Enslaved on an Alien World Ch 02
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Enslaved Chapter 55 free porn video
A series of uncontrolled sobs shook her... Quentin Osman was humming softly to himself, contentedly. It was the sound of a man well pleased with life. He began to murmur the words of the tune; at least his version:“Oh, what a beautiful morning; Oh what a beautiful day; I’m painting the cunt of my slave-girl; And everything’s going my way!”
Quentin’s rather jowly, but well-tanned face slipped into a salacious grin. In his hand was a long, slim artist’s brush, the tip of which was covered with bright pink lacquer... and this lacquer was being assiduously applied to the sex-lips of his latest acquisition, Simone Gerard. At that moment she was kneeling naked on a plank bunk with her hindquarters thrust up high and her long, tapering thighs spread wide. She was quivering faintly but incessantly. It was a sure sign, as Quentin was aware, of the incredible effort of will she was having to make in order to maintain this degradingly indecent and blatantly exposing posture.
Quentin liked the thought of that. Simone would, of course, know the penalty for not maintaining this posture; a merciless thrashing. That was the reason, though every f ibre of her being burned with shame and horror, why she managed to force herself to submit to this total indecency. Quentin, who was seated on a low chair, leaned back a little and admired his work. The smooth, provocatively pouting sex lips were now delineated in blushing pink.
“Very nice,” Quentin murmured to himself. “Would you like to see, slave?”
Simone knew an answer had to be given. The truth, or an expected answer? It was always a difficult decision and she could be punished if she got it wrong.
“Yes, Master,” she croaked weakly, her nates producing a little quivering twitch as if expecting pain.
Quentin grinned lasciviously again. “Raise your head then, slave, and look in the mirror in front of you.”
At the same time he placed another mirror behind Simone’s wide-spread thighs. The dark head of hair came up and Simone’s features were reflected in the mirror before her. They were typical Gallic features... high cheekbones, straight nose, wide eyes, full-lipped mouth. But now those attractive features were distorted with horror, revulsion and abysmal shame. The liquid eyes brimmed with tears. One large tear ran down Simone’s cheek and splashed on the boards on which she knelt. She shuddered... forced to gaze on her own total humiliation, reflected in the mirror which the grinning Quentin held up.
“There,” he said, “very pretty, isn’t it?” Simone uttered a gagging sort of sound but made no coherent answer. Instantly, Quentin picked up off the table at his side what looked like an oversized table-tennis bat. It was over half an inch thick, red vulcanised rubber on one side, black ebony wood on the other. The handle was a heavy spring connected to the bat which gave it considerable f lexibility. This instrument, known as the paddle, was used for minor infringements of discipline or disobedience. This now descended on Simone’s right buttock cheek, hard. The sound of it was loud.
SSSPPPLLLAAAAAAAATTTTTTTT!
The sumptuous buttock cheek on which the paddle fell was immediately squashed and spread and, when the paddle came away, it left behind a bright red circle of burning pain. Simone uttered a gasp. Her head jerked and she uttered a gasping-yelp of pain as her bottom squirmed downwards.
“I asked you a question, slave. Answer it! And get that bottom up again!” The bottom came up, even if hesitantly and Quentin brought down the paddle again, this time on the opposite cheek.
“Y-yes, Master ...” whimpered Simone ... immediately after another gasping-yell of pain. “Yes, it’s very pretty. I am sure Hans, or maybe Cassim, will be pleased with my decorative work.”
The implication of that last remark was not lost on Simone. A low main escaped her and she shuddered violently, if briefly. Despair filled her tear-brimmed eyes and another large one splashed on the boards below. Quentin put down the mirror and picked up his brush. Simone lowered her head again.
“Keep your arse high!” snapped Quentin and at once, Simone thrust up another inch or so. Quentin nodded with satisfaction. This arrogant aristocrat was at last beginning to learn to make herself submit and obey. Repeated pain was teaching her. Having put some more lacquer on his brush, Quentin gently parted the cunt lips so that the clitoris was exposed. Then he deftly covered it in pink lacquer, whilst Simone flinched and twitched.
“Don’t get too excited, slave,” smiled Quentin, “not yet anyway. Now I’ll finish you off with a little skin-softener.”
Simone was completely depilated and Quentin carefully worked the cream into her soft white cunt flesh.
“Want to make you as presentable as possible for those two young stallions, eh?” Aware that this was a question, Simone answered quickly in the affirmative. She didn’t want to feel the blaze of that cruel paddle again. The knowledge that, before long, she was going to be brutally ravaged again, added to her crushing despair. A short series of uncontrolled sobs shook her.
“Is something the matter, Simone?” enquired Quentin solicitously.
“N-no ... mmmff ... mmmfff ... M... Master,” answered Simone. Oh, no; nothing was wrong, of course! She was naked and being degraded like an a****l, worse than an a****l.
“Well, stop that snivelling then,” snapped Quentin, “Or you’ll feel a cane across your backside.”
