The Sex Slave

  • So, some thoughts: first, please comment if you like this; second, writing longer stories, novelette’s or novels isn’t my strong suit. I’m more inspired by the striking writing or drama of a few words or pages than the narrative of a longer work. That said, I’m open to a little nudging. If nothing comes of it, then I’ll continue writing as the mood strikes, but if any readers want me to work on any of my unfinished “longer stories”—the current story, The Orc Anar, Alien Earth, Tototikli, The Fun House Series, The Pro-Life Hitwoman, etc.—or to extend any of my short stories, then comment or write to me. A little encouragement, a donation,  and I’ll go where I’m needed. Think of it as a commission, perhaps, but to work on stories I’ve already started.


The Night Before

“It’s been a great evening,” he said.

16194806“It still is,” I answered. The sun was setting. The beach lights were flickering on. The heat of the sun turned to a dark and warm humidity. I wasn’t wearing much, just a tight gray-green one-piece over a bikini.

“Can I buy you another drink?”

“No.” I still sipped the last margarita. I hadn’t had sex since arriving in Hawaii. I didn’t want to. I wanted three weeks just to myself. But tonight was the last night and the man asking wasn’t another frat boy on spring break. He was in his mid-thirties, crew cut, clean, friendly and dressed in a suit.

“Do you have plans for tomorrow?”

“I do and I don’t want to think about it,” I lied.

“How much of Hawaii have you seen?”


“I could show you around.” I felt his hand on my hip. A little push and then he was guiding me away from the beach bar and toward a discrete palm grove. His hand slipped from my hip to the small of my back, down my tail bone.

“The minute I saw you,” he said, lifting the bottom hem of my skirt, “I felt like we understood each other.” I was in bare feet. I stopped. I leaned forward against a palm, itself leaning toward the waves. I closed my eyes and I lifted my hips when his fingers entered me.

“You’re soaked.”

“I know.”

He stepped behind me.

“No.” I turned. I pushed him away. I spilled the Margarita. Maybe I was a little drunk. I turned my back against the palm. “I’m sorry. I—” He pinched my nipple, achingly engorged and obvious under the fabric. I dropped the glass and closed my eyes, both hands gripping his wrists.

“Say it again,” he said “You? So young? So beautiful? Tell me you don’t want to.”

“No!” I exhaled. He let go of my nipple, stinging and angrily jutting. Some part of me had expected him to call me a whore, a cock-tease, but I’d never flirted with a man his age. He smiled gently. “I apologize. I misread the situation and I apologize.”


“A quickie. No dating. No dinner. No seduction.”

“What?” I asked incredulously.

“There’s something special about you. You made me want to try something I’ve never done before.”

“I’m sorry,” was all I could say, “but not tonight.”

The Interview

I’d spent my money, deliberately, recklessly, enjoying a last three weeks of freedom. I read novels on the beach. I stayed at a 5 star hotel. I ate at the best restaurants and this morning, with my last ten dollars, I sit under a palm tree at a sidewalk café. The sun glistens from parked cars, wheels and windshields. There’s an older woman behind me, a couple to my left. There’s a local grocery store across the street with a paper hula dancer in the window. Her eyes are over-sized and her black hair falls over her hips like waves. Bananas, oranges, dried fruits and baskets.

I don’t even have a return ticket.

I gave myself no choice. And when it was time, I left the magazine and the last of the money as a tip. I was lightheaded with fear and nervousness. I crossed the street, stumbling over the small curb. I entered the three story beige building with its green tinted windows. The floor was black and the ceiling was white with recessed lights.

“May I help you?” Asked a woman wearing black glasses behind a mahogany counter .

I couldn’t speak. I swallowed. I tried again. And then, voice shaking, I exhaled my name: “Choi Finnigan.”

The woman’s features softened. She touched my hand. I was gripping the counter’s edge. “You’ll be fine dear. Mr. Ward is expecting you and has no other appointments. Just take the elevator to the fourth floor, turn left and go to the end of the hallway. The door will be open.”

I followed her instructions.

By the time the doors opened to the fifth floor the stainless steel elevator was like a cage. I hurried out into the hallway. The floor of the hall was a gleaming biege tile. The pale green walls were topped by a narrow band of bamboo. Daylight gleamed through the door at the hallway’s end—a floor to ceiling window. When I stepped through the door there was a long wooden desk to my left and a leather couch to my right. The room was long and otherwise empty. A well-dressed, fiftyish man stood. A beautiful, dark haired woman remained seated in a single chair that was in a corner behind the couch.

