Poor Little Rich Slut (16 page)

“Oh, you’re right. I did enjoy myself…
all
of it.”

“You mean getting pulled away from the dining room, your butt blistered, the dressing down… all that?”

“Uh huh.”
I smirked playfully. “I don’t think there’s anything you could put me through that I couldn’t handle.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t be so sure.”

“You can take the kid-gloves off. I’m not going to balk. As long as you keep things discreet and my face out of the papers…”

“That’s your only condition?”

I gave the question some thought. “Well…I’m not sure…but when it comes to these kinky things, I’m a natural.”

“Don’t speak too soon.”

“Well, have I really ever balked? Hum?”

“No so far.”

“Then test me.”

“Test you? Really test you?”

“Yes. You can really test me…something really down and dirty and despicable.” The sexual tension in me was already rising. “I don’t want to stop Garrison. I want more. This makes me feel. Feel things I’ve never felt. Test me all you want.”

Garrison laughed. “We’ll see about that, Heiress. You may regret ever challenging me.”

“I don’t think so,” I sassed right back.

For the two weeks following Daddy’s party, my ass was paddled, caned, spanked and bruised. My butt bore these daily beatings with little grace, but always a hushed mouth. I suppose the treatment made me less annoying, more submissive and friendly, but I was never completely sure of the effect, since I couldn’t get straight answers out of anyone. Was I so much of a bitch that I needed these daily sessions?

Although I was required to suffer, the after-effect rarely failed me. I remained ‘at the edge,’ the raw and willing subject of my lover’s, my sexual mentor’s attentions. Though this fact seemed a little disturbing from a sane point of view, I couldn’t remember ever being happier.

The night began as a normal evening out with Garrison, one of many in a long string that benefited from my daily ritual punishments in Robert Harrington’s private office. I seemed to be a lot more at ease after a few good whacks on my butt; and if I was not already erotically charged, I always returned to my office after our brief scenes feeling the heat of my punished ass create a favorable feeling of sexual desire all through me. I’d have to say that the sessions put a smile on my face—which seemed to put an affable grin on Garrison’s face as well.

On that particular night, I met him right after work at a small Italian restaurant. He was already seated and sipping wine with his order of
bruchetta
. A smile broadened on his face as he saw me arrive. I settled in beside him, gave him kiss and laid my hand on his thigh; I was feeling especially horny.

“Good mood, I see,” he said.

“Good sales figures,” I replied.

“Ah yes. Things are coming around.”

“I hate to say that you were right.”

“I promise I won’t gloat. How’s your ass, by the way?”

“My ass is just
fine,
Robert is very attentive to my needs.”

“Good, my awakening little slut.”

“Hum, I like the way you said that.”

His eyes danced mirthfully. “It’s going to be a long night, my darling.” He said it so sweetly, with his hand fingering my brown pageboy a bit, that I felt a jolt of excitement make me flush all over.

“Really?”

“Private party,” he added.

“Whose?”

“You don’t know the host.”

“But something special?”

“My, you are inquisitive,” he said, a little put out.

“I should quit asking questions then?”

“I think so.” His voice lowered. “Just remember that I warned you.”

I was obliged not to query him again, but I have to say the way he added this last statement had me worried. He went back to his
bruchetta
, offering me a bite and acting as if he’d never issued his forewarning.

I sipped a glass of wine slowly, while Garrison looked at his watch several times, then finally rose from his seat and pulled me to my feet. We were on the street walking into a quiet residential neighborhood—nice part of town; I had no reason to fear, at least not at that moment.

We stopped in front of one of several older homes on the block and Garrison turned to me.

“Wait here, I have to deliver something,
then
we’ll be on our way.” He pulled an unmarked package from his pocket and showed it to me. Looked like a CD. “I’ll be right back.”

This seemed a little unusual, but the night was warm, about twilight, and the wine had put me in a mellow mood, so I wasn’t going to object to being left by myself. After Garrison disappeared inside, I stood with my back to the street, my hand on a brick pillar that formally marked the walkway leading up to the stately home. I spent the next few minutes inspecting the grand old three-story house with its broad front porch and dignified architecture, trying to imagine who might live inside. I was so consumed with my own thoughts that I didn’t hear a car drive up, or a door open, or the footsteps behind me, until a split second before someone clamped a hand over my mouth and an arm around my waist.

