Virtual Slavery

10

Lynn

I became an asshole.

No doubt many of the people I work with would say I had been one all along. But now I became my own asshole. It filled my mind, just as he intended. I was constantly aware of it because he was constantly fucking it. On my way to the office in the morning. In the middle of the day. On my way home at night. He told me that was all he was going to do to me. I found myself thinking of it, obsessing about it. During waking hours, his cock was up my ass, or it just had been or it soon would be again. I felt myself being stretched, becoming permanently enlarged. I found myself acutely sensitive as I sat down. I found myself thinking of my asshole as I walked along a corridor, an unseeing eye, wondering if his come was draining out, staining my skirt. Or blood. I started wearing inserts in my panties.

One morning I awoke before dawn from dreaming about a cock up my ass and rolled over and pushed the covers from Winston, who was sleeping naked as always. He was lying on his stomach, and without intention, I found myself crouched above him, touching him at just three points: the tip of my tongue on the back of his neck, the tips of my nipples against his shoulders. Slowly I traced my way downward. He started to stir and roll over. I touched him lightly with one hand, keeping him in place. Unerringly my tongue and nipples moved toward his ass. Parting his cheeks I stuck my tongue up him and reached beneath his body for his rigid cock, which I stroked until his hips began to move and he spurted onto the sheets and my hand. I licked his come from my fingers and shusshed him when he started to speak, then went to shower, where I carefully shaved the stubble from my cunt and asshole for Brad. And touched up my fingernail and toenail polish. For fat, grotesque, monstrous Brad.

An hour later I was naked on my knees on a hotel bed, screaming as he shoot his peculiar thick load deep inside me.

Sometimes he had me strip completely naked. Sometimes, he just had me bend over and lift my skirt and pull down my pantyhose and panties, baring only my pale white midsection. Sometimes he didn't even speak to me, just pointed to the door to the bedroom or the floor, stuck it in, pumped, came, zipped himself up and, ignoring me, returned to his laptop computer or a book or the television.

Sometimes he sat in a chair and had me sit on him with my back to his chest and impale myself.

One evening a beautiful young Asian girl was sitting naked on the floor of the sitting room when I entered. Her ankles were tied together by a wide length of black silk. Her feet were flat on the floor. Her knees bent in front of her breasts. Her back against the wall. Her arms disappeared behind her back, where I assumed they were also bound. Another length of black silk around the lower part of her face and over her mouth as a gag drew attention to her frightened doelike eyes, which followed me. I started to speak, but realized that that was what he wanted. And what was I going to say? Ask if she was there of her own free will? Was I? I liked to think I wasn't, but truly I did not know. Instead I stood waiting until he pointed to an armchair, to which I walked and assumed the position, on my knees, feet over the side, skirt up, pantyhose down, hands back spreading my cheeks apart. Brad reached down and turned my face toward the girl, whose eyes never left mine. When he finished and withdrew, I adjusted my clothing and departed without giving the Asian girl another glance. But on the way back to the office I found myself wondering what he was doing to her.

Sitting in a meeting or talking on the phone, I would find myself glancing at my watch, measuring the time until the next assfuck.

Like everyone else I would go out to the elevator, stand talking to other people, make an excuse to avoid lunch, walk the cold windy block to the Meridian, glance around nervously to see if anyone I knew was in sight, then enter, receiving as the week went on at first a curious then an increasingly knowing look from the doorman, ride up to the penthouse, and a few minutes later ride down, seemingly the same, but with my asshole pulsating and dripping.

Back in the office in less than a half hour, it seemed it had never happened. Yet at the same time it seemed it was always happening. I felt always as though a cock was shoved far up me. It did not seem possible that no one who looked at me could not see what I had been doing a few minutes earlier. Yet apparently they could not. No one at Broadthroup. Not even Winston.

For the next three days, he did nothing else to me and had me do nothing else to him. He did not touch my mouth or breasts or cunt. He made no effort to bring me pleasure or to make me come. One evening, it must have been Thursday, I found myself growling like a frustrated tigress as he slammed into me mercilessly.

How quickly we adapt. It became a part of my routine. I did not know how long it would go on. When he finished with me on Friday, he wiped his cock on my bare ass and said, "I'm going back to California tomorrow. See you soon."