Fully aware that this was no idle threat, Simone knew she would have to control her natural emotions... and her sobs. Somehow, she succeeded. The threat of the cane was always a potent one; it did not have to be actually applied in order to make her do things so disgusting... so revolting... so indecent... Before... Before her arrival in an unbelievable Hell on Earth. Oh, that terrible cane!
How often already, in her relatively brief term of servitude, it had broken her. The pure agony of its bite was beyond description. It was mind-bending. It was irresistible. It could make one do anything. One shrieked and shrieked, one would do anything... anything... if only it would stop falling. But it didn’t stop. Simone could now no longer recall the number of times she had been thrashed over the threshold of bearable pain and into insensibility. Feeling the weakness and helplessness within her, Simone knew she would do anything to avoid the cane. Or so she thought. But then, when more and more repulsive demands were made upon her, it seemed only natural to refuse them.
So she was caned again.
And again...
And again ...
And again ...
All the same, Simone was fully aware that the depth of her submission were growing steadily deeper. Now, she could make herself do things which would have been inconceivable only a few weeks ago. Like kneeling as she was at that moment... her bottom thrust up to the limit, her thighs splayed wide... submitting to the paintbrush of this sadistic pervert who had a*****ed her from her yacht. Oh, how long ago that seemed! Kneeling there, both buttock cheeks burning painfully, Simone heard Quentin using the house phone.
“Miss Zelda?” She heard him enquire (she was the chief Overseer at the ‘Maison Jaune’.) “No, nothing’s wrong. In fact, Simone is behaving herself rather well at the moment.” Quentin glanced appreciatively at that upthrust bottom, so curvaceous, so lush. “What I’d like you to do is to send either Hans or Cassim up to the playroom in my quarters. Both of them if they are available. If not, one could come half an hour after the other. That’s right. Thank you, Zelda. ‘Bye for now.”
Quentin put down the receiver and ran his hand lightly over the round, red splodge the paddle had recently produced. My God, that feels hot, he thought. No wonder that fairly harmless instrument made her gasp and yelp! He was wearing his cool cotton kimono, as was his custom when in the playroom. It was yellow and covered with red dragons; he had nothing on underneath. Having seated himself in a low, comfortable armchair, he gazed contentedly at the delicious feminine secrets so openly displayed to him. I am making progress with this one, Quentin reflected.
But there was still a long way to go before she was as Julia had now become. For Julia’s obedience had become instant and absolute. She could scarcely descend further, while there were still fires of rebellion and resistance within Simone. This pleased Quentin. For, one had to face it, a slave still under training was often more enjoyable than one fully trained. For example, one had more opportunities, with good reasons attached, to give her a good thrashing. Quentin untied the yellow linen belt of his kimono. It swung open to reveal a very hairy belly and a rather too large paunch. It had been larger but was now gradually improving under a not too rigorous regime of exercise and dieting, organised by his lovely exslave wife Melissa. His stubby prick, notable for its girth rather than its length, was partially in erection.
“Slave,” he said, “You may lower your arse. Now come and kneel down before me.” Simone relaxed a little for the first time for some while. Her hindquarters sank and swivelled her body around. What indecency was now being planned? she wondered despairingly. There was rarely any let-up in her degrading regime of servitude. On hands and knees she crawled towards Quentin, then knelt on the square flat cushion set on the floor in front of him. Then she knelt erect, broad back straight and with her hands placed on top of her head. Her thighs parted to an angle of about 45 degrees - this was the required posture when kneeling before one’s Master, or Mistress, so Simone now adopted in automatically. It was better than being caned until you did adopt it, as had been the case in the early days. Her fulsome breasts thrust out beautifully, sagging only marginally. The aureoles and rather large nipples were pale brown.
The nipples had been pierced and through each hung a little gold ring. There was a further gold ring through her septum. Simple symbols of slavery... and Simone was constantly aware of them.
“Well, Simone,” said Quentin with a faint smile, “I hope you enjoyed my decorative work. It has made your cunt look even prettier.”
“Yes, M-Master,” said Simone in a low hoarse voice. “Speak up, girl, when you are addressing me. You should have learnt that by now!”
“Yes, Master.” The voice was firmer, louder. She had been punished often enough when it was too weak. The fact that she had been derogatorily addressed as ‘girl’ did not escape Simone, though it no longer particularly concerned her. Nor, any longer, did the references to the most intimate parts of her body in the crudest possible terms. Cunt, for example; tits, arse, arsehole. They all had become commonplace and had to be accepted.
“I think,” said Quentin, “I might while away a little time with some decorative work on your tits. Just the nipples, eh? Would you like that?”
“If my Master so wishes,” replied Simone. The incessant, almost infinitesimal, trembling had returned to her body. She had just recalled what was to happen later. All this decoration was, supposedly, for the benefit of Hans and Cassim. Of course it’s as I wish,” said Quentin rather sharply. “But would you like it?”
“Yes, Master,” said Simone meekly. But oh, what is cost to be so meek and submissive! To sit there, stark naked and have to endure one humiliation after another!
