Tough Girl

Sweet Kinky Reader,

Thanks for the love and sorry/not sorry for the hiatus from this story. My Muse had other ideas for me lately. I hope you missed me unbearably. Once again: Intense Consent/Non-Consent. The players are 18+ in age, certified STD free, and practice birth control.

Have fun,

xxox Emm

#_#_#_#

TOUGH GIRL Ch. 03

by Emmalee_Strict

© 2024

In the Upstairs.

... You want to know something else?... Your slave-sister in the cage on the end, the ginger, V-218?

That's the bride...

Master Vic's words haunted Bree V-219's head for awhile, died out eventually, then crescendoed again the next time she saw Ginger V-218. She was in the dining room with the caterers. The husband and wife team had laid out the buffet spread on the table, saran wrap still on, warming trays set up but unlit. Their job done and invoice paid, Ginger was providing the gratuity on their way out.

"Oooh-

yessss,

" moaned the wife, who sprawled back on an armchair by the windows, legs spread, the girl's face buried between them. "

YES! YES! YES!

"

"

UGH-UGH-UGH!

" grunted the husband, who knelt bare-assed on the carpet behind the slave, squeezing her flanks like a concertina as he ejaculated into her pussy.

Bree had just entered the room crawling at the end of Master Vic's lead. Her pre-party orientation in the Woodshed finished, Master was bringing her to the Upstairs to join the housekeeping detail.

As he led her toward the banquette, seemingly oblivious to the spectacle to his left, Bree snuck a lingering look. Sated, the wife shoved the slave aside and jumped to her feet, smoothing down her skirt, looking like she had places to go and people to see. The husband pulled up his pants and tightened his belt.

Whereupon,

exeunt

the happy couple via the pass-through into the living room.

V-218, meanwhile, knelt up and promptly took the white ballgag that had been hanging around her neck and restored it to her mouth. As she rose to her feet, buckling the strap behind her neck, her lovely green eyes met Bree's. There was a dreamy haze in them at first, post-coital but unsatisfied, which vanished upon connection with her sister-slave's, and they brightened.

She batted them cheerfully and gave a nod that seemed to say,

Pleased to meet you, newbie slave-whore!

And with that, she left with a ballgagged giggle and a skip in her step, hobble chain tinkling, through the doorway into the main hall.

What. The. Actual. Fuck,

Bree wondered,

is her deal?

She shook her head.

Can't wait to meet the sick fuck of a groom.

Her voyeurism was interrupted by two sets of double finger-snaps by her ear.

Up-up.

She hopped to, moving smoothly through her kneel-up and rising to her feet. She lifted her chin and gave him her eyes, just in time to see --

Incoming: SMACK!

The bitch-slap was moderate in force. She held her face straight ahead as best she could, and gave the punishment a quivering lip and a fearful, contrite, moist-eyed expression in response.

"Attention on the task at hand, whore -- always!" he snapped. "I know everything's new and you're a curious girl. But here, curiosity gets the cat skinned alive. I catch you doing that again, V-219, I'll fit you with blinders -- just as soon as I cut you down from your whipping."

He turned his attention to the banquette, gesturing to her uniform. "Lose the kneepads and put these on. The pads go on the hook by the back door."

It dawned on her that he was about to leave her to her chores unsupervised. She processed that with a sense of relief; she realized, ever since he began beating her in the Woodshed, she'd been viscerally afraid of Master Vic. At the same time, something told her she was going to miss him.

I know, fucked up, right?

she breathed, feeling herself getting wet... the 'confused' kind of wet where she wasn't quite sure what was turning her on.

"The other whores have already done the basic cleaning and I just need this whore to spiff up on this floor. In here, the living room, and the parlor across the hall." Indicating feather duster and folded cloths laid out on the banquette, "Straighten up, dust, polish the surfaces."

Snap. Snap. Down-down.

Bree dropped gracefully, and prostrated, she kissed his boots.

Which then clomped away.

"Service and discipline drills in an hour, slave!" was his parting remark.

Soon enough, she was busy dusting in the dining room, dressed in the prescribed uniform: ankle hobble, a short length of chain linking her hands in front, white gloves, the white apron (and no other part) of a maid's uniform, and matching white ballgag and butt-plug.

And she was, for the first time, alone. The other three slaves were in the Upstairs-Upstairs preparing the guest rooms; the sole guest, the sandy-haired Master, was last seen doing laps in the pool; and Master Jake was wherever the fuck.

