A Day in the Life at Theo's

Author's note:

Thanks to all the readers who have asked me for more Theo stories, and the others who cast equally positive votes by following and favouriting my work. Once I realized that my stuff should be under non-con rather than BDSM, it stopped grossing people out and only seems to attract those who like these sorts of stories.

For this story, I decided to soft-pedal the torture aspect somewhat. I am personally not at all into torture port, and usually fast-forward porn videos when the fake whips come out. It's not so much a moral objection as that I find it kind of boring. For a while I couldn't think of ways to vary the plots without introducing new sources of pain, but I now realize that, even though people have a limited range of things they can put into other people's things, fetishes can provide almost infinite variety. That being said, there's still some nasty and sometimes brutal non-consensual sex ahead, so be warned.

So here's Theo again, back by popular demand. I hope you enjoy this one. If you do, and even if you don't, please comment and tell me what you like or dislike about it.

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1. Theo

My name is Theo and I ... well, by now most of you know who I am and what I do. If not, you'll pick it up pretty quickly, although you might want to go back and read "Theo's BDSM Slave Service" and its sequels if you like full context.

I've related some of the more interesting acquisition adventures I've had over the years -- Recruiting Slave Fourteen, Buying Slave Four, etc. I've weathered the early days of finding my feet, with a minimal stable of three or four slaves to serve a very small and elite market. Now my business is what I guess they call "mature" -- expanded as much as it needs to be for now, with a full stable of twenty-five well-broken-in slaves, a number that is just comfortably right to meet demand and provide a cash flow sufficient to pay my considerable expenses, service my construction loan, and leave me a reasonable chunk for myself. Not that I have much time to enjoy high living. I take a few breaks, have a short vacation now and again, have women over to my comfortable but not at all mansion-like house in a gentrified region of Windsor, but the job keeps me pretty busy. I've seen what happens when people patiently build up a business and then take their hands off the wheel, so I try to stay present and involved.

Besides, I enjoy the day to day work of vetting clients, managing the showroom each day, and watching clients through the cameras to make sure they don't overstep and do anything that will cause long-term damage, or even marks. They can do anything else they like -- tie them up in intricate ways, fuck them any way they can invent, humiliate them, inflict as much pain as they want, just as long as they don't injure one of my important pieces of property. On the whole, I find that more clients than not aren't really closet torturers anyway. They just get off on having non-consensual bondage sex with a woman who is absolutely, positively unable to refuse.

That being said, many of the clients have really interesting fetishes that keep the days from being too routine. Although I've titled this story "A Day in the Life," I've chosen to focus on a day which some clients made especially interesting. After I've set it up, I'll let the women tell their stories themselves.

It was a typical Friday evening, meaning that it was pretty busy. I started with the usual twelve slaves for clients to choose from, but since I had more clients than that lined up, I intended to keep replenishing the showroom from time to time to keep up the variety.

As always, the slaves were displayed in a row, naked except for high stilettos. Each had her ankles forced about 50 centimetres apart by a medium-length spreader bar attached to wide neoprene cuffs -- far enough apart to be invitingly exposed, but not so stretched that they would have difficulty standing there for a while if they didn't get chosen off the top. Their hands were restrained behind their backs with neoprene handcuffs, and their mouths were gagged with wide strips of white microfoam tape.

Most important, a steel pole came up from the floor and held a large metal dildo in each slave's pussy. One of the parts of my job that I particularly relish is getting each slave positioned, inserting the dildo, pulling out the telescoping pole until the dildo is firmly seated, and then locking the pole with a hex key. Here is where the stilettos are more than aesthetic -- with their feet already forced forward at a severe angle, there is no tiptoe room left for the slave to use to try to wriggle off the pole. The result is that each slave is totally immobilised in the lineup, waiting patiently -- or impatiently, it makes no difference to me -- for a client to select them, get the dildo out of them, and take them down the hall to one of the private entertainment suites. There, the client has an hour and a half to select his bondage arrangements from a vast assortment that I make available, and enjoy his captive woman any way he wants.

