The Sex Slave | Chapters 1-3

  • And here is another chapter. I’m thinking that ‘Owned’ might be a better title than ‘The Sex Slave’. Let me know. As always, consider my posts a first draft. What you read is the way I wrote it just yesterday and today. Stream of consciousness. I made a slight change to the first and second chapter. I added the detail that she already had a pierced clit. I like to keep my erotic stories ‘relatively’ real. Genital piercings aren’t spur of the moment and can take up to six months to heal.  This detail is erotically important in the third chapter. As before, please comment. Your comments motivate me to write more—good or bad. Makes suggestions and plot requests are welcome. I’ll consider anything. And if you like this story, consider trying the first book of Daydreams & Distractions.

Daydreams & Distractions: Book One

The first book of 101 Daydreams & Distractions, containing the first 25 Poems, Fables and Erotic Stories.



The Night Before

16194806“It’s been a great evening,” he said.

“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 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 reading. “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.”

“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. And you have a little piercing. 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 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.”

The Auction

14954624I was barefoot and blindfolded. I wore nothing under my dress. The marble of the floors were cool. The moisture still dampening thighs dribbled down to one knee. Sienna gently slowed, then guided me through a door. We were in a bathroom. My arms had been fastened behind me, wrists to elbows. Guiding me into a stall, she lifted my dress and told me to squat.

“You are very brave.”

“I don’t feel brave,” I answered.

“They especially enjoyed your orgasm with theirs.”

When I was done she tugged on my leash, led me down an elevator, took me briefly outside and guided me into a car. I stretched my legs. I guessed that we were in a limousine. The fear, the novelty, the excitement worked like tightening bonds in my stomach. Sienna leaned and whispered in my ear.

“The driver wants to see more of you.”

“Now?” I answered.

“I am not your Master,” she said. “You don’t have to but he adjusts his rear view mirror to look at you.”

“Where are we going?”

“To the slave auction, where you will be bought, no doubt.”

“How far?”

“Only another ten minutes, I’m guessing. The auction house is a private residence.”

Then I sat in silence, in the darkness of the blindfold, rocked by the comforting motions of the road. I felt the dark tug of submission and humiliation that was like an etherous drug. I gradually spread my legs, letting my dress ride up, letting him see me, appraise me, objectify me—my cunt. I felt Sienna’s fingertip on my nipple. She circled with a feathery lightness, only the thin fabric of the dress between her finger and my nipple. My lips parted. My head fell back and I exhaled, arching. The car slowed to a stop too soon. The chauffeur door opened and I closed my legs. Sienna pulled my dress to my knees. My own door opened and I was made to stand. Sienna guided me, as did the chauffeur.

I felt the sun’s heat on my skin. I stood on warm gravel.

A door opened, the door of a house, and I heard footsteps approach in the gravel. “Is this the merchandise?”

“Yes, Mistress,” replied Sienna.

I jumped, startled, when I felt the palm of a hand press between my thighs, pressing the fabric of my dress against the wetness between them. The hand stayed there—the woman’s hand.

“Good girl,” she said, feeling he wetness. “You’ll fetch a good price. Ready for a cock’s mastering?”

“Answer the Mistress,” said Sienna gently.

“Yes, Mistress!”

“Good.” Her hand moved upward, then palmed my abdomen. “Strong. Healthy. Perfect for come.” Then she pinched my left nipple. I inhaled. “And sensitive.”

“Yes, Mistress.”

“Good.” She released my nipple and already seemed to move onto other thoughts, walking away as she spoke. “Take the merchandise inside. Shave the girl. Clean her. Oil her inside and out. I think she would look more attractive with braids. Tie them up. Find some flowers and put them in her hair. Is she Hawaiian? I like her hair. You know the rest. Make sure she looks aroused—nipple piercing should help with that.”

I felt a tug at the leash, I followed.

My skin rose with goosebumps as I was led into the house, out of the sun. I liked the smell, an earthy and leafy smell suggesting I was in the shade of tropical leaves, that the windows of the house were opened, that if my blindfold were removed I might have a view of the ocean through the leaves of a coconut palm. “What does the house look like?” I asked Sienna as she carefully guided me down some stairs.

“The man who owns it is very wealthy. Very modern. If you removed your blindfold, you would see the ocean is now several miles away, but it is beautiful and blue. You will like the house when you see it. There is a balcony that goes almost all the way around. The man who owns the house hosts the auction. He bids on a new slave girl every year and perhaps he will buy you.”

A mixture of anticipation, fear, and just as quickly shame—I already wished this mean would be my owner.

At the bottom of the stairway the air was cooler. We turned into what I guessed was a room. I could hear the broad-leaved trees, and felt a breeze through what must have been an open window. I also heard running water, but that was from within the room. I smelled teakwood.

Sienna remained with me and two others joined her I knew by heir hands. They untied my wrists from my elbows, let me stretch, and removed my dress. I was naked. No one spoke, but little by little my skin was washed. Linen moved over my nipples, between legs and over my anus. They cleaned between my toes and fingers. And then, after doing what seemed to take so little time, they once more draw my wrists behind me, up and tied them each to the opposite elbow. I felt the motion of my leash.

“I have fastened your leash to a restraint in the ceiling,” said Sienna. “You are free to walk as far as the leash will allow you, my sweet slave. I am invited to a lunch. I will bring you back a treat, something small that no one will notice. If I could, I would bring you back a little of everything, but you are a slave now. Be brave. I am not far.”

Only after she left did I notice that I wasn’t alone. I heard breathing. I heard movement, slight, and like my own. I slowly wondered if I were in a room with other slaves, also readied to be sold who, like me, were naked, wrists and arms bound, tied by the neck to leashes that would only let us wander in the confines of the room.

At first I didn’t move. I didn’t dare to. What if they weren’t slaves?

