A Life of Slavery
By JJ Argus
Copyright 2008
Smashwords edition
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This story is a work of fiction. All characters are over eighteen.
Chapter One
It was a very large bed, with broad, gleaming dark wooden frame. Four great, carved posts rose seven and a half feet above it, connected at head and foot, by thick, intricately carved foot and headboards. It was a bed for a very large man, or perhaps a very large couple.
With the half dozen big pillows and their lace trimmed cases habitually placed there, the sheets and thick, colorful duvet, she had often felt sunk within a mass of fluff.
Only two pillows were there now, however, and she was laying across them on her belly, her hips elevated, her legs spread towards the bottom post. Her arms were spread up and forward to the upper posts so that she was effectively spreadeagled. And she was held there by the layers of dark black rope which had been wound carefully about her wrists and ankles, each loop set precisely next to its neighbour, all of them ending in a strong length which connected her wrists and ankles to the four great posts.
Her bottom was raised and elevated, while her face was pressed against the bed below. Her long, thick mahogany hair, usually brushed until it glistened, was now an untidy, tangled mass about her head, partly matted against her cheek and forehead, where perspiration glistened. Her face was red, her lips drawn back around a dark black latex ball which partially protruded from her open mouth, two narrow straps pulling in against the sides of her mouth and then back around behind her head beneath the tangled hair.
Her sex was hairless, the lips taut and stretched back around the thick round shaft of the foot-long stainless steel vibrator which had been jammed painfully deep into her pussy. Only an inch protruded, gleaming, wet, like her entire groin, partially with sweat, partially with her body’s cream, which glistened moistly along the edge of her opening.
The even thicker base of a black, very realistically shaped latex dildo protruded from her anus, the rest of it clutched tightly by the muscles of her spasming rectum, continually trying to either draw it in deeper or expel it.
Miranda’s body trembled slightly, and she groaned as she drew in shallow, gasping puffs of air through her nose and around the edges of the ball-gag filling her mouth.
On the nearby fireplace, a clock ticked softly. Aside from this and her breathing, the only sound in the room was the distant growl of a lawnmower coming through the closed window from a house up the street.
She gasped and rolled her eyes up and back as the tip of the crop was placed against her spine just below her neck. The tip of the crop was more flexible than the crop itself, flat, but hard, called the “slapper”. Now it rested lightly against her spine, as Miranda moaned, as her muscles spasmed and moved beneath her moist, hot skin, her arms and legs pulling feebly against the ropes binding them in place.
The slapper, bent against her spine, slid slowly downwards, tracing the line of her spine between her shoulder blades, then down her slender back, and was soon wet with her sweat as it slid down into the small of her back, then rose up once more as it reached the base of her spine. It seemed to hesitate there, then slid on, just a short distance, off the tail of her spine, between her buttocks to where the round base of the dildo stuck out of her straining anus.
It circled the dildo slowly, then drew back and turned, laying sideways across her elevated bottom, pressing firmly into the skin as Miranda moaned and pulled against the ropes again.
Then it drew back and lashed down across her buttocks with a sharp meaty “thwack!” that drew a muffled cry of pain from her lips.
A thin line grew across the otherwise pale skin stretched across her buttocks, and her breathing came faster.
The slapper circled the base of the dildo again, then drew back and snapped down again – harder. Again the room echoed with the soft “thwack!”, and her cry was louder, more strained as she pulled more desperately against the ropes binding her.
Another thin line began to rise across her bottom, then “thwack!” and she cried out again.
She moaned, her head rolling back painfully, trying to see behind her, trying to roll her eyes up in mute appeal.
“Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! Thwack!”
The four blows came close together, the first one drawing a cry, the second, a louder, more startled cry. By the fourth blow her cry was desperate as the mounting pain made her frantic, her skin burning like fire.