I let out a little scream, “
What the fucking hell!
” I tried to shout, but my voice was muffled by the gloved hand. My panic did nothing to prevent me from being dragged from the sidewalk to a long black car idling in the street behind me. I kicked at my captor for all I was worth but the capture was so swift that I was easily contained within a minute’s time. A gag went into my mouth and a blindfold over my eyes. My wrists were bound behind me and my legs were bound at both my ankles and my knees. I could barely move. I imagined myself pressed against the floor of the car, my nose shoved into a wet, soggy-smelling carpet. I suppose I might have struggled, but I sensed I’d been drugged and my physical reactions were compromised by whatever substance I inhaled. My heart thumped madly in my chest—I wanted out and I struggled against the ropes, but then quickly lost my will to fight. I had to be scared, but I could hardly feel the fear.

As the car drove off, I drifted in a stupor, wishing that I’d been knocked out altogether so I could avoid the miserable process of trying to determine what had happened.

Was this Garrison’s doing?
That seemed the most likely possibility since he’d deliberately left me on the street.

Were these real thugs? The capture a real kidnap—tomorrow’s headlines: Rich heiress ransomed for millions?

Was I just unlucky in this unfamiliar part of town?

I had no answers to my questions for a long spell, although I had no idea how long it actually was since I seemed too intoxicated to tell.

I did recall Garrison’s warning at the restaurant—yes, that was the most obvious explanation…or at least it seemed so.

When the car finally stopped, a pair of great, muscled arms lifted me from my awkward position on the floor and carried me from the cooling night to some place warm. We must have gone indoors. I heard the murmur of voices all around me but couldn’t make out what they were saying. Nothing in my body seemed to be working right.

When the man stopped, he plopped me down on a hard bed and there I stayed for some time. When I finally felt a human presence around me again, I realized that I was being unbound and stripped of my clothes. Again, I had no will to fight. Like some lazy rag doll, my lifeless, heavy arms and legs were lifted, moved, twisted, and my clothes were pulled at until I was completely naked.

A metal collar suddenly clamped my throat, and for a moment the blindfold was removed. Before I could make out anything of my surroundings, the blindfold was quickly replaced by a hood that fit snugly over my face. I drank in the smell of leather and sensed the hood being fastened to the collar. Again, a feeling of panic started to rise within me, only to fizzle away as if I didn’t care.

This had to be Garrison’s doing.
Trust him,
Eleanor
,
I repeated to myself again and again.

No one would recognize me behind the hood… yes, that was good, I think. Surely this was what Garrison had planned—wasn’t it? It had to be, my fuzzy mind wandered on from thought to thought. I had to hope I was right. I prayed to God I was. I suppose I was anxious, but my emotions remained amazingly subdued, too unfocused to feel any dread or impending harm.

The hood hid my hair, while leaving small eyeholes, breathing holes for my nose and an opening at my mouth. I could just barely see around me the distorted-looking bodies of two men, although I believe there were more people in the dimly lit room. The hood pressed against my cheeks creating an uncomfortable pressure

Pulled to my feet, I found myself wobbly and hesitant to move. My captors didn’t care. After cuffing my wrists behind me and adding some sort of weight to the chain that hung in my crotch, they marched me down a cement corridor. Aging and yellowed, it smelled of mold and disinfectant. Thick, rough beams supported the dank passageway. A terrible heaviness pressed in all around me, while from some distance away, I could hear the beat of heavy metal rock music, beckoning us on.

From behind me, I felt a hand rubbing the bruises on my ass—I imagined a female hand, as it seemed delicate and less invading than that of a man. I stumbled on, supported by the two men on either side of me, while the chain dangled ominously as I was walked, swaying with the weight as it tugged at my
piercings
. I feared the rings would rip out, but hadn’t the will to say so.

Even with all this happening to me, I felt
a strange
but familiar sexual warmth settling in my body. A fluttering feeling occurred as the humid air grazed my naked privates. Unlike the rest of my physical responses, which were muted and vague, these feelings seemed more tangible and understood. My sensual hunger was quite clear to me. But I shouldn’t have been surprised; I was a slut for these crude things. Yes, certainly, this was Garrison’s doing.

