Virtual Slavery Ch 08

8

Lynn

When I entered on my calendar the flight to San Diego to meet with the CEO of a biotech company started by former researchers at the Salk Institute, the phone call I both dreaded and anticipated came within a few hours. And when I flew into San Diego on a beautiful January day that denied the possibility of Boston's winter, Jefferson was there to meet me.

He was wearing tan slacks and a coffee colored short sleeved silk shirt that drew tight across his broad shoulders as he took my carryon bag and computer case.

"It is good to see you," he smiled.

Automatically I started to say, "And you," before I remembered the true nature of the situation and turned it into "Thank you." But I was very aware of his body as we walked through the terminal. And of my own. Beneath skirt, pantyhose and panties, my shaved pussy felt extremely vulnerable.

I am a southern girl, raised in a suburb of Charlotte, who had the usual white southern girl's fears and fantasies about black men. Jefferson was my first. I found myself picturing his huge black cock. My shock when I first saw it. My disbelief even now that it fit inside me. And remembering how it felt, how full I felt, how hard it made me come.

"Here we are," he said, unlocking the trunk of an immaculate white vintage Rolls Royce. "I expect you'll be needing the computer, but not the other bag for your meeting?"

He made it into a question, and I nodded assent.

After holding the rear door for me, he walked around and removed a piece of paper from the windshield that had permitted the Rolls to be left in what was posted as a loading zone, before climbing into the car himself.

"Brad said I am at your disposal for the day," he grinned back at me, "before driving you home, where the situation will be reversed. He suggested I mention that. Am I correct you want to go directly to Verigen?"

"Yes."

"Traffic is easy here compared to LA. It's up Torrey Canyon. Plenty of time to make your 10:00 a.m. meeting."

Of course I have been in expensive cars and limousines, but they paled beside the elegance of the Rolls. I sank back into leather upholstery surrounded by perfectly finished and matched grain wood. A slim crystal bud vase with a single red rose stood on a niche beside me.

"You call him Brad," I finally said, as we made our way north. "What does he call you?"

"Jefferson."

"Not Jeff."

"No one has ever called me Jeff." Then he added,"At least not for long."

"The boss is casual; the employee is formal."

"He doesn't make me feel like an employee. He knows I can walk anytime I want and stay only because I want. He appreciates that. We are not friends. He doesn't have anyone who could be called a friend. But he is the most intelligent man I have ever met. He can't help what his body is. Neither can I. Or, for that matter, you. I turned mine into some money as an athlete. I don't know what you have done with your beauty. I would guess played it down. But I would also guess it has helped you some even if you didn't want it to. He has overcome his."

In the front of Verigen's new offices, he gave me a card with his cell phone number. "I can come back at any preset time, or you can call. I'll be in La Jolla, about fifteen minutes drive."

"I'll call."

I was distracted, not at my best, with the Verigen people, and had to apologize and have several points repeated that I should have and normally would have absorbed the first time. Unexpectedly I found myself impatient for the meeting to be over. 'You're losing it, Lynn,' I told myself. Finally, after the obligatory lunch, I had enough information to make investment decisions, and business concluded, I telephoned Jefferson.

About ten miles up Interstate 5, Jefferson adjusted the rear view mirror. Our reflected eyes met.

"He wants you to take off whatever you have beneath your dress. And for that matter so do I. He always wants you naked beneath the outer layer of clothes in his presence. That is, assuming there is an outer layer."

"Here? In the car?"

"Where else? No one can see through the tinted windows back there. And it would not matter if they could."

"And if I refuse."

"You won't. You don't even want to."

My dress zipped in the back and was awkward to undo even in that spacious back seat. I found him appraising my breasts in the mirror. "Do you like what you see?"

""Oh, yes. I just wanted to see if they were as good as I remembered. You have great tits."

I pulled the dress back up. My bare feet were difficult to fit back into my shoes, so I didn't bother.

When he observed that I was finished, he said, "Behind the right door in the cabinet ahead of you, you will find some objects. Put them on."

The varnished teak door opened as smoothly as a bank vault. I remember thinking so at the time, before I even knew of the other bank vault door. Five pieces of black leather, cuffs for my ankles and wrists and a two inch wide collar, and a chain leash, such as Winston had sometimes put on me.

