Pamela

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Note: Part One of this story contains a scene (in the restaurant) that appeared
with only slight differences in a previous work of mine, "Taxi to Torture." "The
Weekend" was originally written as a personal story for a particular individual,
and was not meant to be made public. Since then it has become part of a larger
tale, and I have been encouraged to show it to the world. To avoid having to do
a lot of laborious rewriting, I have kept the scene in, hoping that a bit of
self-plagiarism can be forgiven. 
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                           PAMELA

                             I  
                        THE WEEKEND

	She was nervous. And, yes, frightened. But the fright only added to the
little worm of excitement that was wriggling inside her, making her nipples hard
and keeping her pussy damp. She was dressed, according to his instructions, in a
tight blouse and a very short miniskirt. That was all she had on, except for her
shoes. No underwear, he had stipulated. Nothing else on her body. No jewelry, no
rings, no wristwatch. Just her.
	Some of the men on the plane kept looking at her. She avoided their
eyes. She knew how she must look, with almost all of her legs on view, and her
fear and excitement making her breathe a little harder than usual, causing her
breasts to rise and fall beneath the tight blouse, the shapes of her hard
nipples making little bumps in the thin material.
	Why, she thought for the thousandth time, why had she agreed to fly
across the country to give herself for a weekend into the hands of a man she had
never met, never spoken to? A man she knew only through e-mail, and through the
stories he had sent her--stories of men subjecting women, stories of whippings
and torture and  rape and degradation...
	She closed her eyes. It had been too long since she had been able to
abandon herself to her deepest desires, to give herself unconditionally to a man
who she knew would be cruel, demanding, merciless...who would do things to her,
and make her do things, that would not only punish her body, but would violate
her soul, her very humanity, and turn her into a thing. A toy. An object of
pleasure. His pleasure. Her pain. A tiny whimper came from her throat, and she
opened her eyes to see that the woman in the seat next to her was staring at
her. She tried to cover the sound with a cough, looking away out the window.
	Since David she had tried to keep her desires under wraps. She couldn't
subject herself to that kind of relationship again, she told herself. Not on an
ongoing basis. She couldn't. Or...was it just that she didn't think she would
ever know a man like him again. In any case, she had tried to lead a normal
life, pouring her needs and fantasies into the secret stories she wrote and
posted anonymously on the Internet. The Internet, through which she had met the
man she was now going to give herself to for a full weekend. She had read a
story he had posted, a story of torture and domination, which had turned her on.
There were many such stories posted, but so few people really wrote well about
these things. At the end of the story he had appended a little note: "If you can
see yourself as the woman in this story, contact me." Something like that. She
didn't know why, it was crazy, but in her excitement, on impulse, she sent him
an e-mail: "I do. I do. God knows I do." He had replied, and it had gone on from
there.
 	The plane was landing. There was no turning back, she supposed. Her legs
felt weak as she stood up and moved with the crowd toward the exit.
	As they came into the terminal she spotted him immediately from the
picture he had sent her. The deep-set eyes, the snow-white hair, the strange
silver beard that made him look something like an Old Testament prophet. He
spotted her too, and was waiting for her as she moved past the rope barriers.
	"Miss Prentiss?" he said. No, that wasn't her name, what was he doing?
He flashed some kind of badge. "Federal agent," he said. "You're under arrest.
Turn around please."
	"What?" Before she could think he had turned her around, pulled her arms 
behind her and was putting something on her wrists. Handcuffs! What was--
	"Nothing to see here, folks," he was saying to the staring,
rubbernecking crowd. "Routine arrest. Move on, please." And with that he pulled
her away by one cuffed arm, moving her away from the titillated crowd toward the
terminal exit.