But perhaps I stood for an hour. My calves began to ache. My back grew sore with the lack of motion. I could hear restlessness elsewhere in the room. Elsewhere in the house, far enough removed that I couldn’t discern words, I heard laughter and conversation, and the occasional peal of wine glasses. My isolation gnawed. Once more the dark heat of fear and eroticism was like a damp lantern in my abdomen. My breathing faltered. I cried out as if startled by nothing. No one else answered but I heard their breathing. I heard someone groan. Someone was having sex.

I took a step toward the sound of the wind. I took another and another.

Maybe she hadn’t fastened the leash? Maybe I could go to the window. I could climb out. I could run. I was certain I could quickly rub off the blindfold. I bumped into someone else, also naked. I would have cried out, but coughed instead. The length of the leash yanked at my collar. I was like an animal, a slave, a piece of property leashed in a back room.

“Hey,” the man’s voice was almost a whisper. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” I stuck out my tongue and swallowed.

“You sure?”

“Yeah,” I said again. I moved as close to the window as the leash would allow. “Are you— Are you—“

“A slave?”


“A slave,” I laughed nervously. “I can’t believe I just asked if you were another slave.” The noise of the sex, though still restrained, was louder now. “So, guys can be sex slaves too?”

“Yeah, sure.”

My mind raced. I needed to talk. Anything. “So, have you done this before?”

“No. How ‘bout you?”


“Yeah, you sound pretty nervous.”

“Aren’t you?”


“So, how long have you been here?”

“Maybe an hour or two?”

I bit my lip. I didn’t know what else to say. I jumped when I heard his lips almost next to my ear. “Hear those two fucking?”

“Yeah,” I whispered.

“We could fuck too.”

The floor felt as if it had fallen out from under me. My heart raced. I swallowed. Before I could answer his lips pressed to mine. We kissed. Lips. Tongue. I needed it all. I was frightened, but to be touched was less frightening than to be alone. He lips moved to my throat, then lower until he’d sucked my breast into his mouth. I exhaled. “Are you’re hands tied behind you?”

He release my tit from the suction of lips and tongue. “Yes.”

“What if they found out?”

“Suck my cock.”


“Suck my cock,” he said again. “Please, slave. Suck my cock.”

I didn’t know what to do. Once again the floor fell out from under me. He was as frightened as I was, and as desperate with the eroticism of fear. I kissed him. I kissed his throat. I licked his chest. I bit his nipple. He groaned.

I bent over, kissed the muscles of his abdomen. I could smell him, his sex, his cock, his musk. I knelt.

“Please,” he said again.

I searched for him with my lips and tongue, then found him. He was rigid. Thick. I wondered if it was painful for a man’s cock to be so enraged. The heat brushed my lips and cheek. I took him in my mouth—pity and my own need to touch. He groaned. He shuddered.

I sucked him, knees apart, hands bound behind me. I wanted to cup his balls, to know the pleasure of his muscles , but I was only my mouth—my own humiliation and arousal. My leash softly thwacked his abdomen as I sucked.

“Thank you,” he breathed.

I didn’t hurry. The sounds of celebration, conversation and civilization continued on another floor. Bereft of freedom, vulnerable and leashed, one slave sucked another. Elsewhere in the room other salves had paired. I heard them groan. Their cries, like mine, were a mix of pleasure, trepidation and escape. We surely were all blindfolded, all leashed, all unable to touch but with mouths, cunts and cocks. I licked, I took his balls in my mouth. He twitched and gave an almost panicked cry. I quickly leaned back. I glanced over my shoulder as though I could see. I couldn’t but I heard no one coming.

“Please,” he whispered.

My tongue found him, tasted semen. I licked the long drip of semen from the underside of his cock. His balls dripped with semen and I took them in my mouth, one after the other, until his was clean. The distant noise of the party had quieted. I heard someone speaking. He trembled. I only had to hold him in my mouth and he came. Powerful spurts. I waited on my knees, holding him in my mouth, swallowing until I was sure he was done.

He exhaled.

I stood. We kissed.

“I want to fuck you,” he said. I bit his lip until he squirmed.

I was aroused but I returned to the center of the room. This was what I wanted. I held onto my desire, my need to be penetrated, like a burning coal, There was nothing left of my fear but cinders and ashes.

The noise of the party had ceased. I could hear the scrape of chairs and the movement of feet from one room to another, to a stairway, to a hall. New sounds emanated from the outside. The sounds of evening. I would be auctioned soon. Footsteps entered into the room—several. One of them was Sienna. She took my leash and tugged. I followed.

“Oh,” she said, pausing, “I see.” She wiped my chin. “Did you receive semen anywhere else?”


“I won’t tell a soul. Your secret is safe with me. Always. Even from your Master. Sometimes a woman must take what she must take and the reasons for it need no explanation. Good for you.”

A few short steps further and we entered another room.

“Afix the merchandise to the chair,” said a man.

I felt too sets of hands. They released my arms from their bondage. I winced with stiffness. They turned me and made me sit on what felt like the edge of a stool. A gasped with surprise when they spread my knees, then cried out when my thighs were stretched further by ropes that bound my ankles to my thighs, that split me impossibly open. Another drew my wrists behind me, bound them together, then tied my wrists to my hair, forcing my head back, my wrists up, and my breasts forward. I could move. My breathing came in short bursts, half with the stretched discomfort of my position.

Though I couldn’t see, I felt that everyone moved with purpose and precision.

I gasped when I felt metal against my thigh. They were shaving me. I could do nothing. I couldn’t move and understood the reason. He was firm. He pinched the thin skin between my thigh and entry between his finger finger. He let the razor slide icily over my tendons. I shook and my breath turned to grunts as the unforgiving discomfort of my bondage only seemed to tighten. My body was rubbed with oil. My hair was braided and I felt the stems of flowers against my scalp.

“Pierce her nipples.” My barber spoke with a clinical efficiency. “Her clit is already pierced.”