"Now? We are more than an hour away."

"Yes. He wants you to have time to think as you are being delivered."

At first the leather was cool against the skin of my wrists and ankles and throat, then it began to feel warm. The leash was not heavy, but I felt its weight. I looked out at passing cars and trucks. I doubted they could see me, but I felt exposed, like a pursued animal breaking cover, trapped in the open.

"Behind the door to the left is a bar with a small refrigerator. A bottle of Chablis is chilled. You'll see the corkscrew and glasses."

"So I'm permitted to drink tonight." I tried to sound sarcastic, but he ignored my tone and responded evenly, "Within reason."

I opened and poured the wine.

While I sipped, I looked down at my legs. I always feel so white in California, not just in contrast to Jefferson, but to everyone who is tanned as Winston was when I met him. He's faded now, I thought. And then I thought of the possible interpretations of that and felt sorry for him, trapped in Boston. And then I realized this was the first time I had thought of him that day. Brad and Jefferson and the forthcoming night were filling my mind to the exclusion of everything else.

Black leather cuffs. White skin. Bright red toenails. 'Trashy feet,' my mother would say. I wouldn't have painted them myself if Brad hadn't insisted, but I had to admit I rather liked them.

A few glasses of wine later, after stopping at a security gate and driving up a long curving private road, passing Jefferson's house half hidden in trees off to one side, we came into a clearing and stopped in front of a sprawling house that looked like something designed by Frank Lloyd Wright, all stone and wood and glass. I struggled to put on my shoes, then gave up and, playing the slave girl, stepped from the Rolls Royce and walked barefoot to where Brad was standing at the open front doors.

"Very good," he said, eying me appreciatively.

We passed through a huge living room, quite austerely decorated and furnished, mostly in white, gray, and black, but with a few dramatic splashes of color: a red chair; an indigo vase; and paintings on the the wall.

"Max Beckman," Brad said. "My favorite of the German Expressionists. He fell dead on the corner in front of my place on Central Park West, a few blocks north of where the lessor but more famous artist, Mr. Lennon, was shot."

I started to ask, then why the hotel room if you have a place there?, but realized.

"Let's go through and have a drink by the pool, while Maria finishes preparing dinner."

Openness rather than privacy was the design principle of the house and off to the left I saw a woman doing something at a table in an area, not a room, that was the kitchen.

Blue haze obscured the lower slopes of the peninsula and the ocean a few miles ahead and a thousand feet below us. For Los Angeles the place felt remarkably serene and isolated. Only two or three roofs were scattered among the trees below.

The woman, Maria, came out and smilingly placed a plate of hors d'oeuvres on a glass table. She was fiftyish, wearing a loose floral print dress and low heeled shoes. She did not seem to find my cuffs and collar unusual.

Neither Brad nor Jefferson touched me or said anything or treated me in any way other than the way any two men would treat a woman in a normal social setting while we sat in the gathering twilight by the pool and while we ate dinner. Their eyes did linger on my legs and feet, on my loose breasts moving beneath my dress, on my hands and my mouth. That was it: nothing had actually happened, except that I was wearing some leather and running around barefoot, yet it was all about sex. And had been for hours. Every cell in my body was waiting, anticipating. And, half guiltily, I knew I was wet.

Maria had just cleared away the dishes, when Brad abruptly ended my banalities about the excellence of the food by saying, "Climb up on the table."

I turned toward where Maria was cleaning up, "But.."

"Climb up on the table."

The black lacquered dining table was capable of seating about twenty. The three of us were clustered at one end, Brad at the very end, Jefferson and I across from one another. Pushing back my chair. "How do you want me?"

"On your back, head toward me."

The wood was hard on my knees. I lay down. It was strange looking upside down at Brad's face, which was coming closer. As his hands pushed my dress down, I felt Jefferson's hands pushing my dress up. Involuntarily my eyes closed and I moaned when, after being made to wait so long, simultaneously both my nipples were squeezed and fingers slid into my cunt.

"Will you be wanting dessert?"

I cringed and opened my eyes. Maria was standing beside the table, looking at my exposed body without expression.

"No. Thank you, Maria." Brad said.

She continued to stare at me for several more seconds, before walking away.

"Move her this way, so her head is beyond the edge of the table."