“First of all,” said Quentin, “I’ll take off your rings.” They were twisted apart, then slipped out. “And have a little feel around.” He squeezed the lovely big orbs available to him. “These, Simone,” said Quentin, “Are one of your greatest assets.”
It amused him to watch a large tear run down a cheek, hang momentarily from her chin, before falling neatly between the cleft of the breasts he was fondling. It seemed that Simone did not appreciate his compliment! Too bad!
Quentin continued to fondle at will. These days, Simone no longer protested or recoiled, as she once had done. She simply submitted to being mauled, though her two lovely globes rose and fell rather faster and her wide soft lips were often bitten. He felt the nipples firming and that, too, amused him. She could never check that natural reaction, however much she might have hated it.
“A little later on,” said Quentin smoothly, “you, slave, are going to make use of these assets. Do you know how?”
“N-no...M... Master” It was scarcely more than a whisper.
“I will tell you. I am going to place my cock between them,” said Quentin, “and then you will toss me off with them. Pressing at the sides, squeezing nicely. Beforehand, I will have made your tits slippery with oil so I think I shall rather enjoy it. A lot of men, I believe, like inter-mammary stimulation. However, not many women like giving it to them. As you are a slave, your likes and dislikes do not arise. You will simply do as you are ordered.” He saw and felt Simone shudder briefly and uncontrollably. Oh, those despairing, horrified eyes! Nice …
Quentin took away his hands and picked up his artists brush again. He dipped it in a little pot of pink lacquer and went happily to work. Simone flinched at the first touch of the brush.
“Keep still! Do you want me to smudge you?” Simone managed to regain control of herself and submitted meekly to the brushwork, around her aureoles and on her nipples themselves. It was all over in little more than five minutes.
“Now we’ll leave them to dry,” said Quentin. “Take a look, girl.” Once again he held up the mirror ... and Simone gazed hopelessly on her distraught, almost unrecognisable features, seeing the nose-ring dangling and the bright pink patches on her breasts.
“Pretty, eh, slave?”
“Yes, Master,” replied Simone, gulping.
Quentin leaned back, relaxing. “Do you know, slave,” he said, “I enjoy watching you being fucked almost as much as I enjoy fucking you myself.”
Simone gulped again, more convulsively.
“I love watching the expressions on your face.” This was perfectly true. It was marvellous to see the horror and revulsion - pain even - on that first brutal entry. To hear the sobbing and retching through savagely clenched teeth. To look into those wide-set eyes, overflowing with tears, so filled with defeat and despair. To hear the whimpering snorts form the wildly flaring nostrils. Oh, yes, it was most enjoyable. Even more enjoyable was to watch Simone fighting more and more desperately as her body gradually betrayed her. As natural lust overtook her, the teeth would become unclenched and the sobs replaced by little gasps.
Gasps of pleasure?
No ... not yet.
But that mounting pleasure could not be held back indefinitely. The rutting male would begin to conquer irresistibly. The eyes would begin to shimmer, darting this way and that, the mouth would begin to open wider. Perhaps a little saliva flecked around it. Smiling now, Quentin would gaze and gaze. Watching a woman begin to enjoy the **** thrust upon her by himself. Watching her get out of control..
The haunches becoming a frenzy of jerking lust. The mouth gaping wide as gagging-squealing sounds jetted out. The eyes rolling back and then closing. And afterwards, the brute male slaked, removing himself, but leaving Simone behind. Simone now sobbing and in floods of tears. Simone now shuddering as if racked with fever. Simone with wave after wave of abysmal shame flooded through her. Once more, through no fault of her own, she had been totally demeaned and degraded. Derisively mocked by smiles and innuendoes.
“Oh, Simone, I think you really enjoyed that...”
“That big cock really got you going, didn’t it?”
“Can’t wait for the next time, eh?”
“Perhaps I’ll favour you with my own modest possession...”
So it would go on...the demeaning and degrading. Again and again. Yet again...
“Are your nipples dry, slave?” asked Quentin.
“I ... I think so, Master...”
“Feel them, girl.”
Simone fingered her nipples. “Yes, Master.”
“Good. Now cover your tits with this oil, slave.” Quentin handed Simone a little glass flask of scented oil ... and with this she carefully anointed her magnificent breasts. Quentin looked down benignly. His partial erection strengthened. Soon he would be in full erection, when encased in those warm, oily orbs. Quentin took a grip on Simone’s rich black hair and pulled her forward and down. This he did when he ordered her to suck him. But this time it was going to be different. Better for her, or worse? What did it matter? All he did know was that it had taken many, many cruel canings before Simone could be persuaded to suck satisfactorily. He doubted whether the cane would be required on this occasion. He felt the warm slippery flesh on his hardness and slipped happily between the widening cleft.
“Squeeze your tits together, girl.” He said softly and Simone pressed on the outer curve of her breasts.
Better, thought Quentin. “Now undulate yourself up and down. Toss me off, slave!” A sobbing groan burst from Simone as she began to undulate herself up and down. She could feel the revolting bone-hard length sliding between her breasts... giving the b**st who owned her, pleasure. Hate blazed uncontrollably in Simone’s being and she fought to suppress it. Fought with all her might. How often she had failed to do so in the past and so earned herself a cruel punishment. Still sobbing, she gained some measure of control.