The crazy thought occurred to her that she could make a break for it. Bust out the front door, shedding all the slave accoutrement except the permanent steel on her way across the lawn...

and then what?

She would be branded (and not in a good way) as 'the slave who ran.' Her reputation at the Spitfire would lie in smoldering ruins. She would have to pack up, leave town and start over somewhere fucking else...

Again, crazy. But she knew, what was really speaking inside her, and it wasn't a rational, practical voice. It was fear; an itchy, jumpy, wary-of-a-threat-from-behind kind of fear. And a growing dread of what might happen to her tonight at the bachelor party. But there was nothing to be done about that but face it -- or as she'd been trained to do, let the fear excite her -- let it simmer as a dank, humid anticipation -- eroticize it. Tough Girl was exceptionally good at that.

It was in that moment, as she moved on into the living room, that Bree remembered what Emma told her about slave-think and the future. She was supposed to be trained not speak of it -- and no doubt would be at this moment, if not for the party preparations -- so the thought occurred to her that maybe, dutifully, she ought to be training herself. Namely, by not

thinking

about tonight -- in a way, fitting

herself

with blinders. The mental kind, but modified, with not only the two panels on the sides, but one placed just a foot ahead. So that she could only look down and see nothing but one hobbled foot putting itself in front of the other. It kind of worked -- at least, to the extent that imagining her vision restricted like that caused a sharp ping in her pussy.

Then she felt it: the 'shimmer.'

This was the name she gave to a weird, mildly alarming sensation she used to experience -- in a non-sub headspace -- where she felt like she was just a little outside her own body, and her perception of the outside world sort of shimmered. A doctor told her it was a rare reaction to Tylenol and recommended a NSAID with a different active ingredient. That put an end to the 'shimmer.'

Yet here it was again, with no pills to blame for it. Emma again to the rescue with another nugget of slave-wisdom --

Try living it like a dream.

Yes.

That was exactly what was happening. She was slipping into a dream. And it was a sexy one.

Embracing that, she felt the hardened nut of her arousal, which had been compacted in the area of her moist vulva and pulsing clitoris, branch out inside her belly --

diffusing

, until it spread as a tingling heat throughout her whole body -- until it warmed every inch of her exposed skin.

Until finally, she was nothing but a naked female form that moved like a diffuse mass of low-level arousal -- a ghost-whore -- through the rooms of the House where it was enslaved.

Yes.

She was living her sex-slavery like a dream.

Her

dream.

#_#

Master Jake the Whore-Keeper led the slaves into the dining room in a coffle: his lead attached to the front ring of Bree's collar; another chain connecting her side ring to the front ring of the raven's collar behind her; another chain and another, connecting the ginger, then the blonde; arranged shortest to tallest.

On her way in, face bowed, Bree's peripheral vision caught the two men on the other side of the table filling plates from the buffet; but invoking her mental blinders, she blocked that out.

Still, she heard the men rudely chatting, a low whistle and a growling catcall at the appearance of the slaves, and other voices -- including a baseball sportscaster on the TV -- from the living room. The groomsmen assembled. The bachelor party underway.

Master Jake -- who had 'dressed up' for the occasion in clean black jeans, cowboy boots and a Hawaiian shirt -- reached a point at the end of the banquette where he stopped. So did the slaves. As one, they turned to face the middle of the room. He held up his hand, thumb and middle finger touching.

*Snap*

Down.

Moving with the choreographed precision of X-rated Rockettes, the four whores floated gracefully to their knees on the edge of the Persian area rug. Settled back on their haunches. Knees spread, pussies bared, heads bowed.

Merchandise, or rather hotel amenities, on display.

Bree fought back a horny moan as she settled into her position. The change of outfits for the party helped with that, and so did the bondage: the slave-whores dressed in matching black garters and nylons, slutty black pumps, and nothing else; identically bound with their manacles behind at mid-back, well clear of their asses, held there by a triangle of chain that looped through the elbow cuffs; their hair bound in strict ponytails with rings tied in for bitch-control; and muzzled with leather panels that covered their lower faces rom their noses down over their chins.

The Whore-Keeper wasn't done. Starting with Bree, Master Jake unclipped the coffle chain, took her leash and fastened the handle to a hook on the side of her gag. Moving down the line, he undid the linking chains and replaced them with leashes similarly hung.