The blows stopped, the slapper sliding gently around the base of the dildo, rubbing gently at the skin of the perineum, then circled the base of the vibrator. It slid downward, caressing the top of her sex, rubbing lightly across her clitoris. The sensation was both uncomfortable and oddly pleasant, and Miranda relaxed measurably, her breathing easing.
Then the vibrator was turned on.
The vibrations made her entire lower body begin to thrum in tandem. The nose of the vibrator was jammed so deep inside her it had actually passed just to the side of her cervix so that it was painfully wedged right into the back wall of her vagina. The entire long silver body quivered inside her, setting her internal organs shaking lightly, making the muscles of her sex spasm. Tiny droplets of cream were forced out around the tightly clutching lips of her sex to trickle down along the base of the vibrator.
Below, her clitoris had swollen and pushed out from beneath its hood. The cream trickled down across it as the flat slapper rubbed gently and insistently, and Miranda groaned into the gag, her bottom rolling instinctively upwards. She tried to turn her head again, to look behind her, but her hair was across her face, in her eyes, and she could only see a shadowy figure there through it before dropping her head again.
The crop slid back up, caressed her bottom and then - .
“Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! Thwack!….. Thwack!
She twisted and writhed and groaned as the sharp, stinging blows cut across her raised bottom, crying out into the gag, tears of pain beginning to fill her eyes as she twisted and pulled against the ropes.
Then the slapper was between her trembling thighs once again, rubbing gently against her clitoris. But she was wet there, now, and the stroke of the slapper was more intimate against her slick flesh. Her bottom still burned but the heat in her groin began to overshadow it.
Her body trembled and she gulped in air, sweating again, gasping.
“Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! Thwack!”
She cried out against the pain, frantically trying to rise up, to arch back, her legs jerking spastically against the ropes tight around her ankles, then she collapsed gasping, gulping in air, drooling around the ball gag.
The dildo began to move. It twisted slowly to the right, then the left. Then pressure on its base tilted the nose up against where it was jammed deep inside her anus. The pressure reversed, and then reversed again. Then the dildo twisted, first clockwise, then counter. Then it slid slowly back out. It glistened, though not with her juices. It glistened with the lubricant with which it had been coated, so that it moved slickly despite her tightness. An inch more slid out of her, then two, then five, then they were all very abruptly rammed back into her.
She screamed, her head thrown up and back as the pain startled her. It felt as though she’d been punched in the gut – quite literally.
Then the slapper began to stroke across her clitoris, rubbing gently.
The dildo twisted, first left, then right, then pulled out slowly. This time it slid back in again just as slowly, fighting the pressure of her anal muscles. It began to pump in and out, just two inches one way, then the other, then four, then six. The slapper rubbed against her clitoris as the vibrator buzzed, and Miranda’s glassy eyes rolled back as pleasure and raw sexual heat coursed through her veins.
The dildo pumped harder, faster. It hurt, but not enough to distract her, and in a way, the pain was welcome, and she felt herself embracing it as right, proper, natural. She welcomed it, and the dildo pumped with longer strokes, faster, harder, the whole long length of it thrusting into her now in hard, fast strokes that jammed the fist of the person holding it against the opening to her bottom.
No matter how aroused her body had become it could not take the entire fourteen inch length.
But the nose jammed into her hard and deep, and her breathing grew rougher and harder and faster as she gasped and moaned and began to grunt and cry out at every hard thrust. Her entire body began to tremble and writhe and her bottom rolled lewdly up against the thrusting dildo, against the leather slapper rubbing, rubbing, rubbing at her throbbing clitoris.
The orgasm rose around her like a building wave, then crashed down upon her. She shuddered and bucked back, gurgling in wild, dazed pleasure even as the slapper stopped rubbing and started – slapping. An inch long, an inch wide. It was just large enough. The shaft of the crop was a blur as it slapped in short, rapid little motions against her swollen clit.