Two sets of hands pulled at my nipples. Rolled them. Tugged them. My breaths turned to pitched cries, short, sharp, like the panicked appeals of a trapped bird.

“I know of a slave girl,” said Sienna, lips at my ear, “whose arrival was delayed such that she was purchased by her master before she was shaved and pierced.” She pressed her finger into my mouth. “Suck. Comfort yourself little one.” And she continued: “And when her master saw her, as you are now, he was inflamed by desire.”

My eyes rolled when the fleshy thumb of my barber pressed against my clit, kneading, pressing, and pressing the fragrance of oil around and into me. I groaned. The immobility of my pain began to transform—pain and pleasure flowed one into the other. The barber pressed oil into my anus. My hands clenched and released.

“He withdrew his cock. He knelt between her stretched thighs, just as you are now. Her cunt was there for the taking, open, inviting. He waited. And then, just as she was about to orgasm—“

I screamed.

My womb and anus were pierced. I stiffened but my orgasm was thwarted.

As my bondage was undone, I was lifted to my feet. “It is a glittering diamond,” said Sienna, behind me.

“What is?”

“The device in your anus.”

My pelvis swiveled. My nipples were two pin-pricks of pain. But not entirely pain. I wanted them to be assuaged, suckled, comforted. I ached for the orgasm that had escaped me.

Once more Sienna tugged on my leash.

Then at last, having left the room, she removed my blindfold. I stood in front of a mirror. My skin was a sheen of oil. I saw myself shaved. My cunt gleamed, was smooth and girlish. My tits were thick and yearned for the lip. They were pierced by two golden rings. I bead of desire already formed at my lip. My belly was smooth. I was ready to be fucked and owned. Sienna gestured to high heeled shoes. I bit my lip.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“I’ve never really worn high heeled shoes.”

“Ha!” She smiled. “Then your awkwardness will be charming.”

“What if I can’t!”

“I will catch you.”

I pressed a toe into the tip, heel lifted, then pressed my foot into the shoe, then the other. I had never worn high heels as extreme as these . My posture changed, breasts thrust forward, pussy and ass lifted behind me. I turned, unsteadily, looking at myself. The diamond plug in my ass, that I might have hidden, glittered beneath the hook of my spine.

“You are trembling again,” Sienna smiled.

“I’ve never seen myself like this.”

“As an utterly sexual object?” she said. “The men will compete for you, will bid for you, will pay to be the man who fucks you.”

“How strange.”

“And yet?”

“Needing to know nothing more about a woman. Just this.” I ran my hands over my breasts, hips, then inward. “And this,” I said. “There’s nothing more to a man than this, is there?” I slipped a finger into the entry between my thighs, then sliding upwards crossed my fingers over the flat oval of my belly. “No price he won’t pay for this, for my body, to orgasm here.”

“And yet?”

“That this is what attracts a man—and not the woman. “And yet, how strange that knowing what he wants—” I slipped my finger into the crease of my cunt, shuddered, and drew my wetness over my belly, “makes me ready—makes me want to give him what he wants.”

“Are you ashamed of this?”

“Should I be?”

“No,” said Sienna. “Be whoever you want to be. Why should your story be like anyone else’s” She gently pulled my wrists behind me. This time the bondage wasn’t painful. I pair of golden cuffs affixed my writs at the small of my back, not crossed, but held by a glittering chain between the cuffs.

“Blind fold?” I asked.

“No,” she said. “Now you will see everything—and the men who will bid to own you, to fuck you, and command you.”

I trembled again.

“But one last piece of advice,” said Sienna. “Many slaves fall in love with their masters. And many slaves marry their masters. But for the next year you will live as if under a spell, a charm that you and your Master will create together. My advice to you, if you fall in love with your master, that you never utter love’s name. Strive in every other way, with every deed and act of submission, to express your love. And if you are to fall in love with your Master, and he with you, speaking love’s name won’t be necessary.”

I leaned and I kissed Sienna.

And then, with reluctance, she broke the kiss and led me to a green door, wood stained green, at the end of the hallway. I was surrounded by wealth. The walls of the hall were bamboo, and the floor was teak, and recessed lights lit the hallway. Still trembling, Sienna pushed the door open and led me in.

At first I could see no one, blinded by a light the shone only on me. I knew the room was full. I could hear their breaths, their sudden conversation at the sight of me, some laughter, but not unkind. And they clapped. I was on a stage and men and women sat at round tables below me. They were dressed in black—tuxedos for the men and exquisite black dresses for the women. I stood before them, naked, ready to be fucked. At the end of a stage stood Mr. Ward behind a podium.

Sienna brought me to the middle of the stage and left me there. There were immediately two women, also slaves, wearing nothing but a chain around their waist and pierced nipples. But one girl wasn’t fully naked. I saw what looked like a bikini buttom, but was metal, gold, and I knew that the cup penetrated her by the way she moved—held in place by the chain at her waist. They placed a bar, a spreader bar, at my feet.

“Spread your legs, girl.”

I wasn’t even sure who spoke. I obeyed. My ankles were fastened to the spreader bar.

Ward struck the podium with a gavel. The room quieted. My heart flooded my senses with a beating tide. I know that my stomach and thighs quivered. I knew that they appraised my cunt and my tits, none of which I could hide from them. I could see, in the audience, that some of the women, unhurriedly, stroked the cocks of the men sitting next to them. “Who will be bidding?” Ward asked. “Please raise your cards.”

Over half a dozen men raised a card.

I shook. I quickly glanced at the men, and my eyes widened. Him!—the man from the hotel! And he looked just as stunned to see me—the girl! The girl who turned him down. The girl who betrayed him. Absurd, stupid thoughts! I averted my gaze but where else was I going to look? Anyone but him! Not like this!