	The cuffs were tight, painful, pressing cruelly into the flesh of her
wrists. The unyielding constriction of the hard steel thrilled her, even through
her fear and confusion. Was he really arresting her? Was this one of those
stings she had read about, where the government used agents to entrap perverts
on the Internet? But surely ôhat was just for pedophiles. No, she decided as her
panic subsided. It was just a ruse he had used to explain to the crowd what was
happening, while he immediately took charge of her, showing her that she was his
captive from the first moment. Her relief at this realization combined with the
arousing pain of her crushed wrists to make her feel somewhat giddy. "Aren't you
going to read me my rights?" she said, almost flirtatiously.
	They had come outside now, and he was walking her along the front of the
terminal in the direction of the parking lot. As they passed the corner of the
building he pulled her around it and pushed her into a recessed entranceway.
There was no one nearby, and his broad-shouldered body mostly hid her from sight
of anyone who might be watching.
	"Read you your rights?" he said. "Sure, bitch. I'll read you your
rights." And suddenly, viciously, he raised his hand and slapped her hard across
the face. She stumbled against the side of the entranceway and cried out, as
much from the shock as from the pain.
	"You have the right to be my whore," he said.  And he slapped her again,
this time with his left hand, but as hard as the first time. Again she cried
out, instinctively jerking at her imprisoned wrists. "You have the right to do
whatever I tell you," he said. Another slap, the right hand again. "You have the
right to keep your mouth shut." Slap. "You have the right to suck my cock."
Slap. "You have the right to eat my shit." Slap. Slap. Her head jerked from side
to side with each blow. "Do you understand these rights as I have told them to
you?" he said finally.
	She was sobbing now, and her knees were wobbly. When she didn't answer
immediately, he grabbed her hair and pulled her head back sharply, making her
cry out again. "I asked you a question, bitch. Do you understand?"
	"Yes!" she gasped out, her neck straining, her scalp on fire with the
cruel pressure as he maintained his grip on her hair. "Yes! I do!"
	"Good." He pulled her to him then, still not letting go of her hair, and
mashed his mouth down on hers. Her mouth was wide open, gasping and sobbing, and
he plunged his tongue into it, probing, searching, raping her mouth, grinding
his lips against hers for a long minute before he pulled away.
	"You'd better learn to kiss me a hell of a lot better than that," he
said. Then he took her arm and they moved on toward the parking lot.
	There were not too many cars there at that time of the morning. She
realized that it was even earlier that it seemed  to her, due to the time
changes she had flown across. She realized this with one small part of her mind,
that small rational part that never quite slept, while the bulk of her thoughts
and emotions were whirling about chaotically, churned up by what was happening
to her, by what had just happened, by her mixed reactions to this still strange
man, by the throbbing pain of her face, and the lingering pain in her scalp, and
the worsening pain of her wrists, by her fear and wonder and uncertainty and
pounding, undeniable excitement.
	They stopped when they got to his truck. As he walked her around it, the
bulk of it hid them from most of the parking lot. He stopped her and stood in
front of her, looking into her eyes.
	"We haven't even started yet, Pamela," he said. "It's going to get a lot
worse. I think you know that. Worse than you imagined, probably. More than you
bargained for. You want to back out? This is your chance. Last chance, Pamela.
Say the word, I'll take the cuffs off and take you back to the terminal, put you
on a plane. But you better say it now."
	She gazed at him, into his steady eyes. Cruel, hard, masterful eyes.
Eyes that made her tremble. She stood and gazed at him for a long time. Then,
slowly, awkwardly because of her cuffed hands, she sank to her knees in front of
him. Lowering herself slowly, but dropping heavily at last with no way to
support herself, her knees hitting the hard asphalt with a thud. She lowered her
head and knelt there, trembling. Showing him that she was his.
                                   #
	"Good bitch," he said.  "Good little slave slut." His hand was in her
hair, tugging, raising her head. He stepped forward, pressing the front of his
trousers against her face. She felt the bulge of his cock rubbing her mouth. It
was semi-hard, but throbbing. "Suck me through the cloth," he commanded.
	She opened her mouth, surrounding the bulge with her lips as best she
could, moving them over it, licking it with her tongue, getting his pants wet,
the taste of khaki in her mouth, the bulge growing as she suckled it through his
pants, kneeling there on the hard ground.
