When You Open Your Eyes

When you open your eyes, you know you're dreaming. Or are you in someone else's dream? You're standing in a warm windowless room, surrounded by formally dressed men and women, all of whose eyes are on you. The fact that you know you must not make eye contact with any of them, must keep your eyes straight ahead, tells you that you also know you are engaged again in one of your Owner's trials.

A woman just to the left and back of you instructs you softly to disrobe. Eyes forward, you comply without hesitation. Embarrassment, self-consciousness, blushing, these all persist, but the twitch of hesitation has left you by now. You're becoming a more instinctive, better drilled little cunt. You unbutton your shirt, undo your skirt, and slide them off. A waiting hand you do not see takes the clothes from you. On unhooking your bra, your already-erect nipples embarrass you again, the moistness of your cunt more so as you push your panties down, but the response to your manifest arousal and whorishness is all in your head - your nudity is met with silence. You stand naked, but for your perennial thick leather collar, breasts forward, head held high, and automatically move your feet apart and cross your wrists behind your back, hands resting on your bottom. You fix your eyes on the closed door before you.

A hand touches you between neck and shoulder, resting, not pressing, but you understand this as an indication, and keen to show your understanding of convention, you drop to your knees. You fall into your first position, upright, hands behind your back, but to your horror, a hand on your neck shows you you have misunderstood, and quickly you get onto all fours. Mortified more by your unfamiliarity with the conventions within these walls than your nudity and your submissive posture, your face and neck bloom into a blush once more. You are sure you detect suppressed scornful laughter.

You keep your eyes on the floor, your hair hanging down, but cannot fail to notice that smartly-shod feet now surround you. A tug and a click on your collar tell you that you have been put on a lead. You have just a little time to wonder what might be in store for you when a swathe of black fabric is placed over your eyes and fastened tightly behind your head. Your stomach churns as you realise you are going to have to rely on your other senses from this point on.

There is a creak, undoubtedly the creak of that great door, and you receive another, harder, tug on your lead. You start to crawl blindly forward, deeply conscious of the heavy sway of your breasts and the rolling of your hips, and how each pace must expose you, and your wetness, to those behind. Crossing the threshold, your hands and knees detect the change to hard wooden flooring. The air is warmer, and the atmosphere of the room heavier, more close, somehow more...male.

The tension on your lead guides you directly forward, and you are aware of population, activity, movement in the room as you enter. Suddenly, what is under your hands is no longer wooden floorboards but something hard, sharp... Gravel. You stop, only to be dragged on by a sharp choking tug on your lead. You cough, and start to move forward again, but more gingerly. The gravel bites into your hands, knees and feet. You cannot help but wince as you progress, crunching, but are proud of yourself for having neither stopped again nor cried out.

At last you are pulled up by your lead. Your collar is grasped, and you are pulled up into a kneeling position again. Once more, a male, musky smell fills your nostrils, and there is a discernible warmth before you. You are moving your aching hands behind your back again when they are seized and pulled forward, by soft female hands. Cuffs are fastened onto your wrists, and you feel yourself pulled forward. The clang you hear tells you that you have been cuffed to a metal rail, running side to side in front of you. The questions teeming in your head are pushed aside by a woman's voice. The voice is educated; she speaks precisely.

"We have been told your given name, girl. That will not be used here. For our purposes, you will be addressed as, and answer to, Number 8. Is that clear, Number 8?"

Head raised, but staring ahead into your blackness you answer in a strong voice, as you were prepared to:

"Yes, Ma'am."

"Tell us your name?"

"My name is not important, Ma'am. I answer to Number 8."

There is an ominous creak of leather behind you. "Excellent. Excellent. Now, Number 8 - or may I call you Cunt?"

"I am a cunt, Ma'am. I will answer to whatever you are good enough to call me."

"Well then, cunt, do you know why you're here?"

"I only know, Ma'am, that my Owner, Sir C, has brought me here to be used. By whom and how, I have not been told."

"Would you like to know, cunt? Would you like to know how you are to be used today?"

"I am simply here to be used, Ma'am, by you and whomever else my Owner wishes to use me. It's not my place to know any more than you choose to tell me."

The woman pauses, and you feel her hand in your hair. You are not conceited, but it is undeniable that she has taken a fancy to you.

"Then let me tell you this, Number 8: your Owner is here. In this very room."

This disclosure sends a jolt almost like electricity through you, and despite yourself you start, and your cuffs clang on the bar before you. You quickly settle.

You are here, Number 8, to settle a wager. C disclosed - perhaps in confidence - that you, his adoring little cunt, told him you could have no cock but his ever again, that his cock was the only one that would ever do, and that no other could even compare."

You flush crimson at this exposure of your expression of love and need, something you thought would never be shared. It is an effort for you not to bow your masked head in shame. But suddenly, it strikes you. Your Owner did not share this from an impulse of humiliation. You know him better than that. No, this would have been shared with pride. You keep your head high and steady.

"Yes, Ma'am. I did tell Sir C that, and it is the truth. I exist for no cock but his, and no cock but his will ever satisfy me. My holes, my entire being, are for his cock."