Ward gestured to me. His finger turning. The two slavegirls returned and turned me around. Then one of them lowered a black, silken, rope with which the hooked my hand cuffs. Then, pulling the rope, they lifted my wrists behind me and forced me to bend over,. legs spread by the spreader bar, to be appraised from behind—cunt and the diamond in my ass visible to all A girl, in high heels, to be mounted. There was appreciative murmuring and discussion.

I closed my eyes, imagining anyone but him.

“The bidding will start at 100,000 dollars.” Ward struck the gavel. “150,000! Do I have 200,000?” he asked, as if they bid on the value of my cunt, and they did. “200,000! Do I have 250? 250? 300! Do I have 350?Yes, Madame. 400. Do I have 5? 500,000? Do I have 6. 750,000. Do I have 8? 800,000! Do I have 1,000,000 dollars for the girl? One million! Do I have 1,100,000? Yes. 1,100,000!”

I descended into the dark waters of my desire, the blood of an ocean, beating, living, grinding civility into grains of sand. Moisture dripped down my thigh, the hollow of my knee, and to my ankle—for all to see. What were my tits, my ass, and my cunt worth?

“1,800,000! Do I have two million? 2,100,000. Do I have 2,250,000? 2,250,000! Do I have 2,300,000?”

I was sweating under the stage light. Sweat dripped from my nipples, thick and protruding, ready to be sucked, ready to be mounted, ready to swing with the weight of a man’s thrusts.

“4, 250,000! Going once! Going twice!”

The gavel struck.




I was owned now.

The final gavel was greeted by a burst of applause. I waited for the other slave girls to release me as the applause faded but I remained legs spread, bent over, my wrists chained to the ceiling. I soon heard the groaning of men, perhaps a woman. I was there for their arousal. I was their pornography. My shoulders began to ache. I heard a man’s orgasm. Had the women bent over his lip? Was she drinking his orgasm as he imagined fucking me? A drop of moisture slipped down my other thigh.

Then, finally, I was released.

The two slavegirls guided me off the stage, to a door that was opposite the one I had entered. Sienna was waiting. She fastened the leash to my collar and led me into the gratefully dim hallway. The door swung shut behind me.

“You’re owner is a man,” she said.

“You saw him?”

“Yes. Of course. He is a good looking man.”

“What’s his hair like?”

“Oh—” I could hear her smile. “You want to guess who it is?”


“He instructed me to tell you nothing more,” she said. “You must live under the rules of your owner now.”

“Is his hair short?”

I yelped when she spanked my ass. “His eyes are brown.”

I nearly stumbled. “God, when can I take off these shoes?”

“Not yet.”

She guided me into a windowless room with a single hook in the ceiling, another black rope, with a hook in the hand, hung from it. My stomach fluttered. The room wasn’t large and there were mirrors on each of the walls and ceiling. The wooden floor gave under my feet and there was a futon folded against one wall, and pillows, and folded sheets. There was a closet. The doors were mirrored like the wall. The recessed lights were so dim as to almost leave the room dark. The two slave girls and a man, who I guessed was also a slave, entered the room carrying the spreader bar and a black dildo—cock shaped.

The man told me to stand in the middle of the room. I did. He hooked my hand-cuffs with the the black rope’s hook. Without warning, he tightened the rope, lifting my wrists and bending me over. I gasped, uncomfortably. My heels were lifted from the shoes. He fastened my leash to the spreader bar, forcing my to bend over for fucking. “Spread your legs,” he said. The slave girls once again efficiently secured my ankles to the spreader bar. “Open your mouth.” I did and I cried out, a muted cry, when my mouth was filled by the cock and fastened behind my neck. Last, the man took a small golden tag from a black box—the name of my owner, date purchased, and price. When he walked behind me I panicked. I complained—cries muffled by the cock. Then my eyes widened. I felt his fingers on my clit. I shook my head. I complained again, then I arched and my eyes rolled as he massaged my clit. There was a little tug, then another, and the tag—what I cost, that I was property, and who I belonged to— hung glittering from my clit. I cried out again, stiffened, then moaned when he pulled the butt-plug out of me. They left quickly. I balanced on my toes, half hanging from the ceiling’s hook. I winced with discomfort. Perhaps ten minutes, perhaps twenty passed, and the door opened.

It was him!

He had brought a folding chair with him. With an efficient snap he unfolded the chair and dropped it on the floor in front of me. He sat. I squealed, the cock muffling me, but his expression didn’t change. He waited until I had regained my balance, uneasily on my toes. He exhaled.

“You know how much it cost just to for the invite?”

I averted my gaze.

“Alot.” He cocked his head, shook it, and looked at the ceiling—at me in the mirror’s reflection. “I didn’t—” My owner paused, formulating a different thought. He had an accent, the kind that first generation immigrants have. “Too much information.” He was silent again. “You know, when I saw you last night—” He stopped again and inhaled. “I wasn’t planning on—this. I just wanted to see. If you’d—” He paused, almost comically between confusion and exasperation. “If you’d fucked me last night— You’re a sexual woman. I saw that. You remember what you said to me? Why’s a guy like me chasing a girl your age? Remember? Well—why’s a girl like you got a cock in her mouth?”

He leaned back, pressed his fingers over his hair, then leaned forward.

He exhaled again. He took a notepad from his jacket and a pen. He wrote number on it, tore off the paper and put it on the floor. $11,643.83. He stood and walked next to me. I shivered at the touch of his finger on my shoulder. His finger’s tip moved to my spine, then followed my spine to the small of my back.

“You know—” he said. He shook his head. “Seeing you on the stage. If you’d fucked me last night, I could have walked out without you. You insulted me. Seeing you like that insulted me. I wanted to buy you. I wanted to own you. I wanted to fuck you until you screamed.” His finger moved to the tag hanging from my clit and he massaged it and my clit. I stiffened. “What’s it like to be owned?” He pressed again and my eyes rolled.