“Move more slowly, slave,” said Quentin. “I want to make this last. It feels good ... mmmm ... mmmm ... yes ... yes.” Simone’s torso moved more slowly up and down. She felt sick at the thought of what would happen when Quentin finally climaxed. There would be no escape for her. Her breasts, her neck, her face, would take the full force of the jetting emission. Yet she had to go on...she had to!
Lying back, his face slack with lust, Quentin had his eyes almost closed. His breathing was faster as lust steadily mounted. Amazing to think that this was the self-same woman he had seen in that restaurant long ago. So chic and elegant...so self-possessed, so arrogant ... spurning his friendly offer to join him in a glass of wine. Regarding him as if he were a piece of dirt. Oh, that haughty bitch! But he had brought her low. Now she had his hard cock between her tits ... and she was wanking him. Quite a come-down, eh, for that wealthy society Madam! Now she was simply a slave. A creature who could be made to grovel and beg for mercy. A creature who, at any time, could be flogged, until the blood ran. Who could be made to obey whatever order was given. A delicious sense of power surged through Quentin. The best of it was that there was no escape from it. Not even in death. For, like all his slaves, upon arrival Simone had been d**gged and brainwashed so that it was impossible for her to harm herself in any way. Nor could she harm her captors. She might spring at them with intent but her arms would fall uselessly to her sides. You could even put a knife in her hands and invite her to use it. Impossible! The same with a gun. Just as important, a man could put his cock in her mouth without fear. There would be no biting, no injury whatever. It was complete mastery.
Quentin patted the top of Simone’s head. “You’re doing quite nicely, slave,” he said. “Enjoying it, aren’t you?”
“Y... yes, Master,” replied Simone hoarsely. There was no other answer she dare make!
“Thinking about those other cocks that are going up you later, I expect.” leered Quentin. “Can hardly wait, eh?”
“That’s so, Master ...”
Quentin smiled broadly. Sometimes an untruth was preferable to the truth. “Stop!” The succulent flesh stopped moving up and down but remained gripping him. Quentin allowed his racing pulse to subside a little. He had nearly been pushed over the brink ... before he wanted.
“Push your nipples close to each other and rub them up and down my prick,” ordered Quentin.
At once, Simone obeyed. The sensation was agreeable but to be between the breasts was preferable. He ordered the change. Again Simone obeyed at once. She was certainly improving.
“When did I last have to punish you, slave?” he asked.
“This a ... afternoon, Master,” said Simone.
“A couple of whacks with a paddle is not a punishment, girl. I meant lay a cane across your backside good and hard.” In fact, Simone’s buttocks cheeks still glowed hot.
“Three days ago, Master,” said Simone. Quentin now recalled the incident. Simone had protested violently and kicked out when Cassim, the Lebanese, had attempted to push an experimental finger up her asshole.
“To see how tight she is,” he explained. Quentin was aware of the Arab’s anal persuasions but was going to keep them in check for the time being. “She’ll be plenty tight enough for that whopper of yours,” he had said. For what was considered and attack upon an Overseer and also resistance to sexual advances, Simone had been secured over the punishment block and given twelve strokes of the cane on each count. Cassim, the offended party, had administered the punishment. Twelve strokes had fallen diagonally across one buttock cheek and twelve across the other.Quentin had watched the twin-tracked weals leaping up over the curvaceous flesh with every satisfaction. This woman was being taught the meaning of true submission. One day she would learn it completely.
“Put your tits to work again, slave,” ordered Quentin. The smoothly-rounded white shoulders began to undulate up and down again. The oily globes were pressed right together again. How long can I last out, wondered Quentin. At that moment, there was a buzzing sound from the door and a green light began to flash above it. That would be one of the young Overseers. Quentin pressed a button on the control pad.
“Yes, who is it?” he enquired. “Hans, Boss,” came the reply. “Come right in, young man,” said Quentin, and pressed another button. The door swung open and in walked Hans. He was bollock naked and his long, dangling prick swung from side to side and he moved. Hans could not have been anything but German. He had closecropped blond hair, blue eyes, a brutish face and a thick neck. Hitler would have been proud of him. In fact, his grandfather had been a member of the SS and there was a time when Hans had longed for those days to return. The days when he could have used State power in a personal kind of way. As it was, luck had come his way in the form of Madame Zelda. With Melissa’s approval she had recruited him on the staff of the ‘Maison Jaune’. He seemed to have all the right attributes. He was young and fit, well-muscled and strong, well toned and he rippled with health. Moreover he was very well hung. And, in that respect, he and the Arab Cassim were a matching pair. Above all, he had not an ounce of compassion in him. Especially so far as women were concerned. His psyche was such that he positively enjoyed their sufferings and the outrages that they were forced to endure at his hands and the hands of others. He was callously cruel, preferring **** to any other form of sexual congress.Making women do things against their most natural basic instincts...against their will...was meat and drink to him. In him, Quentin Osman had a loyal servant for life. For Hans could ask for no better way of life.