	"All right," he said finally, stepping back from her. His hand still in
her hair, he pulled her to her feet that way, as she tried unsuccessfully to
stifle her squall of pain. "You can finish that in the truck." He opened the
passenger door and waited for her to get in. With her hands behind her it took
several tries before she managed to climb into the cab, but he didn't help her.
When she was in he closed her door, then went around and got behind the wheel.
	"You can't suck me that way, bitch girl," he said, as he started the
engine. "Turn sideways and kneel up on the seat." It was a struggle, but she
finally got herself into the position he wanted. By the time she did he had
unzipped his fly and his cock was sticking up stiffly.
	"All right, cocksucker," he said. "Listen up. It's a half-hour drive to
my house. Until we get there you will not take your mouth off my cock. And you
won't stop sucking it either. You hear me?"
	"Yes," she said, and immediately knew that was not enough. His hand
slashed across her face. "Yes, Master!" she gasped, her head still twisted from
the blow.
	"Address me as Sir," he said. "Not Master. You're not worthy to have me
as a Master.  Are you, cunt?"
	"No, Sir," she whispered.
	"Don't forget it. Now get your mouth down here." He put the truck in
gear and pulled out of the parking lot, evincing no reaction whatever as she
bent down and took him into her mouth as deeply as she could. Slowly, with all
the skill at her command, she began to suck him as best she could in her awkward
and insecure position.
	When they got out of the airport the roads were rough, and she had some
difficulty even remaining upright on her knees. She sucked him steadily but very
carefully, trembling to think what he might do if she accidentally bit him.
Crouching that way, with her head in his lap, her ass stuck up in the air. She
could tell by the breeze coming through the truck window that it was barely
covered by her short skirt. She wondered how visible it was to other drivers.
She had no idea how much traffic there was, if any. The rush of the air through
the window and the rattling of the truck drowned out most other sounds, and of
course she could see nothing. Who was it that said the only thing wrong with
oral sex is the view?
	Her mouth was tired long before they arrived, her body exhausted from
the effort to keep from falling off the seat. Finally she felt the truck
slowing, but he warned her not to stop sucking as he brought it to a stop. He
turned off the engine and sat back.
	"Faster, cocksucker," he ordered. "And let me feel that tongue."
	She speeded up her movements, swiping the underside of his cock with her
tongue at each stroke. Finally she felt his body stiffen, and he clutched a hand
in her hair, twisting it, bringing a stifled moan from her stuffed mouth. "Don't
swallow yet, bitch," he said in a strained voice. "Just hold it in your mouth.
Every fucking drop." And with that he erupted, shooting burst after burst of
come into her mouth. It filled her mouth, and it was with some difficulty that
she refrained from either swallowing it or letting it spill out, but she
managed.
	When he finished coming he pulled her head up by her hair. "Good girl,"
he said, panting a little. With his free hand he stroked her straining throat.
"Now you can swallow. While I watch."
	She looked straight into his eyes as she swallowed his come. Twice,
thrice, four times her throat worked as she took it down, slowly and
deliberately, under his deep gaze, as his hand stroked the taut skin of her
neck.
	"Good girl," he said again. "Now we'll go inside. We should have a
little welcoming ceremony to celebrate your arrival, don't you think? Luckily,
we have time for a nice long whipping before lunch."
                                      #
	He didn't show her the house. They went through the front door into the
living room. It was a masculine room, sparsely but comfortably furnished. There
were several exposed beams running across the ceiling. There were several ropes
and pulleys dangling from the beams. Pamela's throat went dry, and her heart
raced.
	"I've been preparing for your arrival, you see," he said. "And now, as I
said, a nice introductory whipping is in order. Don't you think so, Pamela?"
	She swallowed. "If that's what you want. Sir."
	"Of course." He sat down in an easy chair, gazing at her as she stood
facing him, her hands still cuffed behind her. "But not with your clothes on.