When he reached V-206 at the end, he blindfolded her with black leather, tapped under her chin to raise her face, then worked his way back behind the slaves doing the same.

He came to Bree finally, bent down while blindfolding her...

Blackness.

...and growled in her ear, "Don't fuck up, new meat."

As always, his breath stank of cigarettes. She was glad her face was concealed, because she screwed it up in disgust. She recalled Emma's flippant remark about her 'crush' on him, and decided she could have him all to herself.

Me, I'm going to go on despising the vile, oily, nasty motherfucker. So sue me.

Still, she took the remark as intended: a taunt, a threat, and a challenge in one. She felt a jump of fear in her belly. Though blindfolded, she saw herself at the end of a row of helpless captives: four unfortunate girls snatched off the street, bundled into a trunk and whisked off far from home...

... bound and gagged and forced to their knees... their bodies made available for sexual and sadistic use, against their wills, by unknown men... their faces forward but eyes blinded to their fates... staring into the blackness of helpless anticipation over what awaited them in this sick, depraved bachelor party of professional slavers... what the merciless groom and groomsmen would do to them and make them do...

... And Bree, adrift in the overwhelming erotic haze of that vision, feared a lot of things about what that was going to mean for her. But in the moment -- because she was, after all, living in the dreamlike immediacy of

this

moment -- her biggest fear was that she was going to cum like a rocket the instant one of the Masters laid hands on her.

#_#

Her fear went untested. Bree was the last of the slave-whores selected for service, and by then, she had calmed down. On the other hand, the boys seemed to want to make up for lost time with her.

*Smack-smack-smack-smack!*

She knelt in between two Masters -- 'Gary' and 'Ted,' she'd heard them call each other -- who sat side by side in recliners, sports-bantering, looking past her at the baseball game on the big-screen TV behind her, as if she wasn't there -- or more precisely, as if her only relevance was as furniture. Crucial four-game homestand for the Mariners, facing the Angels with the division lead at stake; the playoffs in sight; one out in the eighth, runners on.

Behind her, another groomsman, 'Pete,' crouched on one knee gripping her ponytail to steady her while he wailed on her ass with a paddle.

"Breaking ball," one of the seated Masters, Gary, called the pitch on its way.

The sportscaster droned,

"Strike two... breaking ball."

Bree knew the other game going on, the one involving her: 'Upset the Apple Cart.'

She was on drinks service duty, with a serving tray strapped around her and jutting like a shelf from her upper waist. Nothing she hadn't done before. Except she was used to the chains that held up the tray connecting to her collar; but here, the chains attached to nipple clamps. The muzzle was gone but her arms were still chained behind her.

Master Pete the Spanker took special care to punish the three cane-welts Master Vic had laid in on her ass earlier. On top of all that, Master Ted had his hand inside her pussy, idly diddling her as he yammered at the TV. The ginger beers jittered on her tray, but stayed upright. So far.

*Smack-smack-smack!*

*Ooh-ahh!* Ugh, I can do this...

Bree tipped back her head, eyes screwed shut, and used one of her pain management techniques: both lips folded inside her teeth, she chewed. It wasn't the prettiest look, but no one told her to stop doing it.

"High heat," said Master Gary.

"And Fernandez retires the side. Heading into the ninth, Mariners holding onto a one-run lead..."

She'd been doing the banal task of serving drinks on demand: fetching the bottles from the ice cooler by the buffet; lifting them with her mouth and placing them on the tray; and returning to the living room moving upright, kneeling before the Masters -- who took their drinks and opened them with the bottle opener dangling from her collar -- and sent her on her way.

But Master Gary and Master Ted had made her stay and used her as a table. Not only that, they liked to sip from their bottles and return them to the tray with a bit of

gusto

in the motion. Then of course, Master Pete, sensing her distress, had started in on her with the paddle.

*SMACK!!*

*Oooh!*...Yum.

The unfairness was that while the three Masters detained her for their fun, the other Masters went unserved. And despite her having no say in that matter, she knew she was going to pay for that neglectful service. But then the life of a slave was, by definition, unfair.

Just ask Emma V-206. She was playing a game with Master Vic, who had retied her with rope, a box tie for her arms and a one-legged sort of hobble. With her lower leg bent and tied to her upper thigh, so that she could only knee-crawl as she chased his exposed boner around the floor with her desperately questing mouth -- but never catch him, poor thing.