Quentin’s rather jowly, but well-tanned face slipped into a salacious grin. In his hand was a long, slim artist’s brush, the tip of which was covered with bright pink lacquer... and this lacquer was being assiduously applied to the sex-lips of his latest acquisition, Simone Gerard. At that moment she was kneeling naked on a plank bunk with her hindquarters thrust up high and her long, tapering thighs spread wide. She was quivering faintly but incessantly. It was a sure sign, as Quentin was aware, of the incredible effort of will she was having to make in order to maintain this degradingly indecent and blatantly exposing posture.
Quentin liked the thought of that. Simone would, of course, know the penalty for not maintaining this posture; a merciless thrashing. That was the reason, though every f ibre of her being burned with shame and horror, why she managed to force herself to submit to this total indecency. Quentin, who was seated on a low chair, leaned back a little and admired his work. The smooth, provocatively pouting sex lips were now delineated in blushing pink.
“Very nice,” Quentin murmured to himself. “Would you like to see, slave?”
Simone knew an answer had to be given. The truth, or an expected answer? It was always a difficult decision and she could be punished if she got it wrong.
“Yes, Master,” she croaked weakly, her nates producing a little quivering twitch as if expecting pain.
Quentin grinned lasciviously again. “Raise your head then, slave, and look in the mirror in front of you.”
At the same time he placed another mirror behind Simone’s wide-spread thighs. The dark head of hair came up and Simone’s features were reflected in the mirror before her. They were typical Gallic features... high cheekbones, straight nose, wide eyes, full-lipped mouth. But now those attractive features were distorted with horror, revulsion and abysmal shame. The liquid eyes brimmed with tears. One large tear ran down Simone’s cheek and splashed on the boards on which she knelt. She shuddered... forced to gaze on her own total humiliation, reflected in the mirror which the grinning Quentin held up.
“There,” he said, “very pretty, isn’t it?” Simone uttered a gagging sort of sound but made no coherent answer. Instantly, Quentin picked up off the table at his side what looked like an oversized table-tennis bat. It was over half an inch thick, red vulcanised rubber on one side, black ebony wood on the other. The handle was a heavy spring connected to the bat which gave it considerable f lexibility. This instrument, known as the paddle, was used for minor infringements of discipline or disobedience. This now descended on Simone’s right buttock cheek, hard. The sound of it was loud.
SSSPPPLLLAAAAAAAATTTTTTTT!
The sumptuous buttock cheek on which the paddle fell was immediately squashed and spread and, when the paddle came away, it left behind a bright red circle of burning pain. Simone uttered a gasp. Her head jerked and she uttered a gasping-yelp of pain as her bottom squirmed downwards.
“I asked you a question, slave. Answer it! And get that bottom up again!” The bottom came up, even if hesitantly and Quentin brought down the paddle again, this time on the opposite cheek.
“Y-yes, Master ...” whimpered Simone ... immediately after another gasping-yell of pain. “Yes, it’s very pretty. I am sure Hans, or maybe Cassim, will be pleased with my decorative work.”
The implication of that last remark was not lost on Simone. A low main escaped her and she shuddered violently, if briefly. Despair filled her tear-brimmed eyes and another large one splashed on the boards below. Quentin put down the mirror and picked up his brush. Simone lowered her head again.
“Keep your arse high!” snapped Quentin and at once, Simone thrust up another inch or so. Quentin nodded with satisfaction. This arrogant aristocrat was at last beginning to learn to make herself submit and obey. Repeated pain was teaching her. Having put some more lacquer on his brush, Quentin gently parted the cunt lips so that the clitoris was exposed. Then he deftly covered it in pink lacquer, whilst Simone flinched and twitched.
“Don’t get too excited, slave,” smiled Quentin, “not yet anyway. Now I’ll finish you off with a little skin-softener.”
Simone was completely depilated and Quentin carefully worked the cream into her soft white cunt flesh.
“Want to make you as presentable as possible for those two young stallions, eh?” Aware that this was a question, Simone answered quickly in the affirmative. She didn’t want to feel the blaze of that cruel paddle again. The knowledge that, before long, she was going to be brutally ravaged again, added to her crushing despair. A short series of uncontrolled sobs shook her.
“Is something the matter, Simone?” enquired Quentin solicitously.
“N-no ... mmmff ... mmmfff ... M... Master,” answered Simone. Oh, no; nothing was wrong, of course! She was naked and being degraded like an a****l, worse than an a****l.
“Well, stop that snivelling then,” snapped Quentin, “Or you’ll feel a cane across your backside.”
Fully aware that this was no idle threat, Simone knew she would have to control her natural emotions... and her sobs. Somehow, she succeeded. The threat of the cane was always a potent one; it did not have to be actually applied in order to make her do things so disgusting... so revolting... so indecent... Before... Before her arrival in an unbelievable Hell on Earth. Oh, that terrible cane!