She cried out, twisting, writhing, bucking, the pleasure and pain so intense they were tearing at her mind. She bit into the ball-gag and cried out again and again, her throat aching from the force of her cries – however muffled, as her hips bucked violently. The orgasm rolled on and on as if it were a record with a deep scratch, skipping, skipping, skipping again, as fierce, furious flares of pleasure tore through her writhing body.
The dildo was rammed deep into her anus and left there, twisting clockwise, then counter. Then an open hand slapped against the base, then again, then again as she gasped and grunted and moaned at the jarring pain in the midst of the blinding storm of pleasure.
Her belly ached from the spasms, and black dots began to dance before her eyes from lack of air. She needed to breath, but wouldn’t for fear it would interrupt the rush of pleasure washing over her. And then she had to. She sucked in air desperately, interrupting the orgasm briefly, then it rolled on and she let the air out in a long, dazed wale of pleasure as the orgasm finally tailed off.
She fell limp, gasping, dazed, her chest heaving as she drew in deep sobbing breaths.
She felt a presence next to her face, soft breath which smelled of raspberries washed over her ear as a voice whispered “whore.”
* * * * *
Miranda had always loved books. As early as she could remember she enjoyed nothing so much as curling up in a warm place with a good book and letting her mind wander through the strange and exiting worlds she found there. While other kids were out playing during lunch, she could be found in the school library, elbows on a large table, alone, lost in an exciting adventure. This had made her something of a loner, of course, something of a recluse, but she hadn't minded.
High school was little different, except the length and complexity of the books she loved grew greater, and she'd become a regular visitor to the public library for more sophisticated fare. She began her own collection then, partly made up of precious books bought at second hand stores and garages, and partly of books slyly stolen taken home from school and never returned.
Once Miranda had thrilled to the invented world of a book, she liked to revisit it from time to time. Again, all this time with books tended to cause a degree of social isolation, but as long as she had her books, Miranda didn't particularly mind. Social relationships were difficult and often embarrassing. Books were easy. She just had to sit there and absorb the events without worrying about her own response.
It would have surprised no one that her sex life was non-existent. It would have surprised almost everyone that Miranda actually even thought about sex, much less how much she did so. Her outlets, however, were few. She had isolated herself from people for so long she really wasn't good in social settings. She did not dance, nor drink, and was somewhat taken aback by male attention. Her main social outlet, in fact, outside of work, was the internet.
There were books on the internet, and stories, and there were, finally, people to talk to - in safety, about events which transpired in the world. She was a dedicated newspaper reader, of course, and also watched the news on television every night. Much of what she saw left her indignant, and, despite her sheltered life, left her cynical about the world. She found herself angered by the stupidity and corruption of politicians, and would argue angrily with people she had never met on the internet, throwing fiery post after fiery post against those who disagreed with her: idiots all.
Of course, there were other things on the internet, and, while at first nonplussed by some of the sexual topics and sites she discovered, Miranda came to understand just how broad the world of sexuality was, and how odd were some of the people who inhabited it. It was not an introduction to sex, of course, but it greatly expanded her horizons.
And the stories she read there, from an early age, were a revelation of passion and hunger, of excitement and thrilling adventure. She could not find such books in the library, and she had always been too embarrassed to do more than quickly skim across the "erotica" section in the book stores. She certainly would not have dared carry those books up to the counter and buy them.
But books were available on the internet, fascinating books, shocking and wicked books, and she began to order those, consuming them voraciously, sometimes aghast, sometimes outraged, but very often deeply aroused by the stories, scenes and events those books contained. Miranda had never been a stranger to masturbation, but now she began to refine and develop her skill to a high art, especially with the aid of various interesting devices she could purchase on the internet.