“Miss Finnigan?”


“Welcome. I’m Mr. Ward.” He stepped from behind the desk with a friendly smile. He took my hand and guided me to couch. I sat and knotted my hands in my lap. He returned to his desk and the woman behind me remained silent. He closed whatever flier, book or folder he had been raeding. “Are you nervous?”

“Like you wouldn’t believe.”

“I expect you are.”


“So, the woman behind you is Sierra. She’s already done what you’re about to do. She will always be with you. She may not always be in the same room. She will be your companion, your confidant, your friend (if you like) and the woman who will make sure you’re safe.”


“She will never be far from you.”

“Got it.”

“If you ever want to leave, for any reason, she’ll facilitate that.”

“Okay.” I wanted to throw up. “Okay,” I said again.

“You’ve read every last word of the material we sent you. Miss Finnigan?”


“Good. That’s essential. I want to stress, again, that every buyer has been exhaustively vetted and each has undertaken—“

“What about me?” I interrupted.

“You, my dear?” He smiled. “A certain naivety and innocence makes you more valuable. Any potential buyer will pay more for you. And it is the reason Sierra will always be with you.” He turned a paper on his desk. “Once you sign this you may well become a multi-millionaire, and whatever is paid for you will be yours. Your term will be one year. If you remain for the full year, you will receive the full amount. If for any reason the buyer violates the contract, you will still receive the full amount. If, however, you break your contract, your final payment will be prorated.”

15571833“I understand.”

“And you understand what you’re signing?”

“I do,” I swallowed. I licked my lips and barely whispered another ‘Yes’.

“It is an odyssey, Miss Finnigan. Something only a handful women do. I expect the experience will challenge you and change you; not just for a day or a week but a year.”

“Yes,” I answered hoarsely.

“Even if you sign this and you can still walk out.”

“I know.”

“Then,” he slowly pushed the paper toward me, to the edge of the desk, “The agreement awaits your signature”

I looked at him as though through a tunnel whose edges grew darker before remembering to breathe. After five or ten minutes of silence, I stood. I slowly walked to the desk. I took the pen and signed with a shaking hand.

“You may return to the couch.” His voice was gentle. How simple. A deal with the devil. My Mephistopheles, an older man with a tight white beard. And then the inkling of a truth: Maybe selling ones soul is a kind of liberation. I looked at the floor and heard paper slide against paper.

“You’re a beautiful young woman.”

“Thank you.” But my answer was almost inaudible.

“Do you have some Polynesian ancestry?”


“Women as young as you rarely undertake such an odyssey,” he mused. “While your Master can call you whatever he chooses, until then, you will simply be called ‘girl’.”

I glared.

“You disagree?”

“No, Mr. Ward—” I quickly turned my gaze to the floor..

“And so, your journey begins.”

I bit my lip and gripped my knees. I could hear his amusement. A longer silence followed. I heard the air conditioning begin to circulate in the floor vents. “I have a client coming at four,” he said. Another silence followed. “The blindfold, Miss Banes.”

“Why?” I asked without thinking.

“Because,” he answered, “I have clients, girl, and who they are is none of your business.”

Sierra stepped behind me and put three blindfolds in my lap. She held them up, one by one. They were perfumed. One was black. One was a beautiful blue and gold paisley, Another was blocks of purple, red and gold. They were all perfumed.

“Which would you like?” she asked with a beautiful accent—the first time I had heard her voice.

“The red and purple one.”

She drew it over my eyes and tied it firmly behind my head. “Is that too tight?”


She squeezed my shoulder and kissed me beneath my ear, a kindness that made me grateful for the blindfold hiding my tears. I heard her return to her chair in the back corner of the room. Her footsteps were like whispers. Her name was my safe word.

There was another long silence. I could hear the elevator’s bells stopping at other floors. Nervousness fluttered in each breath like a caged bird. I sat with my knees together and to the side, my hands clasped in my lap. “You’re a beautiful slave girl,” he finally said. “And I wonder if your pussy is as beautiful as you are?”’

My stomach jumped. “I don’t know.”

“Lift your skirt and spread our legs, girl.”

My heart raced, but I lifted my dress and hesitantly opened my legs.

“Take off whatever your wearing underneath. You may toss them on the floor if you like. You won’t be needing them anymore.”

Reaching under my skirt, I slipped my underwear over my knees and to the floor. I opened my legs.


I did.