“I paid four million dollars for you. That’s alot. I wasn’t expecting to spend money like that.” I waited for him to unzip. “All because—I’m repeating myself. All because of last night.” I could see him in the mirrors. “Fuck!” He adjusted the tie at his throat. “God damnit! Fuck!” How easily he could have fucked me. The high heel shoes lifted my cunt. “You know,” he said, “there’s a funny thing about this arrangement. It only occurred to me later. Who owns who? I mean—” He paused. “I couldn’t walk out without owning you.” Then his voice changed. His hand rolled over my ass, over my cunt, and palmed the flat of my belly. “You’re beautiful. God, but you’re beautiful. How old are you?”

He walked to the other side.

He tugged at my nipple. I squealed and complained. “Eighteen? Nineteen? Twenties? God but you’re ready for cock.”

He circled once more, his finger’s tip tracing my every curve, then sat in the chair. He wasn’t a tall man, but he was powerfully built, broad shouldered and walked with the discipline of a soldier. His hands were broad and powerful. His hair was black, crew cut, and he was clean-shaven. His skin was darker, like the men from Spain, Mexico or South America. His lips were thick and his eyebrows were heavy and flat. “I know it’s hard for you to talk with a cock in your mouth. If you hadn’t insulted me last night— Do you want me to fuck you? Yes or no? Spread your legs and bend over if you want me to fuck you.”

I groaned.

“You’re bent over.” He leaned and almost growled. “Must mean you want me to fuck you.”

My tits ached.

A familiar dark shore slipped down my thighs—shame, rebellion, pride.

“God, but I like you like that,” he said. “I hope you don’t mind if I attend to some business.” He leaned back and gazed at me for another several minutes before picking a smartphone from his jacket pocket. He dialed a number and began business calls—one after the other. He hadn’t planned on buying a slave girl.

Sometimes he would stand. He circled me. He let his free hand glide over me as though to simply enjoy the contours of my body. I was sweating. The strain on my shoulder’s and the ache of immobility was gradually becoming painful.

After almost an hour of calls he put away the phone.

He squatted in front of me. He reached behind and undid the cock-gag. I opened and closed my mouth, relieved.

“Hey,” he said. “You know why I wanted you like this?”

I shook my head.

“So you know what I expect from you at any minute, at any hour, any place I want.”

I nodded.

He yanked my head back by the hair and kissed me, roughly, powerfully, his tongue raking the roof of my mouth. “You’re mine now. Your mouth is mine. You tits are mine, Your cunt is mine. Anytime. Anywhere.”

He let go of my hair and left me.

Just outside the door of my room he addressed one of the slaves that had waited outside of the door. “Tell Mr. Ward to deliver the merchandise to the Hotel Astaria, Suite 772. I’ve left clothing for her. Mr. Ward knows where it is.”


The relief of being able to stand, able to move my legs and arms was itself a kind of pain, but a pain that receded. I was taken to an airy room, with windows facing the moonlit ocean on three sides and a balcony. Sienna sat on a bed with a black, sequined dress folded next to her. I groaned at the site of the high heels neatly placed on top of the dress. “You need to take a shower,” she said.

“God do I ever.”

“Come,” she smiled. She led me through a glass sliding doorway and into an open shower that was a lava-tiled room in and of itself. So much wealth. I had entered a new world. I burst into tears, but I laughed to. I was a multi-millionaire. And why that should make me burst into tears? Don’t judge me. Sienna kissed my forehead and rested my cheek on her shoulder until the sobbing faded. “Now?” she asked. “Are you ready for your shower? Your owner wants you to be showered and clean.”

I sighed and shuddered. I went to the shower. The water was automatic and warm. “Warmer,” said Sienna. The showers, responding to her voice, warmed; and then she unexpectedly disrobed and joined me.

She brought soap and begin to rinse my back, spine, and buttocks.

She kissed the back of my neck. “Now,” she said, “your owner has given me instructions. You need not do what I tell you. I am not your owner. But I will report to him, my little slave, what you do and do not agree to do.”

I turned.

She smiled and stroked my hair. “It will be pleasurable,” she added, “but not too pleasurable.”

“Teach me how to wear high heels?”

“Of course,” she said, “but there’s nothing to teach. You only need to wear them. And I’m sure he doesn’t expect you to wear them every day.”

“Thank God.”

“You’re owner is a funny man.”

“I met him the night before,” I covered my face with my hands.

“Did you?”


“What happened?”

“Well—” I still covered my face. “I might have told him, I don’t know, to fuck off.”


“I don’t know,” I whined. ” I wanted sex. So did he.”

“You flirted with him.”

I sighed.

“Ah,” said Sienna.

“You know. I was scared. He’s cute. I thought wanted sex— just—contact.”

“And then?”

“And then? I mean, I remembered I was going to be a sex slave for a whole year.”

“Well,” said Sienna. “I don’t think you made a mistake. Why shouldn’t you be a little nervous?A little afraid? And why shouldn’t you be able to change your mind? I think you did the right thing.”

“Oh—” I groaned. “But why him? Why him of all people?”

“I think he is as confused as you are.” Sienna’s hands moved to my shoulders, and massaged. “I don’t think he expected to buy you.”

“It turns me on.”

“What does?”

“When you talk like that.”


“When you say that he bought me—he’s my owner.”

“I liked it too when I was a slave.”

“Why?” I blurted. “I mean, is there something wrong with us? If this were story, what woman would want to read it? Bought? Owned? Why are we like that? A sex slave? God! It turns me on. It turns me on especially because it’s him! Why?”

“Do you like it when I press here?” Sienna massaged my lower back.


I finally pushed my hands through my hair. Water poured over my forehead and lips. I’d almost forgotten the numb ache of my muscles. Sienna’s hands moved loser and she kneaded my buttocks. “Do you like it here?”

“Yes,” I answered.

She moved beside me. She began the work of soaping my breasts, shoulder blades and spine. My nipples stung under the soap. She soaped my belly. The fingers of her other hand moved down my spine, dividing my ass, then circled my anus. She pressed her finger inside. “Do you like it here?”