For now, I'll focus in on the three slaves at the left-hand end of the lineup. Some of them you've met before and some will be new to you.

The first was Grace, whom I usually refer to a Slave Six. She featured in what Hollywood would call a "supporting role" in Slave Four's story of her first nights on the job after having been bought from the slavers. She is a small, compact Asian woman, with delicate features, small breasts carried high but with large inviting nipples, and long, black, luxuriant hair. She is naturally nearly hairless in her pubic region, but she waxed off the few wisps of hair, leaving her pussy invitingly smooth.

For a while, I had been worried that I'd made a mistake in recruiting -- in other words, kidnapping -- her for sex slave duty. I had been surveilling her for weeks to make sure that she would make a good slave -- by which I don't mean "willing," since none of my slaves have consented to being bound, fucked, and sometimes moderately tortured night after night. I just mean having a resilient enough personality that they can adjust to the lifestyle without breaking down.

I had hacked every camera and piece of equipment that was in any way associated with her, and thought I had spotted someone fairly fearless. I watched through her webcam as she brought men into her bedroom and fucked them ravenously. She had taken on some night work at a strip club to get money ahead for her next year of nursing school, and I had watched through the club's surveillance cameras as she performed for her audience. She not only performed on stage, but also offered to take men in the back with her and, for an appropriate extra fee, would put on an individual show, during which the men were allowed to touch her as they were not allowed to on the main stage. Then, for yet another additional fee, she would fuck them, sometimes just giving them a good blowjob, and sometimes getting down on all fours in front of them and letting them up her vagina and even her anus. She was quite the entrepreneur, and always finished the night flush with cash. More important, she didn't seem at all bothered by what she had to do to get it.

It turned out that slavery was a very different thing from consenting to sex for money. This didn't surprise me -- of course it's different to be basically raped every night against your will. But she took the adjustment harder than most. She always seemed to be on the verge of breaking down in tears as she waited on her dildo pole, and she often got a look of sheer terror when a client approached her and started handling her body. She spent a lot of nights sobbing in her bed, and I was really afraid that she was going to slip into a pit of despair from which she would never climb out. I'm sure the hopelessness of her situation and the virtual impossibility of rescue or escape magnified the indignity and frustration of what she had to endure.

Fortunately, she was gradually able to adopt the stoic outlook that women had to have in order to survive here. She was able to stop focussing on the abuse she suffered each night, and appreciate the fact that, aside from serving her one nightly client, she was well looked after. All my slaves have comfortable quarters, good food and medical attention, exercise, and the company of their fellow slaves. None or this really makes up for not being free, of course, but it makes the life bearable once slaves manage to focus on that aspect of it instead of on their captivity and on the work itself.

Slave Six was still pretty fragile, though. Standing bound, gagged and impaled, she always looked more out of place than some of the others. She seemed as though she would be more suited to wearing a silk kimono and serving tea in a fancy Japanese teahouse. (Never mind that she's not Japanese -- her family originally immigrated from Taiwan. I'm just trying to give you a flavour here.) I usually tried to go easy on her. I couldn't completely control who got paired with which client, since they could take their choice, but when I had a regular coming up whom I knew fancied smaller, more delicate-seeming women over some of the more robust slaves in the stable, and who was more or less into basic bondage sex without too many of the painful embellishments that some clients favoured, I always made sure that Six was one of the ones on display. My behind-the-scenes stacking of the deck worked more often than not, and it worked nicely on the night I'm telling you about here.