How often already, in her relatively brief term of servitude, it had broken her. The pure agony of its bite was beyond description. It was mind-bending. It was irresistible. It could make one do anything. One shrieked and shrieked, one would do anything... anything... if only it would stop falling. But it didn’t stop. Simone could now no longer recall the number of times she had been thrashed over the threshold of bearable pain and into insensibility. Feeling the weakness and helplessness within her, Simone knew she would do anything to avoid the cane. Or so she thought. But then, when more and more repulsive demands were made upon her, it seemed only natural to refuse them.
So she was caned again.
And again...
And again ...
And again ...
All the same, Simone was fully aware that the depth of her submission were growing steadily deeper. Now, she could make herself do things which would have been inconceivable only a few weeks ago. Like kneeling as she was at that moment... her bottom thrust up to the limit, her thighs splayed wide... submitting to the paintbrush of this sadistic pervert who had a*****ed her from her yacht. Oh, how long ago that seemed! Kneeling there, both buttock cheeks burning painfully, Simone heard Quentin using the house phone.
“Miss Zelda?” She heard him enquire (she was the chief Overseer at the ‘Maison Jaune’.) “No, nothing’s wrong. In fact, Simone is behaving herself rather well at the moment.” Quentin glanced appreciatively at that upthrust bottom, so curvaceous, so lush. “What I’d like you to do is to send either Hans or Cassim up to the playroom in my quarters. Both of them if they are available. If not, one could come half an hour after the other. That’s right. Thank you, Zelda. ‘Bye for now.”
Quentin put down the receiver and ran his hand lightly over the round, red splodge the paddle had recently produced. My God, that feels hot, he thought. No wonder that fairly harmless instrument made her gasp and yelp! He was wearing his cool cotton kimono, as was his custom when in the playroom. It was yellow and covered with red dragons; he had nothing on underneath. Having seated himself in a low, comfortable armchair, he gazed contentedly at the delicious feminine secrets so openly displayed to him. I am making progress with this one, Quentin reflected.
But there was still a long way to go before she was as Julia had now become. For Julia’s obedience had become instant and absolute. She could scarcely descend further, while there were still fires of rebellion and resistance within Simone. This pleased Quentin. For, one had to face it, a slave still under training was often more enjoyable than one fully trained. For example, one had more opportunities, with good reasons attached, to give her a good thrashing. Quentin untied the yellow linen belt of his kimono. It swung open to reveal a very hairy belly and a rather too large paunch. It had been larger but was now gradually improving under a not too rigorous regime of exercise and dieting, organised by his lovely exslave wife Melissa. His stubby prick, notable for its girth rather than its length, was partially in erection.
“Slave,” he said, “You may lower your arse. Now come and kneel down before me.” Simone relaxed a little for the first time for some while. Her hindquarters sank and swivelled her body around. What indecency was now being planned? she wondered despairingly. There was rarely any let-up in her degrading regime of servitude. On hands and knees she crawled towards Quentin, then knelt on the square flat cushion set on the floor in front of him. Then she knelt erect, broad back straight and with her hands placed on top of her head. Her thighs parted to an angle of about 45 degrees - this was the required posture when kneeling before one’s Master, or Mistress, so Simone now adopted in automatically. It was better than being caned until you did adopt it, as had been the case in the early days. Her fulsome breasts thrust out beautifully, sagging only marginally. The aureoles and rather large nipples were pale brown.
The nipples had been pierced and through each hung a little gold ring. There was a further gold ring through her septum. Simple symbols of slavery... and Simone was constantly aware of them.
“Well, Simone,” said Quentin with a faint smile, “I hope you enjoyed my decorative work. It has made your cunt look even prettier.”
“Yes, M-Master,” said Simone in a low hoarse voice. “Speak up, girl, when you are addressing me. You should have learnt that by now!”
“Yes, Master.” The voice was firmer, louder. She had been punished often enough when it was too weak. The fact that she had been derogatorily addressed as ‘girl’ did not escape Simone, though it no longer particularly concerned her. Nor, any longer, did the references to the most intimate parts of her body in the crudest possible terms. Cunt, for example; tits, arse, arsehole. They all had become commonplace and had to be accepted.
“I think,” said Quentin, “I might while away a little time with some decorative work on your tits. Just the nipples, eh? Would you like that?”
“If my Master so wishes,” replied Simone. The incessant, almost infinitesimal, trembling had returned to her body. She had just recalled what was to happen later. All this decoration was, supposedly, for the benefit of Hans and Cassim. Of course it’s as I wish,” said Quentin rather sharply. “But would you like it?”
“Yes, Master,” said Simone meekly. But oh, what is cost to be so meek and submissive! To sit there, stark naked and have to endure one humiliation after another!
“First of all,” said Quentin, “I’ll take off your rings.” They were twisted apart, then slipped out. “And have a little feel around.” He squeezed the lovely big orbs available to him. “These, Simone,” said Quentin, “Are one of your greatest assets.”