"Keep up, you fat, dumb whore!"

Master Vic was a groomsman, so it seemed, and had redressed casually in accordance with the party dress code: blue jeans, flip-flops and an untucked Oxford shirt. He still looked hot as fuck to Bree's eye -- or maybe that was just the sight of his prodigious junk jutting from his fly, and the way he used it to taunt his plaything slave-whore.

"Please, Master," she panted and whined, "p-p-plee-

eeease...

"

"Ugh -- what a slow fucking cow!"

And Emma looked fantastic in her bondage -- the way the ropes hugged and enhanced her bulging curves, including the nasty tittie-bondage with thin, scratchy ropes --

because, yumm, look at that awesome rack, who wouldn't?

Plus, Victor played his game in the pass-through between the living and dining rooms, on the hardwood in between the area rugs, which added another cruelty factor.

Ranjani V-215, meanwhile, had been completely unbound and was on tray duty bringing back seconds and thirds from the buffet on demand, flashing those long, stocking-clad legs of hers to sultry effect. Last seen, said tray was on the rug by her side as she knelt between the legs of the sandy-haired Master -- whose name was 'Trent,' because of course it was -- her head bobbing over his crotch while he watched the game. He couldn't seem to get enough of that mouth.

"Gulg-gulg-gulg."

That left Ginger V-218. The redhead was bound in open space, bent over strappado with her ankles spaced wide by a spreader bar, and her head tipped up level by a chain line from her ponytail to the ceiling, ring-gagged. Last seen, a Master ('Bill') had been fucking her captive cunt. But then, all of the groomsmen had, and he was the last of them.

It occurred to Bree that, since the slave-whore services had begun, she'd heard and seen a fair amount of fucking and sucking, but she was pretty sure none of the Masters had cum. As if they were holding everything in reserve for a big explosion later.

Instantly, her mind went to

bukkake...

Next, it flared with dread. Suddenly, the whole vibe in the room revealed itself to her for what it was: idle fun n' games, drinks and snacks, the ball game... warm-ups. Which meant the real entertainment had yet to begin. And that felt ominous.

So did the man in the best armchair in the room, in the far corner, over whom V-218's upper body was tipped. The groom.

Master Vic had called him Miller. The other boys addressed him as 'James.' The founder, ringleader and mastermind of the Voluntary Sex-Slave Abduction Syndicate. And the sick fuck who sat sprawled imperiously in his throne, watching as his naked, bound, gagged and enslaved fiancée was roughly fucked -- then belt-whipped across her ass and thighs -- by every man in the room, her tortured, tearful face just an arm's length from his.

He was the only one who had yet to touch any of the slave-whores. He seemed aloof and unaroused. This was mirrored somehow in the fact that he, alone among the Masters, wore a suit and tie -- an expensive gray houndstooth, Italian dress shoes, white dress shirt with French cuffs and diamond cufflinks, and a solid black cravat -- as distinct from the khakis or jeans, deck shoes and plain Oxford shirts the groomsmen wore. With his short graying hair, clean-shaven face and steely gray eyes, he was handsome in a coldly intimidating way. His head swiveled as he cast his eyes around the room, assessing the action, holding court... broadcasting his control.

Bree had wanted to choke herself on his cock the instant she first saw him.

All at once, the paddling ceased and she sensed her tormentor standing up and turning away from her.

At the same time, the seated Masters leaned forward in their chairs, tipped down the recliner leg rests, eyes fixated on the screen.

"Come on..." Master Ted breathed. Her back to the TV, Bree couldn't know, but guessed the game was on the line. The hush that swept over the living room told her that too. Glancing back over her shoulder she saw Master Trent yanking V-215's face off his cock and pushing her aside as he leaned forward in his chair. Beside him, two other Masters stood up expectantly from the couch.

The sportscaster said

"Barton strikes out looking... and the M's hold on!"

"Whoop-whoop!" Hands applauding and slamming on the coffee table. High fives. "Boo-ya, motherfucker!"

Masters Gary and Ted leapt out of their chairs, cursing merrily and waving their hands in the air. One of them knocked Bree off kilter -- helpless with her arms chained behind her, she crumpled onto her side -- her legs thrashed about in an attempt to right herself -- but Master Gary's hand caught her ankle.