Strip for me. Now."
	She stared. "I--But--but my hands..."
	"Yes, I know. That will make it more interesting."
	"But . . . how can I . . . "
	He sighed. "Come here, Pamela."
	She moved up to his chair, standing in front of him. He reached up, in
no particular hurry, and grasped each of her nipples through her blouse, between
thumb and forefinger. Then he squeezed them both hard, pulling on them at the
same time. She cried out and bent over, her body suffused by the sudden pain. He
kept his grip on her nipples, pulling her down until her face was close to his.
She was gasping and whimpering, her bent form twitching spasmodically as he
tightened his cruel grip.
	"When I tell you to do something, bitch, you do it, you understand? No
hesitation, no questioning, no thinking. You just do it. Whatever it takes.
Immediately. Is that clear, cunt?"
	"Yes!" she choked. "Yes!"
	With both hands he twisted her nipples viciously, and she screamed. "Yes
what, cocksucker?"
	"Yes, Sir!" she howled.
	"Good." He let her go. "Now go back where you were and get your damn
clothes off. Now." 	
	She stepped back. She was panting hard and trying to control her
sobbing, but the waves of pain that radiated from her nipples were sending
perverse messages of arousal through her body, and she knew she was wet between
the legs.
	But how was she to strip with her hands fastened behind her? Well, all
she was wearing was a blouse and skirt. Actually, the skirt she could maybe . .
.
	There was a button and a small zipper on the side of the skirt. By
twisting her hands in the cuffs she was able to get hold of the waistband at the
back. Then, with some difficulty, she began to pull at it, sliding it around
her, working it around slowly until the button and zipper came under her hand.
She was able to open the button fairly easily, but had to struggle to pull down
the zipper. At last she got it started, and the tiny skirt fell down around her
feet.
	She was aware of his eyes on her body as she stood there naked from the
waist down, but her self-consciousness was overshadowed by her concern about how
she was to continue her task. Straining and twisting her constricted hands, she
managed to grasp the material at the back of her blouse, but what was she to do
with it? She tugged at it ineffectively, feeling the front of the blouse tighten
against her breasts, but that was all.
	She looked at him for some guidance, but he only gazed back at her
impassively, waiting for her to carry out his order. She had to do it somehow.
She pulled harder against the unyielding cuffs, gathering up more of the
material, bunching it in her straining fingers. When she had as much as she
could get, she paused for a moment, mustering her strength. Then, with a sudden
tug, she pulled down on the material as hard as she could. A button popped, but
the blouse stayed closed. With a small cry of frustration, she tugged again.
Nothing happened. Again she paused for a moment. Her arms ached, her wrists felt
bruised, her fingers cramped. Nonetheless she took a deep breath and tugged
again. This time there was a small ripping sound, and more buttons popped off.
Progress! Gasping frantically, she pulled and pulled again at the recalcitrant
material, and finally the last button gave way and the blouse ripped apart. Her
breasts surged free, the nipples sticking out stiffly.
	Those breasts bounced and jiggled as she continued to pull at the ruined
blouse, working it off her shoulders and down her arms. She was still tugging at
the remnants that hung around her cuffed wrists when he told her that was
enough.
	His eyes were traveling slowly and deliberately up and down her body.
"Not bad, bitch," he murmured. "Not bad at all. Turn around for me. All the way
around. Slowly."
	She turned. Her bosom was still rising and falling rapidly from her
exertions, and her whole body seemed to be throbbing. By the time she faced him
again he was rising from his chair. "Yes, not bad," he repeated. "It will be a
pleasure to whip that body." Pulling a key from his pocket, he walked behind her
and opened the handcuffs. But she had no time to rub her aching wrists, for he
immediately brought them in front of her and began to tie them together with one
of the ropes that dangled from the ceiling.
