately she would strain her mouth as wide as possible to allow him to force it past her teeth. The straps, she noted, were clear plastic, and contrived in such a way that they would cinch around her neck and through her hair so as to be invisible from as close as six or eight feet. She could wear it out to Trask’s car without the neighbors noticing a thing amiss.

He flipped the straps back with practiced ease, leaned forward to place the ball in her mouth, and then hesitated. He pulled it back and considered for a moment.

"Just in case you have any last, lingering illusions," Trask said grimly, and proceeded to drool a large wad of saliva over the plastic sphere. Then he reached down and wiped the ball through the ash tray sitting on the living room table, covering its surface with a fine coating of the ashes from the small cigars Marcel smoked.

"Open wide," he said blandly.

* * *

In the car Trask added a blindfold to Cammy’s ensemble, and secured her hands in the small of her back with handcuffs. As the Lincoln rocketed toward the interstate, she found herself forced down onto the floor of the back seat, her face pushed unceremoniously into the plush upholstery, and her butt left sticking up in the air. In such fashion she rode for what seemed like hours, but was in reality only about thirty minutes.

During that time she listened to Trask talking on a cell-phone, sounding for all the world like a prominent stockbroker, placing orders and suggesting good buys to his clients. It was only after the third or fourth conversation that Cammy realized he was selling and buying women, not Pfizer, Walt Disney, or Microsoft. As this dawned on her, the bound schoolteacher shivered, and though only one of her calves was lightly brushing Trask’s trousers, he felt the movement instantly.

He said, "I’ll get back to you in a little while, Joel. It appears the natives are getting restless."

His powerful right hand reached down, its fingers knotting in Cammy’s hair, and jerked her upright. Trask twisted her head painfully around so that her covered face was pointed toward him. For the first time she heard genuine annoyance in his voice.

"It should have been obvious, even to a cretin like you, Cammy, that your role here was to lie there and be still. God, I’m going to have to be even more basic with you than I thought."

He released his grip just long enough to spin her around and slam her face back into the floorboard. Cammy felt his hands at the waistband of her skirt, unceremoniously pulling it and her panties down to expose her ass.

"Shit," Trask said, as if to himself. "I didn’t plan on this so soon." He rapped on the glass separating the passenger compartment from the driver. When the chaffeur slid back the window, Trask asked, "What have you got that’s long and thick, Ben, aside from what you keep between your legs?"

The driver chuckled.

"Doin’ a little preliminary training, boss?"

"You might say that, Ben. This stupid little cunt doesn’t even know how to lie down and keep quiet. She needs a reminder."

Ben considered for a moment.

"Got just the thing, Mr. Trask."

It was probably for the better that Cammy did not see the driver reach into the glove compartment and retrieve a yellow plastic flashlight, some three inches in diameter, but then again, she felt it soon enough. Without preamble or benefit of lubrication, Trask took the utility tool and placed its rippled end between her buttocks, lining it up directly against her anal sphincter. Simultaneously thrusting and making a screwing motion, he began inserting the light into her asshole, which was already red and tender from Marcel’s assault the previous night. Despite herself, Cammy attempted to scream through the ball gag and bucked against his relentless pressure. It felt to her as if Trask was impaling her on a telephone pole. But trapped between the front and back seats, her hands tied, and gasping for air through the pile of the carpet, she could offer no meaningful resistance.

Bright red lances of pain shot through Cammy’s rectum, her stomach spasmed, and she retched so hard that she could taste the bile running along her tongue, flattened against the floor of her mouth. When the flashlight was seated a good six or seven inches deep between her buttocks, Trask stopped pressing it in. He placed a casual hand on her right cheek, and simply waited for her tremors and convulsions to subside. Painful as the intruding plastic phallus was, Cammy had known similar violations, and eventually she mastered herself to point of ceasing to whimper and thrash, her movements degenerating into a mild, disjointed shaking, though when Trask experimentally flicked the plastic cone with his index finger, new daggers shot into her stomach.

Finally, he leaned over her and began to speak, all the while genlty rotating the flashlight in her ass.

"I do not particularly like being simply brutal, Cammy, but you have to follow instructions. Even when they’re only implied expectations. Now, I hope you don’t have to learn this lesson again"—and to emphasize his point Trask jabbed the cylinder another quarter-inch deeper into Cammy’s bowels—"because I can escalate things much faster than you’ve ever thought possible. And just to make sure that the slave comprehends the lesson, I’m going to let you ride the rest of the way with our friend here, firmly ensconced. It should only be another two or three hours before we get there."

Occasionally, Cammy would feel herself slipping into a blissful unconsciousness, but with preternatural sensitivity Trask always seemed to notice her body start to go slack, and without even missing a telephonic beat he would rotate the light or push it just a fraction deeper with both clinical precision and personal disinterest.

