The only thing louder than the sound of slurping was the heavy breathing. Bent in an awkward position over Leslie's crotch was the elegant form of a woman with a heart shaped bottom. Her hair cascaded over her face.
Two suits were vigorously pumping themselves into a lather. The young woman on the screen rode Leslie's boot like an equestrienne. The sight was just too much for the Viagra challenged executives. Accompanied by strangled grunts, anemic jets of fluid streamed across the theater seats. Once recovered, they lit the customary Cohibas and imbibed a glass of port as they contemplated the video clip of Lindsay Wilson, Protege of the Month.
The private media center was used to screen collections of clips that featured denigrated, nubile innocents, privately 'recruited' for the few, the powerful, and the well-heeled. The organization was called Sanspeur. Dick Hertz, Loren Leslie, and the other members of the Sanspeur shuffled morsels of young female pulchritude among themselves until they were no longer useful.
"She really wasn't that much of a challenge," panned Leslie, "If only she'd try to bolt from the room. At least the minx would have been a treat to tackle and gag. And I was so ready."
"I have to raise the bar on Miss Goody Two Shoes, who happened to ENJOY the crop!" complained Dick, staring dejectedly at the screen. "What a waste."
"It wasn't a TOTAL waste," Leslie chimed, as a smile curled on his lips.
"You bastard." said Dick with envy.
"Send her to Armstrong." prompted Leslie in his arched New England accent.
The silence was deafening as both men contemplated the suggestion.
"I don't know," hedged Dick. "He totally destroyed Jenna, not to mention cute, little Amy, who had to be put down."
Leslie nodded in agreement, "Yes, that was unfortunate."
"However," Dick's eyes sparkled with inspiration, "One of us could be there to oversee the breaking."
"Yes, yes...and I suppose it should be you. At least I got a crack at her first," baited Leslie as he sounded even more annoying.
Armstrong
Armstrong was his only name. People in certain circles trembled when they heard it. Well connected and owned by no one, he had the Sanspeur by the short hairs. Armstrong was the Janus of their world, where perversion was a prerequisite. Tall and raw boned, he resembled Nick Nolte on dress up day. His shock of white blond hair, worn a little too wild for a man of his stature, was gathered in a ponytail at the back of his neck. His face was a combination of a hopeless romantic cloaked with the coldness of Hannibal Lecter. This anomaly gave him an edge in seduction and collaring, a challenge he enjoyed.
He had gotten his feet wet in London where he became deeply involved in underbelly of BDSM. Over the years, he developed new techniques and fine tuned old ones. This was how he made a name for himself as an international slave trainer.
Worn down by a life, he was ready to retire at the ripe young age of sixty. As word got out about his impending retirement, the members of the Sanspeur made him an offer he couldn't refuse, which, to this day, remains classified.
He had autonomy to run the new training facility and hand picked staff. Special people did this kind of work, people who had been trained and were loyal to Armstrong. Truth be told, Armstrong was not without failure. In the past, several employees misused their authority and caused damage to inventory. Once discovered, appropriate measures were taken so that they fulfilled the damaged inventory's service themselves or die.
The Lindsay clip was sent to Armstrong who agreed to make the ingenue suitable for their purposes. Lindsay would be snatched without prior notice to the Sanspeur, for obvious reasons. No interference with Armstrong was allowed once the wheels were set in motion.
Monday, Monday
Lindsay writhed with cries and twisted sobs as she reached her long denied crisis. She was lost in space riding Dick for all she was worth while a naked Loren Leslie painted her backside with thin red lines. Her breasts were firm handles for Dick to hold on to while she rode him to oblivion. Leslie's shrunken balls were in sharp contrast to the flagpole he sported. He flicked a horsewhip at the bitch's back with expertise while he impatiently waited his turn. The permutations, highly charged, infused the sadistic lust of the participants. She was left pulsing and sated. As sweat dripped off her back and a light mist settled in between her breasts, she drifted off on a cloud.
The music alarm clock awakened her to the sounds of Edwyn Collins' "I Never Met a Girl Like You Before." Prompted to hum along, Lindsay stretched like a just-roused cat and rolled out of bed. She checked her pussy's dampness and jumped into the shower to wash away remnants of her dream.
Freshly showered and smelling like a newborn, Lindsay was faced the usual female dilemma, what to wear. Her closet was outfitted with a limited but stylish wardrobe, mostly geared for work. She settled on a Jackie O style Chanel suit. It was her favorite. The persimmon and chocolate colors of the boucle complemented her coloring. She contemplated the outfit she wore to Loren Leslie's office. It triggered the memory of her prone figure being kissed by the crop and she felt fluttery back flips in her stomach. She reached instinctively for her backside and smiled. Slut. She had enjoyed every damn degrading bit of it.
