A Slave to Pleasure

Sorry it took so long for the next chapter! I'm back to working on this series regularly :) -4bidden

After several days of sex, alcohol, and very little rest, I was starting to hit a mental and physical wall. My master next door, Mr. Robertson, had finally claimed my virginity, but our marathon sex sessions had left me bruised, sore, and desperately in need of rest. I had a quiet dinner alone in my empty family home, but after clearing the dishes I found myself too restless for sleep. My ass throbbed dully from the 24 lashes given to me by my new Daddy, and I was still anxious about confronting my best friend, Kelli, about her increasingly sexual behavior towards me. I tried to distract myself with a movie but gave up when I lost track of the plot for the third time in less than 15 minutes--it looked like I would have to stick to scrolling my socials until I managed to pass out. I switched off the TV and dragged my weary bones off the couch and down the hallway to my bedroom, where I collapsed heavily onto my bed.

I scrolled mindlessly through my feed, barely registering the photos of friends and acquaintances that flashed across the screen. Half-blind to the content in front of my eyes, my mind wandered to my session with Mr. Robertson that afternoon, where he had beaten me savagely and finally claimed my virginity. I shivered at the memory of his eyes watching my face as he fucked me, calling me his little fucktoy. I loved the sound of the filthy label: it reduced me to an object made exclusively for use by its owner, eliminating my needs and feelings completely in favor of my master's pleasure. It described my role perfectly in my relationship with Mr. Robertson, and I decided to do a bit of research into the term.

My finger trembled as I opened a tab and pulled up my favorite erotic literature website. Something about reading porn always felt more dignified than watching videos, and I loved the way authors could describe the feelings and mental experiences of sex along with the action itself. I typed in 'fucktoy' and found myself on a whole new side of the website: I usually stuck to a couple of very vanilla scenes, the familiar words never failing to bring my sensitive body to climax, but I felt wetness trickle down my thigh as I perused the kinky titles that popped up in the results. I selected a well-rated scene called "Blue-Collar Fucktoy", and within minutes, I was writhing and squirming in the sheets as I read through a detailed description of a young girl being used by a group of construction workers. They tied her to an exposed pipe on their worksite and took turns fucking her pussy and ass, cumming inside of her one after another.

My phone pinged with a message from Kelli, and I blushed as cold reality flooded into my system at the interruption: I shouldn't be doing this. Daddy wouldn't like it, and the last thing my tender ass needed was another beating. I clicked into the message from my best friend, expecting the usual banter or funny video, but my heart rate picked up all over again when I saw Kelli's familiar naked body posed in an album of nude photos. The text portion of the message read:

Kelli, 9:46pm: are these ok? Kyle from the frat wants pics and I feel like I look super pale in these

Jealousy bloomed alongside the arousal already simmering deep in my belly. Kyle? Are you fucking kidding me? Of course that moron would have the audacity to make her feel insecure. I opened the shared photo album and scrolled through the photos Kelli sent me of her beautiful, toned body in a series of suggestive positions. Despite my best efforts, I couldn't resist zooming in on the curve of her tanned ass, the tiny, engorged buds of her nipples atop perfect A-cup breasts, the rosy pink of her cunt bared open and glistening in the flash of her phone's camera. Sharing nudes between us for feedback was nothing new, but I swore softly as my eyes devoured the images. Had Kelli sent these purely for friendly advice, or did she have her own motives at this point? Might I finally have a shot with the most beautiful woman I'd ever known?

I couldn't take it any longer. Despite the brutal treatment of my pussy and ass earlier in the day, Kelli's photos had me desperate for release once again. I brushed a finger over one of my erect nipples, but paused before going any further: Mr. Robertson had showed me exactly what happens when I ignored the rules, and my ass still throbbed with the welts and thin lacerations I'd received from my last bout of disobedience. I clicked over to my messages, typing out a text to the private number I knew belonged to my Daddy next door:

Shea, 9:47pm: Daddy, may I please touch myself?