It amused him to watch a large tear run down a cheek, hang momentarily from her chin, before falling neatly between the cleft of the breasts he was fondling. It seemed that Simone did not appreciate his compliment! Too bad!
Quentin continued to fondle at will. These days, Simone no longer protested or recoiled, as she once had done. She simply submitted to being mauled, though her two lovely globes rose and fell rather faster and her wide soft lips were often bitten. He felt the nipples firming and that, too, amused him. She could never check that natural reaction, however much she might have hated it.
“A little later on,” said Quentin smoothly, “you, slave, are going to make use of these assets. Do you know how?”
“N-no...M... Master” It was scarcely more than a whisper.
“I will tell you. I am going to place my cock between them,” said Quentin, “and then you will toss me off with them. Pressing at the sides, squeezing nicely. Beforehand, I will have made your tits slippery with oil so I think I shall rather enjoy it. A lot of men, I believe, like inter-mammary stimulation. However, not many women like giving it to them. As you are a slave, your likes and dislikes do not arise. You will simply do as you are ordered.” He saw and felt Simone shudder briefly and uncontrollably. Oh, those despairing, horrified eyes! Nice …
Quentin took away his hands and picked up his artists brush again. He dipped it in a little pot of pink lacquer and went happily to work. Simone flinched at the first touch of the brush.
“Keep still! Do you want me to smudge you?” Simone managed to regain control of herself and submitted meekly to the brushwork, around her aureoles and on her nipples themselves. It was all over in little more than five minutes.
“Now we’ll leave them to dry,” said Quentin. “Take a look, girl.” Once again he held up the mirror ... and Simone gazed hopelessly on her distraught, almost unrecognisable features, seeing the nose-ring dangling and the bright pink patches on her breasts.
“Pretty, eh, slave?”
“Yes, Master,” replied Simone, gulping.
Quentin leaned back, relaxing. “Do you know, slave,” he said, “I enjoy watching you being fucked almost as much as I enjoy fucking you myself.”
Simone gulped again, more convulsively.
“I love watching the expressions on your face.” This was perfectly true. It was marvellous to see the horror and revulsion - pain even - on that first brutal entry. To hear the sobbing and retching through savagely clenched teeth. To look into those wide-set eyes, overflowing with tears, so filled with defeat and despair. To hear the whimpering snorts form the wildly flaring nostrils. Oh, yes, it was most enjoyable. Even more enjoyable was to watch Simone fighting more and more desperately as her body gradually betrayed her. As natural lust overtook her, the teeth would become unclenched and the sobs replaced by little gasps.
Gasps of pleasure?
No ... not yet.
But that mounting pleasure could not be held back indefinitely. The rutting male would begin to conquer irresistibly. The eyes would begin to shimmer, darting this way and that, the mouth would begin to open wider. Perhaps a little saliva flecked around it. Smiling now, Quentin would gaze and gaze. Watching a woman begin to enjoy the **** thrust upon her by himself. Watching her get out of control..
The haunches becoming a frenzy of jerking lust. The mouth gaping wide as gagging-squealing sounds jetted out. The eyes rolling back and then closing. And afterwards, the brute male slaked, removing himself, but leaving Simone behind. Simone now sobbing and in floods of tears. Simone now shuddering as if racked with fever. Simone with wave after wave of abysmal shame flooded through her. Once more, through no fault of her own, she had been totally demeaned and degraded. Derisively mocked by smiles and innuendoes.
“Oh, Simone, I think you really enjoyed that...”
“That big cock really got you going, didn’t it?”
“Can’t wait for the next time, eh?”
“Perhaps I’ll favour you with my own modest possession...”
So it would go on...the demeaning and degrading. Again and again. Yet again...
“Are your nipples dry, slave?” asked Quentin.
“I ... I think so, Master...”
“Feel them, girl.”
Simone fingered her nipples. “Yes, Master.”
“Good. Now cover your tits with this oil, slave.” Quentin handed Simone a little glass flask of scented oil ... and with this she carefully anointed her magnificent breasts. Quentin looked down benignly. His partial erection strengthened. Soon he would be in full erection, when encased in those warm, oily orbs. Quentin took a grip on Simone’s rich black hair and pulled her forward and down. This he did when he ordered her to suck him. But this time it was going to be different. Better for her, or worse? What did it matter? All he did know was that it had taken many, many cruel canings before Simone could be persuaded to suck satisfactorily. He doubted whether the cane would be required on this occasion. He felt the warm slippery flesh on his hardness and slipped happily between the widening cleft.
“Squeeze your tits together, girl.” He said softly and Simone pressed on the outer curve of her breasts.
Better, thought Quentin. “Now undulate yourself up and down. Toss me off, slave!” A sobbing groan burst from Simone as she began to undulate herself up and down. She could feel the revolting bone-hard length sliding between her breasts... giving the b**st who owned her, pleasure. Hate blazed uncontrollably in Simone’s being and she fought to suppress it. Fought with all her might. How often she had failed to do so in the past and so earned herself a cruel punishment. Still sobbing, she gained some measure of control.