We moved through a door and stepped up three steps onto a platform that was roughly eight feet square. Everything was surrounded with black drapes; the light was dim and it was difficult to see. Between the hood and the low lighting I could make out blurred shapes and little more. Everyone was dressed in black.

I was placed standing in the center of the platform and left alone for several minutes. One gruff voice, I could plainly hear, whispered to me, “Stay put.”

Yes, of course. I could barely stand on my own let alone move. While left to myself for several minutes, I realized an ever-increasing excitement turning my apprehensions into a rush of desire. I could see myself suspended on the platform before a hundred leering eyes. The curtain would open; a block and tackle would drop from the ceiling; my hands and legs would be bound and the punishment would begin. I wanted that sweet pain so badly that my belly heaved at the thought of it. Rich pangs of sexual want came crashing through my midsection and descended into my crotch. Endorphins kicked off in the writhing, imaginary me. If someone had pressed their hand to my crotch at that moment, or pinched a nipple or pulled on my nether chain, my body would have spontaneously erupted into orgasm. It all played out in my head, a vivid wonder,
the
best damned show on earth. Elation bubbled up in me so I was almost giddy.

I heard a commotion beyond the surrounding drapes. Any minute now, I expected to become the anonymous centerpiece of an obscene sex show. I would perform before a gawking mass of sadists and masochists like me in an ultimate dungeon scene sure to take me to places I could never fathom on my own. What I began with Garrison seemed to have no limits. And this was exactly what I wanted. My years of repression required an answer this extreme.

Masochist… the word kept coming back to me. Is that what I honestly was? Was that the truth I’d been hiding from myself all this time? Had I shunned sex because I was so afraid of this? The questions came on me fast, but the answers would have to wait.

Someone moved in behind me, while another someone appeared in front of me. Then the hardwood floor at my feet vibrated as the horrible screeching sound of wood scraping wood blocked out even the music.

I suddenly felt socked in the belly and pushed to a chair behind me…although this was no ordinary chair. I sat with my back flush to a flat, straight board while my upper legs rested on slats. My ass hung out the back unsupported, however there were leather straps that secured me about the waist and legs. My legs were spread wide, my pussy exposed and my chest stuck out proud and high. My wrists—for a brief time
uncuffed
—were locked again, this time into new cuffs that were embedded in the board behind me. I could barely move a muscle.

The shuffle of feet and bodies around me ended and the drapes began to rise. My bewildered horror and physical excitement increased. I realized only now that I was in the center of a cage of heavy steel bars about eight-feet square. Beyond the cage was the audience I imagined, although I could just barely make them out. A series of bright lights blinded my eyes and forced me to look down, so all I could see were shifting shapes.

My heart thumped hard in my chest and my naked body was already sweating; I could feel my sexual juices leaking from my crotch in plain sight. A blush of shame heated my neck and cheeks even more. This was not what I imagined in my mind; this was something much more horrifying than that simple dungeon picture. And yet, the intensely sexual position of my physical body produced a volcanic heat in my cunt that could easily erupt with no more stimulation than I was getting now.

“Ms. Slut, you in the chains, strapped to my bench,
are
you listening to me?” The voice came out of the blue while the rest of my surroundings, once a dull roar of music and
voices,
quieted.

Was it proper to speak? I wondered, baffled.
I gazed around, looking for a face; there was none.

“Yes, it’s right to answer,” I quickly had my answer from that unseen someone.

“Yes, I am listening,” I called out. My own rasping voice sounded strange and distant.

“You can call me
Master
, slut!” the voice demanded.

“Yes, Master,” I said. The word seemed odd inside my mind, odder still when I spoke it aloud.

“Give her the nose ring,” the next command was for someone else, though the message only intensified my arousal. Moments later, someone clamped a silver-dollar-sized ring into my nose above the soft tissue at the base of my nostrils.

“And clamp her nipples.”

The nipple-clamps bit, but the greatest pain was at the start. Within a few minutes, the intensity eased enough for me to bear.

“Thirsty, huh?
Lips parched and dry?”
The master spoke again.

What was this—talking to God, or some bodiless spirit?

I wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry.

“Yes, Master,” I answered.

“Yes, Master what?”

“Yes, Master, my lips are parched and dry. I’m thirsty.”

“Give the slut a beer.”