	Her heart beat faster with the thought of what was to come. Fear and
excitement mingled inextricably in the pit of her stomach until she couldn't
tell one from the other. He tied her wrists swiftly and expertly. The tight rope
felt more yielding than the hard metal of the cuffs, and yet somehow more cruel,
biting into her flesh. The rope ran up over a pulley set into a ceiling beam,
and then downward to a kind of winch device, to which he now moved. As he turned
it her arms were pulled up over her head, and then, slowly but steadily, her
body was pulled upward, pulled up by the rope at her wrists, until it was
strained to the utmost. Still he didn't stop, but kept turning the winch until
her feet left the floor and she was dangling several inches above the ground.
Her arms were pulled taut; they felt as though they might tear right out of her
shoulders. Her flesh was drawn tight over her bones, her breasts lifted and
partially flattened by her upraised arms. Her toes reached reflexively but
vainly for the floor. For a moment or two her body struggled instinctively, her
legs kicking a little; but this only added to her torment, and she soon tired
and simply hung there, helplessly, little moans issuing from her mouth.
	He tied off the winch and came to stand in front of her dangling body.
He was holding a length of rope in his hands, the same kind of rope he had tied
her with, thick and rough and cruel-looking. "This has been soaked in water
overnight," he told her. "Makes it more flexible and hard-hitting. I think
you'll be surprised at what an effective whip it makes. Unpleasantly, I hope."
	With that he walked around behind her. She couldn't see him now. She
could do nothing but wait, her helpless hanging body swaying slightly, listening
to the sound of her own fearful, accelerated breathing.
	Then there was the soft half-whistling sound of the rope sailing through
the air, and then the sickening smack as it slashed against her flesh. A line of
fire across her upper back, and she was screaming, though she wasn't even aware
of it at first, screaming and kicking and jerking her tethered body, the agony
rippling through her. The shock of it flooded her brain, overwhelming all other
consciousness. She had expected pain, intense pain, god knows she had wanted it,
had sought it . . . but this . . .
	Again the whistle and the smack, and again the fire, the blow landing
just below the first one. She heard herself screaming now, felt through the
anguish the biting of the rope into her wrists, the terrible pulling on her arms
as her body twisted and spasmed. He was patient; he waited until her contortions
had subsided, until she hung nearly motionless once more, her head hanging back,
her racking sobs interspersed with heaving gasps. Then he struck again.
	It was pure agony, even with David perhaps she had never known such
agony, and at first she thought she could never bear it, she must pass out. She
wanted to pass out. But as the whipping went on, she knew she would not. She
still screamed and twisted--though the twisting and kicking diminished as
torment and exhaustion took their toll--but the pain now was reaching down
inside her, finding her soul, claiming her for its own. Like a lover. And like a
lover she gave herself to it, hesitatingly at first, and then more willingly,
and then ardently, accepting it with all its flaws, with all its grief and
anguish, embracing it, desiring it, needing it, and wanting it to love her
forever.
	Again and again and again he whipped her with the hard flexible rope,
the strength of the blows never lessening. Down over her back, onto her
buttocks, on the back of her thighs. And up again. She had no doubt that he was
using all the strength of his arm. The cracking of the rope against her flesh
sounded like pistol shots. With each lash she screamed, and with each lash the
fire inside her grew hotter and wilder. Instead of kicking wildly, her legs now
rubbed together, stoking the flame of her need.
	And then he stopped. And walked around to stand in front of her. Weakly
raising her head, and looking at him through blurred eyes, she saw that he was
scarcely breathing hard. He still held the rope, which now dangled from his hand
to the floor. He smiled at her, and then reached up with his free hand to touch
her breast.
	Dear god no . . .
	"Look how hard these are," he said, passing his fingers over her stiff
nipple. "And look how beautiful your breasts are this way." He moved his hand to
the other one, cupping and kneading it. "Pulled up so that every bit of them is
exposed. And vulnerable. Even the undersides. Some girls go completely flat in
this position, but you have just enough so that they still stand out. So
prettily. Just begging to be whipped. Aren't they, Pamela?"