“Move more slowly, slave,” said Quentin. “I want to make this last. It feels good ... mmmm ... mmmm ... yes ... yes.” Simone’s torso moved more slowly up and down. She felt sick at the thought of what would happen when Quentin finally climaxed. There would be no escape for her. Her breasts, her neck, her face, would take the full force of the jetting emission. Yet she had to go on...she had to!
Lying back, his face slack with lust, Quentin had his eyes almost closed. His breathing was faster as lust steadily mounted. Amazing to think that this was the self-same woman he had seen in that restaurant long ago. So chic and elegant...so self-possessed, so arrogant ... spurning his friendly offer to join him in a glass of wine. Regarding him as if he were a piece of dirt. Oh, that haughty bitch! But he had brought her low. Now she had his hard cock between her tits ... and she was wanking him. Quite a come-down, eh, for that wealthy society Madam! Now she was simply a slave. A creature who could be made to grovel and beg for mercy. A creature who, at any time, could be flogged, until the blood ran. Who could be made to obey whatever order was given. A delicious sense of power surged through Quentin. The best of it was that there was no escape from it. Not even in death. For, like all his slaves, upon arrival Simone had been d**gged and brainwashed so that it was impossible for her to harm herself in any way. Nor could she harm her captors. She might spring at them with intent but her arms would fall uselessly to her sides. You could even put a knife in her hands and invite her to use it. Impossible! The same with a gun. Just as important, a man could put his cock in her mouth without fear. There would be no biting, no injury whatever. It was complete mastery.
Quentin patted the top of Simone’s head. “You’re doing quite nicely, slave,” he said. “Enjoying it, aren’t you?”
“Y... yes, Master,” replied Simone hoarsely. There was no other answer she dare make!
“Thinking about those other cocks that are going up you later, I expect.” leered Quentin. “Can hardly wait, eh?”
“That’s so, Master ...”
Quentin smiled broadly. Sometimes an untruth was preferable to the truth. “Stop!” The succulent flesh stopped moving up and down but remained gripping him. Quentin allowed his racing pulse to subside a little. He had nearly been pushed over the brink ... before he wanted.
“Push your nipples close to each other and rub them up and down my prick,” ordered Quentin.
At once, Simone obeyed. The sensation was agreeable but to be between the breasts was preferable. He ordered the change. Again Simone obeyed at once. She was certainly improving.
“When did I last have to punish you, slave?” he asked.
“This a ... afternoon, Master,” said Simone.
“A couple of whacks with a paddle is not a punishment, girl. I meant lay a cane across your backside good and hard.” In fact, Simone’s buttocks cheeks still glowed hot.
“Three days ago, Master,” said Simone. Quentin now recalled the incident. Simone had protested violently and kicked out when Cassim, the Lebanese, had attempted to push an experimental finger up her asshole.
“To see how tight she is,” he explained. Quentin was aware of the Arab’s anal persuasions but was going to keep them in check for the time being. “She’ll be plenty tight enough for that whopper of yours,” he had said. For what was considered and attack upon an Overseer and also resistance to sexual advances, Simone had been secured over the punishment block and given twelve strokes of the cane on each count. Cassim, the offended party, had administered the punishment. Twelve strokes had fallen diagonally across one buttock cheek and twelve across the other.Quentin had watched the twin-tracked weals leaping up over the curvaceous flesh with every satisfaction. This woman was being taught the meaning of true submission. One day she would learn it completely.
“Put your tits to work again, slave,” ordered Quentin. The smoothly-rounded white shoulders began to undulate up and down again. The oily globes were pressed right together again. How long can I last out, wondered Quentin. At that moment, there was a buzzing sound from the door and a green light began to flash above it. That would be one of the young Overseers. Quentin pressed a button on the control pad.
“Yes, who is it?” he enquired. “Hans, Boss,” came the reply. “Come right in, young man,” said Quentin, and pressed another button. The door swung open and in walked Hans. He was bollock naked and his long, dangling prick swung from side to side and he moved. Hans could not have been anything but German. He had closecropped blond hair, blue eyes, a brutish face and a thick neck. Hitler would have been proud of him. In fact, his grandfather had been a member of the SS and there was a time when Hans had longed for those days to return. The days when he could have used State power in a personal kind of way. As it was, luck had come his way in the form of Madame Zelda. With Melissa’s approval she had recruited him on the staff of the ‘Maison Jaune’. He seemed to have all the right attributes. He was young and fit, well-muscled and strong, well toned and he rippled with health. Moreover he was very well hung. And, in that respect, he and the Arab Cassim were a matching pair. Above all, he had not an ounce of compassion in him. Especially so far as women were concerned. His psyche was such that he positively enjoyed their sufferings and the outrages that they were forced to endure at his hands and the hands of others. He was callously cruel, preferring **** to any other form of sexual congress.Making women do things against their most natural basic instincts...against their will...was meat and drink to him. In him, Quentin Osman had a loyal servant for life. For Hans could ask for no better way of life.
Mila
- 24.01.2023
- 41
- 0