My lips parted. “Yes.”

I arched. I opened my legs. She pushed again and again, developing a rhythm. I closed my eyes. Her hand, at my stomach, moved down and found my clit. I let out a long guttural moan? I felt the little ID tag knock between my thighs. I was sold. Someone owned me. Owned my clit.

“And here?”

I swiveled my hip. “Fuck! I’m going to come!”

“No you’re not.” She removed both hands. letting them slide up my belly and spine. Her voice was level but kind. “Dry off. Get dressed. You’re owner has forbidden you to touch yourself. Once you’re dressed you’ll be meeting him for dinner.”

For an instant my fingerer lingered at my clit. I couldn’t help myself, cheated of release once again. Then I rinsed my hair and returned to the bed. There was no underwear. The black sequined dress, though beautiful and somehow tailored to my waist, only narrowly descended enough to cover me. If I were to bend over, or stumble, anyone might see the little gold tag dangling between my thighs. I stepped into the high heel shoes. They arched my back and lifted my pussy behind me. I nervously looked over my shoulder. The dress and ridden up the back of my thighs, now just narrowly covering the tag.


I turned, startled. The chauffeur stood at the door, hat in his hand.

A tickling panic rose from my stomach.


“Okay!” I barked.

There was a slender black purse beneath the dress. Bending my knees, keeping them together, I picked up the purse and awkwardly followed the chauffeur to the limousine. Standing, walking, sitting. At every turn the short dress threatened to humiliate me—that I had been shaved, that my ownership dangled from my lict, that my tits were thick and sensitive. The chauffeur opened the limousine door and I sidled into the car sideways. Sienna sat beside me.

The drive to the Hotel was long descent back to the towering hotels that fronted the beach. I opened the purse, curious. A clipped roll of hundred dollar bills. There was lipstick, passport, driver’s license, credit cards and new smart phone and a choke collar. The hundred dollar bills, the smart phone and the collar weren’t my own.

The limousine pulled into the Hotel’s roundabout.

I climbed out and Sienna followed. The chauffeur tipped his hat, returned to the limousine and left us. Sienna brushed something off my shoulder. “I’m going to my room to sleep. Do not call for me unless you no longer wish to be a slave.” She took my purse, took the choke collar from it and fastened it round my neck. “Only you or I may remove this collar. If you remove it, it will send a signal and I will come to you immediately.” She kissed my cheek. “But, until you do, you belong to your owner. He waits for you on the terrace.”

I watched her leave.

The air was cool between my thighs and my stomach was a panicky weightlessness. With quick, awkward steps I avoided the bright lights of the foyer, more easily unnoticed in the intermittent shadows of the outdoors. The terrace was at the back of the hotel. There were tables and chairs under umbrellas and torches whose flames crackled in the ocean breeze. The mood among the other hotel guests was light and easy going. I could hear men and women, my own age, talking, shouting or laughing in the pitch darkness of the beach and the never-ending wash of waves.

Then I saw him.

My owner was dressed in a coat and tie, but no longer a tuxedo and nothing as formal. I wondered if he ever dressed casually. When he saw me he smiled, stood, and pulled out the chair opposite him. I bit my lip, worried that others might see the hem of my dress ride up as I sat. He held the chair until I was comfortable, legs tightly together and aslant.

He returned to his own side. “What do you like to eat?”

“Not fish.”

“Not fish?” He was incredulous. “We’re in Hawaii!”

“I’m a hamburger girl.”

He gazed at me with an appraising smile. “Where are you from?”



“Seriously,” I answered curtly.

“I never would have guessed that.”

“What about you?”

“Miami. Mom and Dad were from Cuba.”

He gestured at the Waitress. She brought wine and bread. He ordered swordfish for himself and a hamburger for me. After she left he leaned back in his sat. “Tell me,” he said, “Is there anything covering your cunt?”

The question was like a jolt of electricity. “No,” my voice cracked.

We sat in an uncomfortably silence for a moment. “Why me?” I hissed. “What kind of a man-baby are you? Can’t take rejection? Jesus, fucking, Christ. Has no one ever said ‘No’ to you? Four million dollars? You’re insulted I cost that much? Nobody made you walk in there. Nobody— I mean, Jesus! What were you thinking?”

His jaw clenched.

“What?” I asked. “Has no woman ever told you to grow up?”

“It was you,” he leaned forward, as if restraining the temptation to shout. “It was you.”

I shook my head. “What does that even mean?”

He leaned back. He tugged at the hem of his jacket as if it needed straightening. “I don’t know.”

Another silence followed. “I’m sorry,” I said.

“You’re sorry for what you said you’re sorry that I’m—I don’t know—a man-baby.”

“Have you ever—“

“—been in a relationship?” He finished my question, then nodded as if to consider the question. “See. That’s the thing. I don’t have relationships. I meet a woman. I get to know her. She gets to know me. I say something. She says something. We’re done.”


“So—” He gazed into the back depth of the shore and unseeable waves. “So—” He thumped the table top with a thumb. “So yeah, see? That’s the funny thing.” He shook his head. “Here I am and here you are.”

“Then why did you do it?”

“Why did you?” he asked.

The questions remained unanswered. The waitress came bringing a hamburger and swordfish. I was starved. We ate. We were civil. We asked each other if we liked the food. He asked if I wanted more wine. We had hardly finished when he perfunctorily took a hundred dollar bill from his wallet and laid it on the table.

“It’s been a great evening,” he said.

I didn’t answer.

“Can I buy you another drink?”

“No.” That feeling of weightless uncertainty swirled in my gut. This was our conversation from the night before.

“Do you have plans for tomorrow?”

My voice shook. “I do and I don’t want to think about it,” and this time I was telling the truth.

“How much of Hawaii have you seen?”


He studied me. He stood up. He went to the back of my chair. I stood.