	She could not speak. She was still panting harshly, moaning from time to
time. She knew there was fear in her eyes. But not fear alone.
	He lowered his hand then and thrust it between her legs. "Ah. You're so
wet, bitch. You little pain-loving slut. I think you want me to whip those tits
of yours almost as much as I want to whip them. Don't you, cunt?"
	Still she didn't answer, but a soft whimper escaped her mouth as her
hips jerked forward, involuntarily, pushing herself against his hand. He
chuckled, and his fingers tightened on her crotch, squeezing hard enough to make
her gasp and flinch.
	"You do," he said. "Ask me, Pamela bitch. Ask me to whip your breasts."
	'I--" She closed her eyes.
	"No. Open your eyes, Pamela cunt. Look at me and ask me. Nicely."
	"Please--" she gasped out.
	His fingers tightened. "Please what?"
	"Please . . . Sir . . . "
	He waited.
	Oh dear god. "Please," she breathed, between her labored, panting
breaths. "Please . . . whip my breasts . . . please . . . Oh sweet Jesus . . .     
please . . ."
	He released her crotch and stepped back. Her heart seemed to stop
beating as she watched him find the proper position. Watched him raise his arm .
. . swing it back . . . then forward . . .
	The first blow landed just below her nipples.
	The second one fell above them. The third caught her square across the
nipple of her right breast, grazing the other. After that she couldn't tell any
more.
	She thought her arms must be dislocated at the shoulders, the way her
body was plunging and convulsing and thrashing at the end of the rope. The
ropes. The one around her wrists, the one slashing mercilessly into her tortured
flesh. She knew she had screamed herself hoarse, and still could not stop
screaming. And she knew the fire inside her was out of control, and that the
worse the torment became, the more she was doomed to crave it, to devote herself
to it, above any other thing, for all of her life. It was her life. It was her
love. It was her soul.
	When he'd whipped her breasts to his satisfaction, he placed a few
lashes across her stomach, and across the front her thighs. Then he returned to
her breasts for one last blow, the hardest of all.
	And then it was over.
	He dropped the rope and approached her. Her head had fallen forward onto
her chest, hoarse, heaving moans coming from her lips. He seized her hair and
pulled her head up, looking into her eyes. Although she was suspended off the
ground, his height was such that their faces were level. Holding her hair, he
moved his head forward and ground his lips against her open, gasping mouth.
	Instantly she responded, her tongue thrusting into his mouth, probing
abandonedly, her lips moving on his, her muffled moans vibrating down his
throat. Her legs rose as if of their own accord to encircle his thighs, pulling
her dangling form closer to his body. Her moans grew louder as she felt him
pressing against her tortured breasts, but her legs only tightened around him.
Now he was fumbling at his zipper, pulling it down, freeing himself. And then he
was inside her, taking her, thrusting hard, and she yelled into his mouth with
the pain and the pleasure and the unbearable, magnificent mingling of the two,
until finally, as he emptied himself inside her, she had to tear her mouth away
and scream out her climax to the uncaring world.
	He pulled away from her then, abruptly, letting her aching arms again
take the weight of her dangling body. "I didn't tell you you could come, Pamela
slut," he said, zipping himself up. "Filthy crawling slaves like you don't come
without permission. You won't do it again. Is that understood?"
	"Yes, Sir," she whispered.
	"Good. For your punishment you can keep hanging there until it's time
for lunch."
                                      #  
	Lunch was very tasty. She ate it off the floor, still naked, crouching
on all fours at his feet as he sat at the table. Most of the time, as she knelt
there, she sucked on his cock. The only time she was allowed to take her mouth
off his cock was when he dropped pieces of food onto the floor. Then she was
allowed to stop long enough to pick them up with her mouth and eat them. She
wasn't allowed to use her hands. She wasn't allowed to get off her hands and
knees. After a while he started tossing the food across the room and making her
crawl after it. Her body still throbbed from the effects of the whipping. Her
arms ached terribly, her wrists burned. He threw the food across the room and
watched her as she crawled after it, and picked it up off the floor with her
mouth, and ate it, and then crawled back and put her mouth on his cock again.