Next to her stood Slave Four, known to her friends as Stephanie. She's a robust white woman, by which I don't mean chubby, over-muscled, or in any way rough-hewn. I just mean substantial, in spirit and in body, not a frail lily like Six. She stands about 180 cm tall -- a little under six feet, for my American friends. She has gorgeous chestnut hair, currently worn well below her shoulders, a lean waist and medium sized, well supported breasts. She's one of the few slaves I've bought from slavers as opposed to capturing myself, and the contrast between her life here and her prior life with the slavers made it easy to make a quick adjustment. In the six months she'd been in their custody, they'd managed to turn a heathy, self-possessed young woman into a gaunt, starved creature with the aspect of a beaten dog. I acquired her feeling more like I had just purchased a recue animal than a sex slave. It had taken almost six weeks for her to regain not just her physical health but also her mental composure, but now she often takes the lead in mentoring new recruits, taking them under her wing and helping them gain some of the combination of independent spirit and stoic resignation that has allowed her to stay sane all these years. She's one of the reasons Six was able to avoid slipping into irrevocable depression. Unfortunately for her, her ability to take punishment meant that she was sometimes set up for some of the nastier clients.

Finally, Slave Fifteen, known to her friends as Rasheed, one of my more recent acquisitions. I tracked her down working as a personal trainer at a gym, and started checking her out in my usual thorough way to assess her as possible slave material. She certainly was fit, and gorgeous -- I had had an operative sneak a tiny camera into the shower in her apartment, and it didn't take me long to be sure that she was everything I was looking for physically. She's of South Asian descent, her parents having immigrated from Pakistan before she was born, or even conceived. She has light brown skin, dark brown eyes that sometimes look almost black, and a magnificent head of lush jet-black hair. Although she's extremely fit, she has the lush but firm roundness typical of South Asian women at their best. Her large breasts sit high and are perfectly rounded as if she has two large half-grapefruits on her chest. She reminds me of a Hindu goddess statue with the idealized physique that sculptors love to represent but which only about ten percent of actual women can even approximate. Google "Hindu goddess statue" if you don't have a good mental image of what I'm talking about.

(Of course, Western classical sculptors set up a different but equally persistent ideal with the petite, conical put-your-eye-out breasts that equally few women are blessed with in real life.)

Slave Six was the first of the three to be chosen that night. The client, a slender, tanned, fit-looking young man in his later twenties, went up and down the line a few times, looking closely at many of the women and squeezing a breast or two, but he stopped at Six. This was what I was hoping would happen. I thought Six deserved a reward for enduring a couple of clients who, while not actively sadistic, had certainly been very rough in their sexual style.

He studied her intently, walked around behind her, and reached around her to move his hands slowly down her body from neck, to breasts, to compact belly, and finally to finely sculpted hips and small, firm mons. He seemed to be satisfied with his choice, and held out his hand for the hex key. He unfastened the dildo pole and slid it out of her snatch.

2. Slave Six: Grace

When the client stopped in front of me, I tensed up, as always. Even though I've been doing this almost once a night for seven years, I still tense up a bit when a client starts eyeing me. What's this one going to do to me, I always wonder. Is he just going to tie me up and fuck me, or does he have other things in mind?

It was a bit strange when he started slowly running his hands down my body. Clients checking out the merchandise usually poke and prod, squeeze breasts and buttocks, stick fingers where they don't belong, and generally make their hands rude and unwelcome. But this was unusual. His hands were soft, gentle, exploring and savouring, but not acting as though he were squeezing fruit in the grocery store. As they slid down my body, over my breasts, my belly, my hips, and finally my public mound, I could almost say they were ... tender. Whether they were genuinely tender or this was just another fetish show, it was an unaccustomed and almost pleasant feeling compared to the usual clinical inspection.

He took the hex key from Theo, unfastened the telescoping pole, and slid the dildo out of my vagina. I was certainly happy enough to have that happen -- the dildo wasn't especially painful, but it got tiresome really quickly, and if I were to choose something to put up me, it wouldn't be a long, fat hunk of steel.

He unfastened the spreader from my ankle cuffs so I could walk easily, but as usual left my wrists cuffed behind my back and my mouth taped. Theo said, "Room Five," and we walked down the hallway to a door that had a big Room 5 on it.