* * *

During the blurry haze of semi-consciousness she endured for the trip, Cammy found her mind filled spontaneously with disjointed images from her early years with Marcel. Not surprisingly, considering the rigid intruder in her anal canal, they were predominantly images which revolved around his carefully orchestrated deflowering of her rearward virginity. Marcel had been so pleasantly astounded to discover, upon accepting her as his slave, that Cammy had never experienced anal sex, that he intentionally delayed her first time for more than a year, building the suspense with threats and teasing while he conceived of just the proper plan for initiating her.

That proper plan, Marcel had decided, need three elements for him to consider it a success. First and foremost, he wanted Cammy’s introduction to anal sex to be somewhere beyond unpleasant, and into the realm of downright painful. What Marcel enjoyed about the concept of ramming his rigid cock up a woman’s ass was not so much the tightness of that orifice, but the sense of power which came from his ability to inflict himself upon her. While he was certainly aware that some women grew not only to tolerate but to enjoy anal sex, he did not particularly want Cammy to be one of them; he wanted his sex slave wife to grit her teeth, grunt with discomfort, and endure the act because her Master had a whim to engage in it, not because she liked it.

Secondly, Marcel wanted the anticipation to build around the pivotal event to the point where Cammy would be deathly afraid of the reality, but so worked up that there would be a part of her that wanted just to hurry up and get it over with. In thinking this segment of his fantasy out, her imaginative husband had decided that his slave’s anal experiences would take a full five days to unfold, with each day carefully calculated to increase Cammy’s anxiety.

And finally there was the element of humiliation. More even than the pain, Marcel wanted Cammy to associate degradation and disgust with the act of his penis violating her tight little sphincter. It was part of their developing psychology as a dominant-submissive, sado-masochistic couple that he realized the way of her. The more humiliating the act, the greater demonstration Cammy would be making of her love and devotion to her Master, and the bigger charge he would get out of it as well.

Thus the genesis of Marcel Witherspoon’s "Five Day Festival of the Ass." It had begun on a Saturday, and climaxed (right up Cammy’s butt) the following Wednesday night. The videos he had shot of each evening were so hot that he still masturbated to them, even years later.

Saturday night had kicked off the festivities with "The Night of the Stripe." From dinner time on, Cammy had been required to follow Marcel around the house naked on all fours, adorned only with a dog collar and a leash, and carrying a small pillow in her teeth. At any time that he stopped in a room (to sit down, for example, to watch a movie), Cammy had orders to first drop the pillow and lick his shoes thoroughly clean, and then to prostrate herself—face into the pillow on the floor—with her butt straight up in the air. Resting her weight on her forehead and knees, Cammy then had to bring her fingers around and pry her cheeks as far apart as possible, holding the positon no matter what occured.

The first time that her asshole was so exposed, Marcel expressed incredible disgust, wiped it with toilet tissue, and reached around to jam the wad of dirtied paper between his slave’s teeth. "My God, you filthy little cunt," he shouted. "Can’t you even keep yourself clean?"

At this point, in feigned outrage, he picked up a narrow leather belt which had been left in the living room for just such a purpose, and began to rain sharp blows on her quivering buttocks. More than a dozen bright red welts quickly appeared, slicing angrily across Cammy’s flesh. This scene, with variations, was played out in several rooms, until her ass was a mottled tracery of blue, black, and red, and rivers of involuntary tears streaming from Cammy’s eyes. The denouement occurred in the upstairs bathroom, where Marcel forced his wife to lean down over the toilet bowl so close that her hair trailed in the water, as he used his left hand to distend her cheeks even further, while his right hand grasped the folded belt and delivered five hard blows directly atop Cammy’s puckered anus, to the accompanying strangled screams.

He left her in this position for two hours.

Sunday was devoted to the "Day of the Vegetables."

As he watched NFL play-off games, Marcel kept Cammy sitting at his feet (quite uncomfortably, with her battered butt on the uncarpeted floor), idly stroking her hair or reaching down to fondle a breast. At every commercial break, however, the redhead was required to stand, spread her injured cheeks, and allow her Master to insert a carrot or stick of celery is her ass. The vegetables had been lightly buttered for easy entry, and Marcel would spend several minutes diddling his wife’s lower intestinal track with salad makings—twisting, jabbing, poking in and pulling out—until the advertising ended. At that point, Cammy would extract the vegetable herself, sit back down, and eat it during the next program segment.