Strong hands slid me effortlessly.

"Pull her dress all the way off."

I raised my hips to help them, and was rewarded by a hot tongue pressing against my clit.

'Let your head fall back, so your throat opens. You're going to take it all."

I panicked. "I can't."

"Of course you can. And you will. Make it easy on yourself."

My face was gripped by two hands, palms against my cheeks, and bent back. An engorged cock filled my vision.

"Open wide. Wider."

One hand moved to my jaw. Below my waist, out of sight, the tongue was slowly licking.

"Relax and it will slide right down."

My lips stretched. I tasted the sharp tang of precome. My mouth was filled with meat. Something hit the back. I started to gag. it forced its way past, down my throat. His balls bounced off my nose. It slid out, all the way. I just had time to gulp air before it slid all the way in again. Back out, but not all the way this time. And then back down. Deep throat. Linda Lovelace. Something done by whores. Trash. Only words. How can this be happening to me? I tried to imagine what it must look like inside me. An MRI of soft tissue buried in soft tissue, the head of his fat purple cock probably as far down as the collar around my neck.

And then I felt the pleasure rising from the tongue on my clit, which was lapping faster. It felt so good. A thick finger. No, two fingers sliding into me below the tongue.

"That's it," Brad growled. "Make her come. I want to feel her throat convulse around my cock.

I could not help myself. I wanted to scream, but couldn't. My tongue flailed wildly against the cock stuffing my mouth. I was making muffled mewing sounds. The tongue and fingers drove me over. My heels pressed against the table, thrusting my hips up. My hands reached out and grasped whatever they could of Brad's hairy legs. My entire body throbbed and spasmed. Including my throat.

The cock remained in me until I stopped shuddering. When I was finally still, it slowly slid out, withdrawing like a snake, making a plopping sound as it passed my lips, bouncing against my nose, leaving a trail of my own saliva on my face.

I did not know if he had come. I did not taste it in my mouth, but if he had shot it all the way down my throat, beyond taste buds, perhaps I wouldn't. I did not know. It had never happened to me like that before.

I felt a tug on my collar. "Stand up. It's our turn now."

I just wanted to remain where I was, but the leash was insistent. Rolling to my side, my feet swung down to the carpet.

"Put your hands behind your back."

A clicking sound and the cuffs were secured together.

"Down on your knees." With my hands behind me, I struggled to keep balance. They stood impassively, offering no assistance, as I sank to the carpet. Two thick cocks in my face.

"Jefferson first."

Obediently if apprehensively I opened my mouth wide. Jefferson's huge hands reached out and pulled my head toward him and he thrust his cock forward. The courtesy was gone. I recalled his saying I would be at his disposal. I pictured myself kneeling naked there.

"Now me."

Jefferson pushed me away. I barely had time to turn before another cock bruised my lips.

Back and forth they moved me like a doll, a toy, until I was screaming inwardly for them to come, to get it over with. Jefferson had just taken his turn, when unexpectedly Brad called, "Maria, would you please bring us a plate." Continuing to suck Jefferson's cock, I could not believe my ears. What could he possibly want with a plate? From behind me came the Latin voice, "Large or small?"

Brad laughed, "Oh I think large. Definitely."

Just as I knew he was about to come, Jefferson pulled out of my stretched mouth and, stroking his shining black shaft twice, spewed huge gobs of creamy come onto a Wedgewood china dinner plate Maria was holding at waist level. I had no time to think before Brad shoved himself into my mouth, fucked my face furiously, pulled out and shot onto the plate too.

Obviously I was not their first victim, because without a word, Maria bent and placed the come splattered plate on the floor in front of me and then took a step back. The three of them stood watching me silently.

"You are smart enough to know what to do."

I had. "No! I won't!"

A hand slapped across my face so quickly it was a blur. Sound and pain were simultaneous. The blow knocked me sideways. The hand grabbed my hair as it swung back and brought me up to my knees. Tugged by the leash my head yanked toward Brad. "You will," he hissed. Unable to bend over himself, he handed the leash to Jefferson, who pulled my face toward the plate until he felt my resistance end.

The come had already started to cool. I extended my tongue. The tip recoiled at the first contact. I did not even know whose sperm I was tasting. "Lick it all up. I want the plate clean."