I knew what I would find inside -- a large room full of the most astounding array of bondage equipment and sex toys imaginable. The client knew exactly what he wanted to do, unfastening my cuffs from behind my back and refastening them in front, and then hooking them to a metal chain handing from a pulley in the ceiling. He pulled on the other end of the chain until my hands were stretched high above my head and my breasts were lifted as my chest muscles were pulled toward the ceiling. He didn't try to lift me off the ground. Instead, he took first one ankle, then the other, pulled my legs apart, and fastened my ankle cuffs to attachment points in the floor with short chains, facing the wall but not quite a metre away from it. I wasn't uncomfortably spread, but my labia were pulled wide open and I was on display and available to any hand or other body part that wanted to check me out.

The client undressed as I watched, and I was relieved to see a fairly ordinary-looking cock pop out of his underwear, already hard. I had had my fill of monster cocks over the past few weeks, thank-you very much, and was glad to be getting a rest from them.

He took a bottle of something from a shelf, poured some in his palm, and started to massage it into my skin. It was aromatic, vaguely spicy, a bit warming, and definitely very pleasant. He started at my neck again, massaging the oil slowly and patiently into my skin and working down my chest. He did my front and my back until he finally came to my small but (I like to think) inviting -- "perky" as they say -- breasts. He walked around behind me so that he could cup my breasts easily by reaching around me. He spent extra time there, slowly rubbing oil over every inch. He worked my nipples from the bottom up, reaching around from behind me to slide them between finger and thumb as he gently stretched them out, now glistening with oil.

I suddenly realized that this must be the guy I'd heard the other women call "Gentleman Bob" -- although we never knew their real names, most of the regulars had nicknames to match their fetishes. He always had such a tender and delicate touch that none of us could figure out why he felt the need to spend so much money to use Theo's services. Perhaps it was the only way he could combine his desire to tenderly touch female skin with his desire to have the woman he was touching bound and gagged and completely in his power. Regardless, the other women told me that they were always happy to see him come in the door of the showroom.

I relaxed a little. I'd heard enough about this guy to be fairly sure that he wouldn't hurt me. All I'd get is a slow, comfortable fucking and some very soft skin.

He worked his way slowly down my body: back, torso, hips, pubic area, legs, all the way down to my feet. He kept away from my pussy itself, oiling around the outside of my outer labia but never getting in between them. I was glad -- massage oil is not lube, and it is decidedly not pleasant if it gets on any delicate mucus membranes. I'd made that mistake once before, and I was glad not to repeat it. He did give me a good oiling on the outside of my asshole -- not a mucous membrane, unless you stick something in it and accidentally carry some of the oil inside.

I felt my body growing warm on the outside from the fragrant oil, which seemed to have just a touch of some kind of warming chemical in it. I was starting to grow warm inside, too, the early flutterings of an orgasm, which had started when he was doing my nipples, now spreading up from my clitoris was well. That happens occasionally, and it's usually purely autonomic, brought on by a client doing something interesting to my clitoris. I just ignore it and it goes away. Porn stories are full of passages like, "Her pussy started to drip as her body betrayed her," as the man does something particularly humiliating and nasty to her. Bull. Shit. No woman has ever had an orgasm while being raped and tortured. But this was different. I was genuinely enjoying these soft, almost loving hands as they massaged my body. It was the closest thing to a truly tender touch that I had experienced from the day I was abducted, and I was determined to make the most of it.

When every inch below the neck was warm, relaxed and glistening with oil, he reached up and unfastened my cuffs from the chain and then unfastened them from each other. He positioned my hands against the wall and reattached the cuffs to two attachment points so that I was held there, bent over at a ninety-degree angle. My breasts aren't big enough to dangle, but they reshaped a bit as gravity pulled them from a different direction and accentuated their natural roundness.

My sphincter involuntarily clenched a little as I assumed this position, as half the time, the position meant that I was soon going to have things, or a cock, up my ass. I have done anal on the outside, and although it has never done much for me, it doesn't have to be painful if done slowly by a caring partner. But an anus, unlike a vagina, is just not designed for the job. It can be repurposed, but only if done with patience, care, and lots of communication. None of the guys I've met since my capture could be called patient or caring, and anal sex here is almost always painful and sometimes excruciating. But I thought about who I was dealing with, and relaxed again, figuring that if he did go up my ass, he would indeed be patient and caring when he did it.