When he had finished eating he let her wash her meal down with his sperm.
	Afterwards he had her clean the kitchen floor. With her tongue.
                                    #
	"Who is David?" he said.
	She stared at him through her pain, her eyes going wide. "What? Who--how
did you--"
	She was kneeling in the middle of the room. Her hands were again cuffed
behind her. Her hair was gathered in  a knot and held in a large metal clip,
which in turn was attached to a rope hanging from the ceiling, the same rope
which had earlier suspended her by her wrists. This effectively prevented her
from toppling over, voluntarily or otherwise. Her ankles were bound together
with heavy cord. And connecting the cord on her ankles with her wrist cuffs was
another cord, long enough to allow her to raise herself almost to an upright
kneeling position--but not quite. In addition, there was a small spur-like
device strapped to each of her calves, about halfway between knee and
ankle--with the spurs pointing upward. In this position she was forced to
constantly fluctuate between two kinds of torment. When she tried to raise
herself to avoid the spurs, her inability to kneel upright placed an impossible
strain on the muscles of her thighs and calves. She could never sustain it for
very long before the pain and exhaustion forced her to relax them--thus lowering
her thighs onto the sharp points, which soon penetrated the tender skin and
caused such terrible agony that she had to try to raise herself again; the whole
vicious circle going on inexorably with no means of relief, and worsening
steadily as her body grew weaker and more agonized. She had been in this
position for thirty minutes, while he sat and watched her, enjoying her
predicament. Perspiration was running down her body and she was panting heavily.
	"Address me properly, slut," he said.
	"I--Sir. Sir. How did you--"
	"You screamed that name out when you were coming," he told her. "You
filthy whore. It isn't my name."
	"I--I'm sorry, Sir." She moaned as she raised herself torturously off
the spurs that dug into her thigh flesh. She knew she couldn't stay off them for
long. Already her weakened leg muscles were quivering.
	"Who is he, cunt?"
	"He--he was--" She swallowed. "He's dead," she said. "Sir."
	"I didn't ask you that," he said. "Who was he? Your lover? Your master?"
	"Yes, Sir," she whispered.
	"Speak up, cunt. How did he die?"
	"He killed himself, Sir." She concentrated on keeping her straining
thighs away from the spurs. It was, of course, impossible.
	"How long was he your master?"
	"Two . . . years. Sir."
	"How long ago?"
	"It was . . ." She was gasping. "Six . . . seven years, I think. Sir."
	"You must have been a very young slave, bitch."
	"Yes, Sir. I was . . . I was in high school. Sir."
	"Tell me about it," he said. "From the beginning."
	She gave a cry of anguish as her exhausted muscles failed her once
again, and she sank down onto the sharp piercing metal. Was it caused by the
pain or by his command? Or both. She had to deal with the pain, the physical
pain, she had to absorb it, take it into herself, give herself to it. Let it
make her its slave. Which was what she was.
	"He . . ." She struggled to speak clearly, through the pain, through the
anguish. "He came into my room. He found me trying to tie myself up. He . . . he
knew right away. He knew everything. He . . . he just knew." She had to stop for
a minute, gasping for breath, gathering her strength. Trying to raise herself
again, but no, her legs weren't ready. She forced her mind away from her
tortured body. "He . . . he said he would do it for me. Tie me up. I . . . I
needed that. I craved it so much. To be helpless. So he did. Tied me down.
Helpless. Then he hurt me. Hurt my nipples. And I . . . I needed that too. And
then he took me. Raped me.  And after that . . . he owned me. I was his." She
was panting harshly.
	"He came into your room?" he queried. "How was that? Did he break into
your house or what?"	
	"No. He . . ." She was almost sobbing. There were tears in her eyes. She
made an effort to raise herself, but almost immediately sank down again. "He
lived there," she said, with a cry of torment. "He was my brother."