I hated him then. Naked on my knees, hands locked behind my back, leashed, my ass in the air, watched by two men and a middle aged servant. What had I said about trash, about whores? But I had said I was his whore. I had said I wanted to be his whore.

"There," I said defiantly, straightening up, my mouth smeared and sticky.

"Well done. But there is, of course, more.'

And there always will be, I thought.

While I was licking up their spent come, the two men had zipped their cocks back into their pants and Maria had moved across the room to a chair, where she was sitting with her legs spread apart, her floral dress pushed up, slowly fingering her hairy cunt.

"Maria is always rewarded for assisting us."

Somehow I was shocked to think that she had known all along, from the first instant, that I would end up naked eating her. She must have been thinking about it while she served me drinks and dinner.

I had never had sex with another woman before. It was a litany then: I had never. But I did not seriously think of refusing. My face still stung from the slap. I knew I could not refuse, that they would make me do whatever they wanted, so I might as well save myself from being hurt. I crawled toward the woman's open legs. I truly was helpless, but I did not even really want to resist this. I had tasted my own juices on cocks. I had wondered what it would be like with another woman, though I had never expected it to be like this.

The woman's face remained expressionless, but she stopped stroking herself and, placing fingers on each side of her slit, spread herself wide open as I neared. She was red and pink inside her olive skin. She had a thick black bush, tendrils of hair clung to her moistness. Her clit stood high and gleaming. The smell was musk, animal, mushroom. The taste the same.

Not knowing exactly what to do, I traced up one open lip and down the other lightly with my tongue. Then dipped deep into the center. The taste was stronger there. Her juices wet my nose. I thought, the hell with it, and plunged my tongue all the way inside her, as deep as I could, and flicked it around, withdrew, and plunged in again, using my tongue just as the men had earlier used their cocks on my mouth. If my hands had been free, I would have used my fingers on her. As it was there was only my tongue. And teeth. And lips.

Sliding up I flicked her clit with my tongue, grazed it with my teeth, surrounded it and sucked with my lips. The Latin woman remained absolutely silent. Her breathing did not alter in the least. Slave though I undoubtedly was, I wanted the power of making her come. I sucked and licked and finally felt her shudder almost imperceptibly. Was that it?, I wondered, and realized that this is what it is like for men, not really knowing.

She moved her hands and let her slit close, stood and let her dress fall down, before picking up the plate from off the carpet and wordlessly walking back to the kitchen area.

"Crawl over here."

Brad and Jefferson were sitting at the ends of a large gray leather sofa. While I was eating Maria, they had poured themselves cognac and held snifters in their hands.

Stumbling, if one can do that on one's knees, I made my awkward way toward them. When I reached the sofa, they both reached out and effortlessly lifted me up between them.

"Here," Brad said, titling his glass toward me. My hands still locked behind me, I felt my helplessness and my nakedness.

They toyed with me. A hand stroked a breast absently, moved up over my throat, circled my ear. Another rested on my thigh, a finger pointing toward my cunt, but not advancing. Sipping cognac, they sometimes offered me some, which I obediently took. Which I had no choice but to take or have spilled across my face and body. I let myself drift away. The hands were just hands. The caresses felt good, pleasant, comfortable.

I came back when a finger--I glanced down: it was Brad's--dipped into my cunt.

"Time you were fucked." Abruptly I was a leashed animal again. "Sit on this."

His cock stood hard above his unzipped pants. I was pulled to my feet and spun around. "Your back to me." Spreading my legs wide to get outside of his, I leaned back and gasped when it slid into me. "Move. Don't just sit there." A hand slapped my ass.

"It's difficult," I complained. "Free my hands."

"You won't have to do it long." For some reason he laughed. Half moving on my own, half being pushed and pulled by his hands, I bounced up and down, until he lifted me and his cock fell out. "I'm wet enough now," he said, and pulled me back down. I screamed as he forced my ass open and shoved all the way up. His coarse pubic hair and doughy flesh pressed against my cheeks.

Leaning back, he rolled me with him. My legs flew up and out. Brad grabbed my thighs and held them open. Jefferson loomed above me. I had only a second to realize what they intended before he lowered himself. "No. NO. It is not possible. You'll rip me in two," I cried. But I was wrong. It was possible.