He replied almost instantaneously, and I realized he must have been monitoring my phone:

Private, 9:47pm: "Hmm, still up reading rape porn after the punishment I gave you? Seems like Kelli's pictures were what really put you over the edge, though. You just can't get enough, can you, whore? I can't say I blame you--she's a vision"

I blushed at his taunting, feeling self-conscious at my voracious sexual appetite. I usually touched myself several times a week, but my recent exploits with my neighbor had revved my sex drive through the roof. Multiple orgasms a day was barely enough to satisfy my cravings now that I had been introduced to the pleasure of being fucked by a thick, hard cock. My phone pinged with another message from my master, and I blushed even harder at his lewd instructions:

Private, 9:48pm: "I'm feeling generous since you serviced me so well this afternoon. I'll let you get off, but only if you penetrate both of those tight little holes where I can see."

Shea, 9:48pm: "I don't have any toys"

Private, 9:49pm: "I'll buy you some to take home next time. Go to the kitchen and find something for your pussy, vegetables are usually a good choice. Anything big and shaped like a cock. There are some markers on your desk that should do fine for your ass. Bend over on the bed so I can see you stuff them in. I want to see how those bruises are coming along."

I took a deep breath and steeled myself before I flipped the blankets off my body and padded softly into the darkened kitchen. The idea of fucking myself with a vegetable was mortifying, but the desperate need to fill my pussy and pleasure myself overrode any urge to stop. I opened the refrigerator and began to rummage through the crisper drawer. I settled on a cucumber that vaguely resembled my master's cock in length and thickness, which I brought with me back to my bedroom. I went to my desk to locate the markers Daddy had mentioned in his instructions and decided he meant the thick poster markers peeking out from a cup in the corner. The marker was about five inches long and maybe an inch and a half thick with a smooth, rounded plastic end that would slide easily into my body with some lubrication.

Armed with my makeshift sex toys, I stripped myself completely naked and bent over at the waist onto my bed, leaving my feet planted on the floor as I bared my marked-up ass to the cameras that I knew were monitoring my every move. I started with the cucumber, sliding and rubbing the cool vegetable across my soaked pussy. I pressed the dull tip into my entrance and moaned at the cold pressure as it slid inside me with little resistance. The smooth, slightly bumpy cucumber was still very cold from being in the fridge, and I loved how the chill spread through my muscles and eased the soreness from my rougher exploits earlier that day. Glancing backwards into my desk mirror behind me, I marveled at the erotic sight of the cucumber disappearing slowly into my pussy as the sweet, cool pressure increased in my belly. The shiny pink of my pussy contrasted starkly with the darkening bruises that striped my backside, and seeing the evidence of my master's beating made me quiver with pleasure. I stopped when only a few inches of my makeshift dildo remained visible, pointing lewdly out of my wet, clenching cunt. I moaned at the sight of my whorish young body bent over and skewered with whatever I could find, a slave to my body's urges. I was turning into a sex fiend--and I loved it.

My phone lit up with a notification from my master congratulation me on my efforts thus far:

Private, 10:08pm: "Well done, my pet. That thing's almost as big as me. Now your ass."

This would be the hard part. My tight hole was not nearly as pliable as my pussy, and this would be the first time I'd ever attempted to incorporate my ass into my solo play. I picked up the thick poster marker and stuck it in my mouth, lubricating the hard plastic with my saliva before positioning the rounded end of the marker against my asshole. I looked back into the mirror again, this time to help me navigate: I couldn't bend to see what I was doing directly, and the territory was too unfamiliar for me to dive in blind. I applied a slow, steady pressure to the marker, and after a moment of resistance, my ass relaxed and I whimpered as the first inch of the marker slid inside of me. I maintained the pressure until the raised lip of the pen's cap came to rest against the rose of my entrance, leaving 4 inches of hard plastic buried deep in my tight little hole. The combination of smooth, cold objects inside my cunt and ass was overwhelming; I moaned loudly into the covers, rolling and bucking my hips with the pleasure of double penetration. My phone pinged again, my master congratulating me on my lurid determination:

Private, 10:19pm: "Excellent work. You're becoming a good little whore, preparing your ass for me. Get used to having both your holes filled. Fuck your pussy until you cum."

I quivered around the objects inside me as I read my master's words. I was already so close, I didn't know how much more I could take before I came without any further stimulation. Before I began, I swiped back to my favorite photo from Kelli's album: only the bottom half of her face and the trunk of her body were visible in the frame, but her red lips curled in a devious smile, knowing how sexy she looked. Her knees were spread wide and her free hand held her wet pussy open for the camera, hard little nipples pointed and raised in clear evidence of her arousal. I left the photo pulled up and positioned the phone right in front of my face: no point being subtle when Mr. Robertson already knew how Kelli affected me.