The Mistress continues. "C also assures us that his little cunt can tell his cock from any other. Since no other cock will do, she can distinguish and discard, shall we say, non-C cock!" A little male laughter ripples through the room.

Your blood freezes as the nature of your challenge dawns on you. You fidget in your gravel, painfully. The Mistress's hand halts in its stroking of your hair.

"Yes, Number 8. Yes. Before you, in a line, behind the rail to which you are shackled, are a number of men. In turn, the men are going to present their virile members to you. Generously, at at some expense to his amour-propre, your Owner has consented to join this array of gentlemen. I can only assume his desire to prove a point has overridden his modesty."

You hear a zip being lowered. You swallow hard.

"You will progress down this line, Number 8, and you will take each man's cock into your mouth. You will lick and suck on each until it is hard, whereupon you should be in a position to determine, without the use of your eyes or hands, whether it is in fact your Owner's cock, the cock that, in your view, no other can match."

You feel yourself beginning to tremble.

"It goes without saying that if you fail, your Owner will be not only humiliated, but extremely disappointed in his little cunt. But if you succeed, well, the rewards will, I'm sure, be great."

The Mistress's hand is removed from your head, and you hear her step back. You exist in total blackness. There is a faint rustling, and the smell of male is strong in your nostrils. Blind as you are, you feel a roomful of eyes on you. Your safeword buzzes in your brain. Perhaps the first is C perhaps it is a contrived challenge, simply to see if you are willing to enter into it. But if not, you will have to... And C, and everyone will be watching you, watching you take cock after cock into your mouth. Can you - could you - whore yourself out to such an extent? Does C truly want this? Does he in fact want to see you refuse? Will you, by engaging with this challenge, be letting yourself down? Dismaying the Owner you adore?

Your head is racing, blood pounding. Thoughts cram in, jostle for room, undercut and support each other. It's so noisy! Your head is so full! What is the answer? What can you do? What should you do? WHAT?

You lurch forward, mouth open, and take a warm musky cock into your mouth. Your cuffs cut into your wrists. The cock's owner sighs audibly, and you feel him swell in your mouth. Your cheeks go hollow as you start to suck on him, your tongue rolling under the shaft. He leaks some of his flavour into your mouth.

You pull back with a gasp. Mouth wet and dripping, you speak:

"This is not my Owner."

Your hear the Mistress again.

"Then along the rail you go, Number 8. Proceed to the right, please."

You drag your cuffs along the bar to the right, then stop. The gravel is very painful, cutting into your knees. Again, there is the sound of unzipping. You nose forward, finding cloth. Nudging over with your face, eventually you feel flesh on your cheek. With a curl of your head, the next man's cock is in your mouth.

You lap at this one, gaining confidence and technique, now taking your time, not sucking his entire length in. Slowly, your lips explore the ridges of his head, and move up and down on the upper part of his shaft. Your lips suck and pop, and then you pull back and confidently declare:

"This is not my Owner."

The third man's cock is dry and sticky. You spit on it to allow for greater play, and slurp and nuzzle at him, your head moving fast as you fellate him. He does not fill you to the back of your throat, though you lean forward and press on as hard as you can.

"This is not my Owner."

The fourth man's cock is very wide, and stretches your mouth to the point where the corners aches. This one is easy.

"This is not my Owner."

Down the line you move, your cuffs scraping on the bar. You find it easier now to judge how much you must move down the gravel, feeling it tear at your knees, to face directly the next cock. Your lips part and you take him in, letting him slide along the bed of your wet tongue, adding his flavour to the many that have now been in your mouth. You ease your mouth further, further down the shaft, right to the back of your throat, until his cockhead is on your airway's opening. You hold it there, hold it till you gag, and then pull back, spluttering. In you go again, cheeks hollow, sucking more firmly now. Your tongue swirls against the contours of the shaft, curling back on the ridges of his cockhead, then lashing back and forth. You move your head in and out, sucking, pulling on his cock, letting his precum pour onto your tongue, coating the inside of your mouth. you gag yourself on his cock again, holding yourself breathless until tears come and you are forced to break the suck with a cough. But in and in you drive again, insistent. You feel the cockhead swelling in your mouth. You pump in and out faster, faster, making his shaft slick with your saliva. Drool spills from your bottom lip down onto your breasts. Your head goes in and out, in and out, the cock ever thicker, leaking and oozing. You're gasping, panting, and you just know he's so close.

Suddenly your mouth is full of salty cream, and you swallow and suck desperately to get it all down into your throat and belly. How that cock pumps and pumps into you, feeding you thick hot pearly spunk. Your head bobs, you suck and lap and drink until the jets stop coming. Gulping heavily, you smack your lips and then set about cleaning the residual semen from the still-thick cock. Your tongue dips and swirls and scoops expertly, each gob of cum, disappearing down your throat.

At last you sit back, head erect, lips wet. Proudly you announce:

"This. This is my Owner."

The blindfold is whipped off your face with a flourish, and you look up into the eyes of the man you love, the man who loves you.

The applause that fills the room brings tears to your eyes for the second time that day.