“Wider, girl. So I can see. Wider until it hurts. Like you’re being fucked by a grown man. Have you ever been fucked by a grown man?”

“No,” I managed.

“You’ll address me and any man as ‘Sir’.”

“No Sir.” I spread my legs as far as the couch would let me.

“Ask if that’s wide enough.”

“Is that wide enough, Sir?”

“Lovely,” he said. “Just lovely. Beautiful. Stay like that. It’s a pleasure, enjoyable, relaxing, really. If you belonged to me, girl, I’d have you sit like that all day.”

Another long silence followed, and then, “Oh!”


“I— Nothing, Sir.”

I waited, almost panting with uncertainty. “Stand up, pussy.” A window opened. I could smell the ocean, sand, sunlight on pavement, food, and hear motors and the busy street. “Her wrists please.”

Once again Sierra stood behind me. She crossed my wrists at the small of my back, then lifted my wrists to my elbows. She used one of the other scarves to bind my arms together.

“Come here.”

“ I can’t see,” I answered, but I awkwardly went to his voice.

“Stop,” he said. “I asked you a question.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“And did you answer me?”

“No, Sir.”

“What did you say?”


“Bend over.”

I did.

“Now spread your legs.”

“Yes, Sir.”


The first stinging blow nearly toppled me. Sierra caught me. My exhalation was a sharp cry.

“The window is open,” he said quietly, “I leave it to you to decide if you wish others to hear you.”

“Yes Sir,” my voice shook.

He was using something broad and flat. By the third blow my pussy stung with the closeness of his blows, twisting, but not daring to move. Each blow was more painful than the last but also shunted the fear with something real and bearable. The shaking stopped. The pain was like a snake that moved with a tightening friction through my abdomen and breasts. When he stopped my thighs and blindfold were drenched with tears.

“What do you want?”

“To please your, Sir!”

“Then answer my question. When you uttered that little ‘Oh!’, what were you thinking?”

“That you— That you—“ I sniffled, “were interviewing me. You still are. You’re testing me. You said I could leave even if I signed the paper.”

I heard something. A sniff. A smile? I heard him unwrap something.

“Return to your seat and make sure that I can see your pussy, girl—your beautiful pussy.”

“Yes, Sir,” I made sure that he could see. As you read this, one paragraph quickly follows another, but there is no way to convey the passage of time other than to simply to tell you. The silences were long. The ligaments of my thighs were sore. The effect of the blindfold, of being told to display myself, prevented my mind from wandering. I wondered if he would speak again, if another command would follow, if every now and then he gazed at my pussy. Fear and arousal began to blur.


“What is it?”

“I have to— I have to go to the bathroom.”


“To— to pee, Sir.”

“To piss? To piddle? To go wee?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“No,” he answered. “If you have to piddle, if you’re little pussy can’t hold it, you will nevertheless stay just as you are.”


“Do I need to repeat myself, girl?”

“No, Sir.”

Nothing more was said and if an hour passed I couldn’t have said. At noon, perhaps, Ward instructed Sierra to fasten a leash to my neck. At intervals, he instructed Sierra to take me for a walk, to be sure I didn’t grow too stiff or uncomfortable. A walk meant crawling on hands and knees behind the couch, around Ward’s desk, down the hallway and back. By now the fullness of my bladder brought a sheen of sweat to my skin. Ward must have known. He stopped me in front of his desk late in the afternoon. I was still blindfolded. He had already instructed me to arch my back as I crawled. He wished to see my pussy at all times. I tried not to groan even as a trickle of moisture escaped and slipped down the inside of a thigh.

“But this isn’t piss, is it?”

“No, Sir,” I gasped.

I waited for Sierra to remove my blindfold or to raise me to my feet. I waited. “Sir?” I whispered hoarsely.

“I don’t see anything, pussy.”

My mouth hung open with discomfort. Here? Now? “Sir, I—”

“Did I say you could speak, girl? You can pee if you want to.”

But I couldn’t.

The elevator’s doors slid open. Footfall approached and tugged me by the leash back to the couch. I sat with my thighs spread.

“Did you bring the papers?” asked Ward.

“And then some,” answered another man. I heard movement, the sound of a suit’s fabric, then the weight of paper on the desk. All this happened as if I weren’t there. My odyssey had begun. I stood on a new island. If the men had talked about me, had said anything at all; but they said nothing to me or about me. The oceans were a dark sea of submission and humiliation and the roar of its waved beat in ears.