Once the image of my best friend was before my eyes, I reached back and took hold of the slick, cool end of the cucumber lodged in my pussy. I began to push and pull the object so it fucked me in slow, deep strokes, and I whimpered at the pleasure of my cunt being violated. The thickness of the cucumber as it sawed in and out put pressure against the marker in my ass, and the combined sensations had me at the edge of release within seconds: I was still not accustomed to the overwhelming feeling of being filled, let alone in both holes, and I surprised myself with a low, lusty moan.

My focus drifted back to Kelli's image and I could no longer suppress the shuddering orgasm that ripped through my body as I imagined my mouth on her body, the moans she would make as I gently pinched her nipples and fucked her sweet pussy with my tongue. I imagined her feasting on me in kind, her beautiful face buried in my tits as her fingers worked into my wet, needy pussy. Instead of the cucumber, I imagined her wearing an enormous strap-on and fucking me from behind, her hands pulling me back onto her silicone cock in a slow, relentless rythm. My cunt and ass squeezed hard against the toys and I screamed at the intensity and duration of my climax, wave after wave of pleasure drawn out by the foreign objects shoved inside of me.

After a seemingly endless climax, my body finally relaxed, hips sinking down onto the bed. I laid there for a long time as the endorphins cleared, panting and blushing and worrying about how I would be rid of the evidence of my frantic masturbation. Usually, the worst I had to deal with was a pair of ruined underwear or a soiled pillowcase that I could just fold in with my usual dirty clothes. The marker would be simple enough to wash and replace on my desk, but the cucumber? Surely I couldn't allow anyone to eat food that I literally used to go fuck myself.

With his usual, eerie precognition, Mr. Robertson sent another message to my phone:

Private, 10:31pm: "Clean yourself up and get to bed. That cucumber is perfectly good--wash it and eat it before you report to my house tomorrow at 10am for your gifts. You're skipping class again because I can't have you spoiling all your mother's groceries with your needy little cunt."

Eat it? Jesus Christ, this was a whole new level of depraved. But even as I cringed at the words, a smile crept across my face and my body clenched softly around the objects still buried inside me. The promise of yet another session with Mr. Robertson to mark our fourth consecutive day of sexual education was enough to have me considering another orgasm, but I knew there would be hell to pay if I got off without master's permission.

I reached back and slowly withdrew the marker from my ass, gasping at the pleasure of it sliding slowly out of my still-twitching hole. I moaned as the marker slipped free and felt a novel openness in my backside; I turned to inspect myself and groaned harder at the sight of my asshole gaping slightly in the mirror, my pussy still spread wide by the cucumber lodged deep against my cervix. The sensation of my gaped ass was unbelievably titillating and I was transfixed by the delicate flexing of my puckered hole in the mirror. Still watching over my shoulder, I took hold of the cucumber and slowly pulled it free of my hot, moist slit. The second removal felt even better than the first. I threw my head down on the covers to stifle my string of curses: I didn't want Mr. Robertson to see how close I was to cumming, and I defiantly didn't want to be punished for pleasuring myself unintentionally.

I rolled myself over, glancing at the discarded household objects that had been buried in my body only moments before. Now that the endorphins were clearing from my system, I found my eyelids impossibly heavy and I craved the warm embrace of my bed. I grabbed the cucumber and went back into the kitchen, not bothering to put on clothes since I had the house to myself for several days yet. I washed the vegetable thoroughly with soap, rinsing it excessively before replacing it in the refrigerator's crisper drawer.

I returned to my bedroom and washed the paint marker with equal vigor in my bathroom sink before cleaning myself up and preparing for bed. I usually didn't bother with this level of cleanliness after I masturbated: my normal routine involved sleeping in my own juices and showering off the evidence the following morning. The knowledge of my master's surveillance had me aspiring for a new level of discipline in my daily routines. Mr. Robertson's influence over my sex life was beginning to bleed into my everyday activities, foreshadowing the utter control he would wield over me in the months to come. I found myself strangely comforted by the knowledge that I had no choice but to behave, even when I was seemingly alone--my new master was always watching. A thrill shot through me at the thought, and I savored the mindless submission that spread through my body as I cleaned myself, put on a matching pink pajama set, straightened up my room, and even gingerly stretched out my sore muscles with a few quick yoga poses before climbing, exhausted, into my freshly-made bed.