She was not entirely certain why her interests took the direction they did. She could never really see herself in those free spirited girls who threw themselves at men, who danced wildly and engaged in mad, passionate romance with all and sundry. That simply wasn't her. She was quiet, even a little meek in public. She abhorred confrontation or angry words, avoided risks of social gaffes like the plague. It was simply not in her to seek out men and she was wary of those who would seek out her But some of the earliest stories she had come across had touched something in her
Those early adventure books had often involved girls who were involved in danger, and who were captured, taken prisoner, by some cruel man or other. Nothing untoward ever happened, of course, but sometimes they were tied up, and that had always, for some reason, deeply thrilled her.
When she had later come upon girls tied up - and involved in wicked, passionate, thrilling sexual adventures - she was entirely hooked, and could easily see herself in those same situations. She would constantly fantasies about being taken prisoner of evil pirates, or shipped off to be in the harem of a handsome sheik, or overcome by dark, cruel men who would ravish her again and again.
But that, of course, was fantasy. The bookish young girl’s life contained no such dangers, no such adventures or thrills. She worked hard at her studies in preparation for university, where she intended to take library sciences. She had no real friends. For her shyness and studious demeanour did not create a great deal of interest in her from either boys or girls.
She lived with her aunt, having been abandoned by her single mother shortly after birth, and having had no idea who her father was. She read her books, studied, and watched TV. She spoke softly, when she spoke, often with eyes downcast, for she was uneasy when speaking to strangers. She wore drab, loose-fitting clothes, whatever seemed comfortable, thick glasses, and hair which was – to put it kindly – wild and untameable.
She was an eminently practical girl, and cared little for the opinions of others. She knew that many of the girls sneered at her for her unfashionable clothing, thick glasses, and rats nest hair, but while this did not please her she accepted it without sadness. She had little need for people, after all. They were confusing, difficult, and often rude.
She walked along the pavement with a brisk, clipped step, eyes straight ahead, apparently seeing no one she passed in her determination to get to where she was going. She turned aside only briefly, at a newsstand.
“Telegraph, please,” she said, her voice a strange mixture of youthful hesitation with an insistent command.
She required a newspaper, and required it now, held out her fingers with the coins, took the newspaper, and resumed her brisk pace.
She was not one to draw the eyes as she moved. Her trousers were beige, her sneakers black. She wore a pale rose blouse under a brown, hip length jacket, with a nondescript bag over one shoulder.
She stuffed the newspaper into the bag as she walked, crossed the street, and waited for the bus, her stance solid, unmoving, as if sleeping whilst awake.
When the bus appeared, however, she squinted at it through her glasses, and, upon recognizing the number, thrust her arm out firmly to bring it to a halt. She boarded, showing her pass to the conductor, and then climbed the stairs to the top, found the most isolated seat she could, and tucked herself into it for the remainder of the ride, watching the world go past her window.
* * * * *
“Take off your bra.”
Miranda considered the request. She was not wearing a bra, at the moment, but whomever was typing on the other end of the line would not know that. She had, after all, described the colorful lingerie she had imagined would please their mind.
“All right,” she said, after a suitable pause.
She was sitting in her bedroom at the computer, clad in pajama bottoms and an old t-shirt.
The man had called himself “Master Baater,” which was dreadfully silly, but at least had the advantage of honesty. It was also most unlikely to be a woman. She had found herself involved with someone last week who had only afterwards revealed herself as a middle aged woman, and Miranda was quite uncomfortable about that sort of thing.
“Now pinch your nipples – hard,” the screen said.
Smiling, she actually did reach up, pinching her nipples lightly through the t-shirt, feeling a little thrill of excitement start between her legs.
Things continued from there, and the man grew steadily more nasty, which sometimes offended Miranda, and sometimes made her want to giggle. It was exciting, however, as her stiff nipples and throbbing groin could attest.
He had her tied up now, ankles to wrists, hog-tied, and he was forcing his cock down her throat. The image was deliciously nasty, though she thought it most unlikely she’d ever enjoy such a thing in reality.
For one thing, she could breath here, and probably could not were she really trying to cope with a man’s cock in her throat.