“I could show you around.”

He turned me. His palm fell to the small of my back. Then, like the night before he was guiding me away from the terrace and toward the dark of the palm groves. His hand slipped from my back to my tail bone. The hem of my dress rode upward.

Anyone could see the tag dangling between my thighs and he knew it. I closed my eyes. The dark pounding of water wasn’t the ocean’s. His fingers entered me from behind as we walked into the shadow of the palms.

“You like the high heels?”


“You look good in them,” he said as we stopped. “I like the way they make your ass arch.” He removed his fingers. He stepped behind me, unzipping.

“Tell me you don’t want to.”


“Bend over.”

“Why did you do it?”

He kicked my legs apart. He roughly took my hair with one hand and bent me over with the other. I arched to the curve of him entering me from behind. There was no resistance. My cunt, cheated of orgasms, obediently received his cock. I grunted and exhaled. My owner held me like that, letting me breathe, arch and grunt as I my abdomen adjusted to the weight of him inside. I reached behind but he quickly crossed my wrists at the small of my back and held them there. The first withdrawal and thrust was firm and powerful. I groaned and my eyes rolled. Then he fucked me. The tag, stamped with my owner’s name, slapped his balls. I screamed. I came. The dark was in me and outside. I heard him shout and thrust hard, holding himself inside. His warmth claimed ownership of my womb. Legs wide and straight, I submitted.

When he straightened me his come dripped down my tag.

I turned and slapped him. His mouth twitched. I slapped him again. He took me by the nape of my neck and the small of my back. He drew me into a kiss—the kind of kiss that’s like a dizzying apology and accusation.

When it was done we simply looked at each other.

“Get on your knees,” he finally said.

My lips parted. I slowly descended to my knees.

“Clean me off.”

He stepped toward me and I took hold of his thighs and took his cock in my mouth. I licked and sucked until I took my owners semen inside myself a second time. He offered me his hand. I took it and stood.

“You can take off the high heels,” he said quietly.

I walked, my owner’s come dripping from the tag between my thighs, and didn’t care if anybody saw. His Suite overlooked the ocean, fourteen floors above the terrace. The room was broad, with a large picture window, an LCD on one wall and a king size bed opposite.

The door closed behind us.

“Get into bed.”

I turned. I wanted to take a shower. He must have known.

“Get into bed. Your cunt deserves to be full of come. Leave your dress on. I like it. I might want to fuck you in the morning.”

I obeyed.

I fell asleep on my side, turned toward midnight’s window, my tag and my owner’s come slipping down my thigh.

William Crimson | March 2nd 2018

Latest Comments

  1. darkfriday1408 says:

    Very nice. And a hot scene with the two of them.

    It will be very interesting to see the relationship between them further develop and what will happen next. Especially considering the fact that he didn’t originally want to buy anything, until he saw her. In that regard, he was a slave to his own desires and pride. I’m curious to see if the relationship between the two of them will develop into affection, and possibly love, with time.

    Also, is there any possibility that Choi and Ademar might run into Choi’s family members or that they might call and ask how she is doing and were she is? That would be interesting to explain.

    Good luck and happy writing.

    • willcrimson says:

      Yes, I like that. That’s good.

      Let’s get her back together with her family members, maybe individually or however, I like that idea. That will work well in a later chapter. Keep the ideas coming.

      And, yes, he’s a slave to his own desires and pride. Exactly.

      And what is she?

      I’ve got to set the groundwork for that in the next chapter.

  2. darkfriday1408 says:

    It would be interesting to see that reunion/reunions between Choi and her family members while she is Ademar’s sex slave. They could meet in small groups, especially if Ademar lives and works in Miami. Or does he live and work in Hawaii? Either way, it could be possible, considering that both locations are popular tourist destinations. And if Choi doesn’t want to tell him why she agreed to sell herself, maybe he could find out when he meets her family and friends.

    Well, she would be the object of his desire, his nymph. And she could also be a slave to her own desires, even if they are subconscious. She might like the idea and feeling to know that her body and her submissiveness is making someone a slave to her body and her demeanor, even if they are in control physically.

    • willcrimson says:

      //It would be interesting to see that reunion/reunions between Choi and her family members while she is Ademar’s sex slave. //

      Yes. In a sense, it’s what we all do anyway, when we’re young. The girlfriend takes her boyfriend to meet her mother and father, and the boyfriend is on his best behavior, especially intimidated by the father. God knows what the father would do if he found out boyfriend fucks Daddy’s “little girl” from behind, like a whore, first thing in the morning.

      And the girlfriend acts like she doesn’t know anything about her boyfriend’s cock, sucking it, riding it, wanting it until she screams on it.

      Choi’s situation is just a twist on all the same dynamics, which is what erotic stories do. Beyond that, I don’t yet know whether Choi will tell him why she sold herself into slavery. Sometimes, you know, we don’t exactly know why we do things. It’s why we go to therapists. And sometimes we figure out the things we do by living with the consequences, and that’s why we tell stories. :)

      I think Choi already knows that he’s a slave to her body and demeanor, but I’m not sure that she knows why; and I’m not sure she understands why that disturbs her. Surely she understood that being a sex slave meant surrendering her agency, so why does she resent surrendering her agency to Ademar? There’s something going on there, and strange as it sounds, I haven’t quite figured it out. When I write, I imagine, at any given moment, how a real person would respond (allowing for certain “suspensions of belief”) and simply write what happens. Then I’m like you. I have to make sense of it. Choi confuses me a little…

      I have to make sense of it by creating/understanding her history.

  3. darkfriday1408 says:

    That’s true.