On Monday, returning home from school, Cammy found herself greeted at the door by Marcel, who uncharacteristically kept her from stripping her clothes off, and who (with no small amount of malevolent glee in his voice) announced that this was "The Night of the Nozzle." He instructed Cammy to leave her heeled shoes on, drop her stockings and her skirt around her ankles, and open her sports jacket and blouse, but not to remove her exposed bra. With the skirt, stocking, and two-inch heels serving as an improvised hobble, Cammy shuffled behind her Master into the living room, where she discovered with horror that Marcel had erected three large enema bags from the chandelier. Bending her over a chair, he proceeded without ceremony to insert the nozzle of the first bag in her anus, and let the contents flow into her.

Cammy’s back arched, and her terror grew as she realized that not only did Marcel intend for her bowels to accomodate more than two quarts of fluid, but that water, having just been removed from the refrigerator, was icy cold. Her body began to be wracked with involuntary shivering even before the first bag had been depleted. Undeterred, Marcel switched hoses and began pumping in the second, followed by a significant portion of the third. He completed the process by implanting a rubber butt plug, and abruptly ordering his wife to stand up.

Cammy could only rise to a semi-crouch, and the clothing wrapped around her ankles made retaining her balance exceedingly difficult. She was shaking violently now, and her abdomen had extended to such an extent that her tightly stretched skin pushing out from under the tails of her blouse made the submissive teacher look at least five or six months pregnant. Marcel then directed her to follow him downstairs, not even looking back as his wife painfully squat-shuffled across the carpet, and with many small grunts and several near pratfalls slowly descended the stairs.

For the succeeding two hours, Marcel sprawled on his couch in front of the television, and Cammy stood (or swayed as close to standing as possible) beside him. From time to time he would reach out and run his hands over her distended belly, patting it none too gently and laugh, reach into her bra and pinch a nipple, or insert a questing finger into her vagina, while observing that "Well, now you know what it’s like to be a pregnant cow, don’t you, slut?" or "Retaining a little water this month, are we, bitch?"

Near 8:00 p.m., when deep twilight was just setting in, Marcel finally relented, and told Cammy she would be allowed to remove the butt plug and purge herself. Of course, she would have to do it his way, which meant mincing out, half-dressed, into the back yard, squatting over the remains of her flower garden, and releasing the contents of her anal canal over the clothes gathered around her feet. Cammy endured this, choking back sobs, only to be hit in the face seconds later with an icy blast from the garden hose, which toppled her bodily into the wide splotch of foul mud she had created between her legs. Marcel then locked the basement door and left her quivering in the concrete stairwell, half-frozen and befouled, until nearly midnight.

Quite a bit the worse for wear, Cammy nonetheless made it through another day of teaching on Tuesday, only to come home to "The Evening of the Finger." The design of Marcel’s was almost faustian in its simplicity, at least as compared to the previous night. The Master simply and quietly announced to his slave that for the rest of the night (and not to stop when she went to bed) that she was required to keep one of her middle fingers firmly lodged in her own anus, up to the knuckle, no matter what she was doing.

And then he demanded she cook and serve dinner, complete the wash, and remake all the beds in the house. He, of course, followed her throughout the evening with the digital camera, chortling with glee as Cammy attempted to find contortions which would make it possible for her to accomplish her tasks with her body so tightly folded upon itself. The highlight of the night, at least from Marcel’s perspective, was a five-minute video segment of his wife fruitlessly attempting to find a way to sit on the toilet and pee without covering herself in urine.

With such a build-up one might have thought the "Night of the Reaming" would have been anticlimactic, but not with Marcel in charge. He had selected that evening because he knew that Cammy had to return to school for several hours of night parent conferences. As she was clearing the dinner dishes, he brusquely threw her over the kitchen table, kicked her legs apart, dabbed a bit of crisco on his penis, and without preamble slammed his dick home to the root in one continuous motion. Cammy shrieked at that and each successive jab, as Marcel ground against her hips for better leverage, chanting, "Out the fucking throat, cunt, out the fucking throat!" and demonstrated remarkable staying power by fucking her for a full three minutes before blowing his load deep into her crack.

Then, pulling out as his wife was hyperventilating on the table, Marcel reached back into a kitchen drawer and withdrew a slender, knobbed dildo with straps and a battery pack. Before she was even aware what had happened, Marcel had implanted the latex phallus in her butt, run one strap around her waist, and cinched the other tightly and painfully between her cunt lips. The battery pack was applied to her inner left thigh, just below her crotch, with a five-inch swatch of duct tape. The control was set to "random," which initiated a sequence wherein, for the six-hour life of the battery, at intervals between two and fifteen minutes, the artificial dick in Cammy’s bowels would spring into violent vibratory life for periods ranging between a few seconds and several minutes.

Marcel knotted his hands in his wife’s red hair, lifted her head from the table, and said, "Better go get dressed for your parent’s night, dear."