I woke up unexpectedly refreshed the next morning, not even bothering to snooze my alarm at 8:00am. Normally, Monday mornings were a test of my willpower: it was commonplace for me to miss my morning classes in favor of sleeping till noon. I would be playing hooky again today, but for an entirely different reason.

I walked to the kitchen, bare feet padding against the cool linoleum, and I was struck by the sudden inspiration to cook myself breakfast. Our warm, cozy little kitchen was usually Dad's domain, but on weekday mornings, it was every person for themselves. With classic rock blaring on the radio in the windowsill, Dad would occupy every flat surface constructing his elaborate daily omelette while Mom sipped her customary black coffee at the kitchen table. But today, the lights were off, and the smell of eggs did not waft out to meet me. My parents were gone for another week, and our kitchen was, for once, unoccupied.

My normal morning routine was decidedly more hectic. Usually, I'd sleep through several alarms before hastily making myself presentable, but more often that not I ended up in a sweatshirt and spandex shorts for my brutally early 8:30am classes. Every weekday, my Dad and I engaged in an ongoing battle of wills over the importance of eating a balanced breakfast. He would offer me half of his omelette, insisting that I need protein, but most days, I was simply too tired or hung over to be anything but repulsed by his concoctions of egg, cheese, and vegetables. Breakfast was usually a few his of my vape and maybe Starbucks if the line looked short, but this particular morning, I was craving one of my Dad's omelettes. He really was right about eating breakfast, and I figured I would need the strength for whatever Mr. Robinson had in store for me.

I pulled the ingredients from the fridge, and began to dice a bell pepper, a jalepeño, and an onion. Growing up with a foodie for a father, I'd always been tasked with chopping the produce for whatever new recipe my Dad was trying out. My mind wandered as I went through the familiar motions of chopping peppers, dicing onions, and whisking eggs. I couldn't remember the last time I stood in the kitchen and just cooked myself a meal, and as muscle memory took over, I began to ruminate on why I'd let myself slip so much since I'd gotten to college. How weird, I though, that today of all days I decided to turn my life around. I mean, I stretched last night--who am I, a lifestyle influencer?

I chuckled a bit at myself, but a shadow was growing in the corner of my mind. It was starting to register how much Mr. Robertson was influencing me, and in so little time: it felt like weeks at this point, but in reality, the old man initiated our sexual relationship only three days before. If someone had told me a week ago that I'd be ok with, no... that I'd get off on the fact that my neighbor is watching my every move, I wouldn't believe them. I couldn't deny that the sex was, for lack of a better work, revolutionary. At 19, I'd never been with a man who actually gave a shit about my experience. Even as a virgin, my awkward fondling with past boyfriends had been quick, humiliating, and often not my idea. It had been easy for boy after boy to manipulate themselves to first or even second base. I'd never even gotten close to cumming with anyone other than my new master. Mr. Robertson's cruel punishments contrasted so sharply with the pleasure he could wring from my body. He controlled me so casually, so coldly... it was as unnerving as it was erotic.

I finished cooking and transferred my omelette to my plate. Any dark thoughts about Mr. Robertson's level of control over me were swept away as the smell of my breakfast elicited an impossibly long rumble from my empty stomach. I laughed aloud, willing myself to relax, and sat down to enjoy the fruits of my labor. I had to admit, I'd impressed myself: I was usually too impatient to cook, but my distraction over Mr. Robertson had slowed me down, and the omelette had turned out almost as pretty as one of my Dad's.

I took exactly one bite of the beautiful breakfast before my phone buzzed twice, two texts sent back-to-back. I flinched at the harsh sound of the vibration against our glass dining table. My fork slipped from my suddenly unsteady hand and clattered noisily against the plate, splattering butter and small flecks of egg all over the table. I muttered "Fuck" under my breath, but made no move to check my phone or pick up the fork. I stared at my phone, which sat face down two feet away. I knew I had to answer, but the fear was back. This man already had so much power over me: my sex life, my behavior, even what I wear. It wasn't constant, but after the marks he'd left on me the day before, I was worried he was only just beginning to show me how far he intended to go.