    But in regards to Choi’s motivation’s or at least the catalyst for why she choose to sell herself, maybe the reasoning would be that she had a long time boyfriend, high-school sweetheart, they went to college together, got jobs in the same city and moved in together and then he either broke things off, cheated on her because he was bored with their sex life and wanted something new or their personal life/sex life just got stale and boring and he stopped paying attention to her and she choose to take a drastic measure. Maybe she heard about the sex slave thing in a bar or read about it on the internet, signed up, dumped er boyfriend, quit her job and went to Hawaii. I think it could work. If that would be the case, it would also be interesting to see how Choi and Ademar would react to meeting the ex-boyfriend, especially if he would still be on good terms with her family. Because if they would have been together since high-school, say 17 or 18 years old and no they are 26-27, that’s along time and her parents and family would be highly reluctant to accept somebody new in Choi’s life.

    • willcrimson says:

      I was thinking along those lines too, but deciding to be a sex slave for a year (within the world of the story) would be huge decision. I can’t imagine many women would ever consider something like that, but then again, there’s the allure of money and the powerful and dominant men. Would be interesting to get a woman’s insight at this point.

      The one thing I want to avoid is the “50 Shades of Grey” meme that for someone to want to do this, male or female, they need to be psychologically damaged.

      I get fed up with erotic writers who, call it authorial cowardice, construe anything other than the missionary position as sexual deviancy. One may enjoy BDSM M/f or F/m relationships for all the right reasons.

    • willcrimson says:

      You now, having written all that, you might be interested to know that my story isn’t so far-fetched.

      There is or was, in reality, a business called “Viking Tours” (I think). For several thousand dollars, any man could buy a one week’s stay at a private island. It was either the Mediterranean or Caribbean. I think it was the latter. There were usually a dozen women there. They were generally Eastern European, drop dead gorgeous, and had chosen to be there for a a year or more. This was all above board and hardly a secret. In other words, the women weren’t being sex-trafficked but were there voluntarily. What were they doing?

      They were sex slaves.


      The men stepped off the helicopters and could do whatever they wanted with the women (besides, obviously, harming them in any way). The men could enjoy as many women as they wanted, when they wanted, and enjoy them separately or together.

      When the women were asked why they did it, they answered that they were hoping to find powerful and dominant men who would marry them. That did, apparently, happen.

      So, strange as it may sound, my story isn’t as far-fetched as it might seem.

  4. darkfriday1408 says:

    Fair enough. Using the reasoning of the ex-boyfriend would/could be seen as her being psychologically damaged. Maybe you could write that she read or heard about that somewhere and she had some inclination towards BDSM and wanted to explore the culture and every thing that goes with it, further.

    Or that she had a boyfriend, but the relationship became stale and cold, so she decided that she wanted something else from life and some excitement and did this. Although this could be viewed as selfish, because she didn’t fight to fix her relationship.

    • willcrimson says:

      //Although this could be viewed as selfish, because she didn’t fight to fix her relationship.//

      Beautiful. Nothing wrong with being selfish and learning from it. I like that. Alot. An unwillingness to fix relationships. Ademar was like that and so was she (for different reasons perhaps) and now they’re stuck with each other. They *have* to fix it. :)

  5. darkfriday1408 says:

    Yeah, that’s true about not wanting to fix the relationship because it was growing cold and stale. Sometimes it’s ok to be selfish and want what’s best for you and not be willing to waste time and energy to fix something. And now being stuck with one another, they have to fix things.

    And yeah, i heard about Viking Tours. From what i know, it is/was in the Caribbean. But i didn’t know about the girls motivations; i didn’t really do a lot of research on the subject.

  6. Cille says:

    Oh my oh my. Apparently a little nudge was all you needed. Really like the way the story is developing. Such an interesting dynamic between the two of them. She’s so feisty. She deserves an interesting backstory. Looking forward to see what that is.

    • willcrimson says:

      I never like the way third rate erotic writers portray women as mindless receptacles of male lust. I’ve always hated that in stories. I would read them and think to myself: By this point any real woman would have cut his balls off and served them with a side of marmalade. At the very least: This is not how a real human being would react. I think Erotica is so much more erotic where there’s real tension between people who at least have some semblance of realness or truth. I don’t want this to just be about a guy with a sex toy. So yeah, she’s not going to like everything he wants to do and he’s not going to like that she doesn’t, but they’ve gotten themselves into this agreement that forces them to confront each other’s desires, and that’s where all the erotic tension is. She agreed to play a role and he has to learn how to find himself through her.

      So, that’s the long answer to saying: I’m really pleased that you like the dynamic and that she’s feisty. Tells me I’m doing something right. :)

  7. Cille says:

    The dynamic makes me wonder who will actually be doing the taming… you are definitely doing something right. I’ve been reading your work for 6+ years. And still you surprise and delight me. Thank you and please keep it up.

    • darkfriday1408 says:

      I think that they might both do the taming. Choi might tame Ademar because she knows that he has spent a ridiculous amount of money to have her and she might not agree to some of the things that he wants. And Ademar, because in his position as her master will make her push her limits and get her out of her comfort zone, even if she might refuse some things. But i think that for the moment, Choi has the slight advantage in the relationship.

  8. Cille says:

    Something that occurred to me during this read through, put straps on the high heels. The effect(at least in my mind, and I wear heels), is another sort of restriction. Also makes the shoes easier to walk in for a beginner.

    A few typos as well. When they first tie her down to shave her, it say she could move, not couldn’t. Also, a few instance of “alot”.

    Looking forward to the next chapter…

    • willcrimson says:

      Thank you Cille. The next chapter is mostly done. I’m simultaneously working on another erotic story that’s mostly grabbed my attention. This is why I write short stories. Just too damned many ideas to be a novelist.

      I’ll make sure Sienna recommends straps. I once had a girlfriend who liked high heels (I usually fell for the sneaker-wearing girls) and have a vague memory concerning straps.

      I looked up ‘alot’. :) You’re right. Interesting word though. Seems to be changing, like words do. ‘Away’ and ‘along’ used to be separate words as well. But sometimes I get to writing so quickly—excuses, excuses…

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