They discussed business and I trembled with the dark intoxication. The discussion ended, a protracted silence wound like a wire in my stomach, and I almost jumped when Ward spoke. “Miss Laurel, will come up to the office please?”

Another minute passed and I heard a woman’s high heels. Was she the woman in the lobby? The clack of her walk paused in front of me. Nothing was spoken but I heard her sudden surprise, a sudden intake of breath. I heard linen slide. I heard breathing, movement, a zipper. One of the men said, cooly: “Bend over.” Those two words again, always those two words, masculine, peremptory, unmistakable in meaning and intent. Then I heard her, but not words—the sudden inhalation; the unmistakable cry, the surprise and remembered pleasure. I echoed her, my own cry, and bit my lip.


Her cries were sharp and plaintive; each one fuller than the last.

“Miss Banes.”

“Yes, Mr. Ward.”

“Bring the slave to orgasm.”

I remained seated, thighs wide, ligaments aching. Until this moment I had never been in a room with others having sex. The sound of it, smell of it, and unable to see, was a red tide that flooded my lonely island. I felt Sienna’s present behind me, over me, then her finger’s tip on my clit. I trembled. My small cries joined those of the secretaries. I heard her long consummation and his.  For an afternoon, thighs and stomach straining to withhold my need to urinate, the same muscles, in a mix of arousal and exhaustion, shuddered once and and then sharply pulsed. I came. The noise of my own thudding heart, my choked cries, couldn’t stop the small spurts. Then a dribble. I trembled. “I’m sorry, Sir! I’m sorry!” I blurted. “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean too!”

No one answered. I only heard bodies in motion, clothes being straightened, small steps taken.

“The back of your skirt please, Miss Laurel, push it down,” said Mr. Ward as if I weren’t in the room.


I felt Sierra’s laps. She kissed mine and kissed beneath my ear, my neck and collar bone. “Did you enjoy your orgasm?” she asked quietly.


“I am jealous,” she said, “just like that?”


“But nothing,” she hummed almost melodically. “I’ll clean up. That was very little. You were very good, but how unexpected! And maybe you will be punished? But I don’t know. There’s not time for that.”

“You know the effect your merchandise has on me,” said the other man to Mr. Ward.

“Did you enjoy Miss Laurel?”

“Of course.” There was a pause. “Is she being auctioned tonight?”

“You mean the slave girl?”


“She’s not a very well behaved.”

“The best kind, Ward; and pity that I should have to tell you so.”

“Yes, in answer to your question.”

“The starting bid?”


I heard a zipper and the snap of a suit jacket.

“Come, little one,” said Sierra. I stood and followed the tug of the leash.

“Miss Banes,” said Ward.

“Shave her.”

“Yes, Mr. Ward.”

“And don’t forget to pierce her.”

“Yes, Mr. Ward.”


William Crimson | January 5th 2016

More to come…

Latest Comments

  1. Mic says:

    I don’t know what you’re talking about, I think full stories are where you shine.

    As for input on what I like you writing the most, well, I don’t think its any surprise that I’m an shameless follower of your Hitwoman series.

    That being said, I can’t help but try to study from your recent zoological contributions. As always, for science, of course.

    • willcrimson says:

      I just meant that I still haven’t finished any of my chapter stories. The last couple stories in the Hitwoman series weren’t that good (the “variations”). I’ve been thinking I should delete those and dig into a new story that I’ve been thinking about === off and on. So maybe that’s where I’ll turn next?

  2. stephaniesubmits says:

    For me, I enjoy some of your longer stories more than some of your short pieces. But…some of the shorts (haiku, definitions, etc.) are effing amazing and so I can’t say I prefer one style more than the other. There’s so much GOOD stuff in all your styles. I need to check out this *Funhouse* you mentioned. But anyway, I could write a full-blown essay on what I like and would like to read. This new story is exciting, and I’m loving the main character. Can’t wait to read more! ☺

  3. Charlotte says:

    Please continue the Pro-Life Hitwoman series! I enjoy the longer pieces more; I can get lost in them more easily than I can in a vignette.

    • willcrimson says:

      Thanks so much Charlotte. That’s two votes for the Hitwoman series, and I agree with your criticism. I don’t think my shorter vignettes are nearly as good.

  4. Cille says:

    Oh my Will. I’m not sure if I’d read this before. It’s good. Like I didn’t want it to be done good. Will you come back to it do you think? I hope so.

    • willcrimson says:

      I was just thinking, last night, that I should continue this story. Funny that. If I continue to work on it, do you promise to comment, good or bad? It’s such a motivator. :)

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