Since that fateful week, anal sex between Marcel and Cammy had been utilized as a punishment or a torment on numerous occasions. But riding face down on the floor of Trask’s car with a plastic flashlight shoved vigorously up her behind, there was a part of Cammy’s consciousness which realized that the intensity of that first week, in all its pain and humiliation, had somehow drifted away from them both, and that—no matter how she feared his savagery and loathed herself for submitting to the degradation—the largest and most insistent part of her psyche desperately wanted that intensity back.

* * *

The hotel complex was a modern erection of steel and glass, thrusting up from financial and commercial district of the city. Trask had engaged a corner suite on the twenty-second floor, possessing a floor-to-ceiling window which swept the length of two bedroom walls. It was an idiosyncracy of the architecture that, at the very corner of the room, there was an oval, bubble-like extrusion of glass. This made it possible, if one were so inclined and unafraid of heights, to lean against the window pane and feel a very realistic illusion of hanging, unsupported, in space. Though the glass itself was strenuously reinforced, the very height of the building created a slight swaying sensation.

While the valets unpacked her clothes, Trask required Cammy to stand there at the brink of infinity. Her blouse had been opened and her bra removed, leaving her breasts pressed flat against the window. In order to keep her overbalanced against the glass, Trask had ordered the redhead to keep her feet back a full eighteen inches, and to stand on tip toe. Not only did this uncomfortable position cause an increasing strain on the back of her calves, it kept her centered on the throbbing ache in her rectum, from which Trask had only recently removed the body of the yellow flashlight.

After twenty minutes her clothes were stowed in all the closets and drawers. Trask sat down on the edge of one king-size bed and ordered her to kneel between his knees.

When Cammy complied, he removed the ash-coated ball gag from her mouth with surprising gentleness, and unbound her wrists. His large hands then quickly but not roughly stripped the flowered blouse from her body, leaving her nude from the waist up.

He took a silver case from his jacket pocket, extracted a cigarette, and lit it. Placing one heavy hand on Cammy’s right shoulder, Trask lowered the burning end of the cigarette to within half an inch of her left nipple. He felt her stiffen and fight not to pull away from him.

"We’ll get to the rules in a minute, Cammy. But first, I think we need to be quite sure you understand the stakes."

Trask returned the cigarette to his own lips and used both hands to force her to look up at him.

"I have a signed agreement with your Master. Under it, I could put this cigarette out by screwing it into your eye until you go blind. But I won’t do that. Because if you ever refuse to do what you’re told, I will hurt you much worse. I will take away everything that Marcel owns. His house, his car, his books, everything. Including you. If you fail me, Cammy, you will ruin your Master. And I will have absolutely no compunction about invoking the penalty. Do you understand?"

"Yes, . . . Trask."

"Good. Now open your mouth as wide as you can."

Cammy obeyed, stretching her lips. Trask took the lit end of the cigarette, and, avoiding direct contact with her lips, tongue, or teeth, placed it inside the teacher’s mouth. She felt its heat radiate unpleasantly along the roof of her mouth. At no point were the glowing ashes further than one-quarter inch from some of her most sensitive tissues.

"Now," directed the slave trainer, "close your teeth around it. If you are really careful, you can hold it in place without burning yourself—at least until it burns down a little."

Trembling in fear, Cammy complied. It required constant concentration to hold the burning white paper cylinder motionless in her mouth, and its proximity to her tongue already felt as if she were being burned. Her left eye teared, and she wondered how long it would be before either the ashes burned down toward her gums or the tendrils of smoke issuing from the end triggered her gag reflex with disastrous consequences.

"If you listen carefully, we should be able to get the rules out of the way before things get inordinately painful.

"Rule number one: except to answer a direct question from me or when the two of us are seated at the dinner table, you are not allowed to speak. For any reason. If you need to attract my attention, you will kneel down, place your face in front of my crotch, and wait to be recognized.

"Rule number two: you are not allowed to urinate or defecate without having my penis in your mouth. Further, in order to request permission to use the toilet, regardless of the hour, you must be fully dressed, have done your hair, and be wearing appropriate make-up. This will require some planning on your part.

"Rule number three: should I, or any other man, deign to ejaculate in your mouth you will not swallow until specifically granted permission to do so. If we choose instead to come on your face or your clothes, you will not disturb or attempt to clean this discharge—under any conditions—without permission. This rule includes any fluids or substances that I, or any of my assistants may see fit to introduce into your mouth or onto your body."

He felt Cammy shift slightly. The cigarette was burning closer to her gums.

"Rule number four: if left anywhere without instructions, you will stand motionlessly wherever I have placed you, until I return for you. You will neither recognize nor respond to anyone else.

"Finally, rule number five: you will obey all commands from me without hesitation or resistance.

"There are usually more stringent rules, but I am not sure you are bright enough to remember more than five.