	For a moment he said nothing. Then he just said, "Go on."
	"I . . . I . . . What . . . "
	"You have another twenty minutes in that position, Pamela bitch," he
said. "Maybe more. I do enjoy watching your suffering. So you might as well pass
the time by telling me about it. Was he older than you, or younger?"
	"He . . . a year older," she whispered.
	"And his name was David. What kind of things did he do to you?"
	She closed her eyes, but the tears still dropped from them. With all the
strain wracking her body she had to force herself to keep her head upright to
avoid the terrible pull on her scalp. "Oh god . . . everything," she panted. "He
did everything. I was . . . he could do anything he wanted. He had sex with me
every day. Sometimes more. Every way. He hurt me to make me do it, but . . . but
he didn't have to hurt me. He just owned me. But he liked to hurt me, and I . .
. I liked it too. He would beat me with his belt. He would make me beg him to
beat me and to take me. To let me do things to him. He . . . he made me have sex
with his friends sometimes. He liked to show me off, to show his power over me.
Twice he made me have sex with one of his teachers so they wouldn't flunk him in
their class. He . . . he always said he was going to make me do it with my
father. Our parents didn't know, they never even suspected what was going on.
But he said my daddy would fuck me in a minute if he got the chance, and he said
he was going to see that he did. Oh god, if he told me to I would have done it,
I would have fucked my daddy, I would have done anything. Oh god. Oh god. He
just owned me, like a toy." She opened her eyes now, sobbing in earnest. "He
called me fucktoy," she said chokingly. "Fucktoy. That's what I was. I loved
that name, it made me crazy. Fucktoy. . . "
	"Fucktoy," he repeated. "Yes. That's a good name for you, Pamela cunt.
Because that's still what you are. Isn't it?"
	"Yes," she sobbed out. "Yes. Yes . . ."
	"Yes, Sir." he said.
	"Yes, Sir."
	He got up and moved toward her. "All right, fucktoy," he said. "You can
tell me more later. Now you can spend the rest of your time there sucking me off
again."
	He stood over her and put his stiff cock into her gasping, sobbing
mouth. Because he had already come three times that day, he was in no hurry to
come again, and he slowly fucked her mouth as he continued to enjoy her strain
and suffering for another fifteen minutes. When he finally released her, still
leaving her hands fastened behind her, she rolled spastically around on the
floor, her body twisting, her legs thrashing, and begged him for permission to
come. He said no.
                                       #
	He left her lying there on the floor, naked, hands fettered, aching and
aroused, while he went off to take care of some business. Even without the use
of her hands she knew she could make herself come if she dared, but she didn't.
Somehow he would know. Besides, he had ordered her not to. So she couldn't. He
was gone for an over an hour. When she calmed down she turned on her side and
tried to go to sleep, but although her body was exhausted, it was impossible.
	"We'll be going out for dinner this evening," he told her when he
returned. "You'll have to look presentable. You're filthy from crawling around
the kitchen floor, and rolling around and sweating like a pig. What a disgusting
mess. You need to take a shower, fucktoy."
	He still left her hands cuffed as he escorted her to the bathroom. There
was a large tub, with a rubber mat on the bottom and a showerhead at one end. He
helped her into the tub, then adjusted the moveable shower head and turned on
the water. The cold water.
	She shrieked as the icy spray hit her full-blast. She turned her back on
it and tried to step out of range, but he followed her with the shower head.
God, it was cold! She turned again and tried awkwardly to get out of the tub,
but instead fell to her knees on the rubber mat. He kept the water trained on
her. Shrieking and blubbering, she slid onto her side and then lay full-length
on the bottom of the bathtub, thrashing helplessly as he played the ice-cold
water over the length of her body. She maneuvered herself frantically onto her
stomach, and then onto her back, her legs kicking wildly, her arms straining
futilely at the cuffs that bound her wrists as she rolled over and over in a
desperate effort to find relief from the tormenting stream.
	At last he turned the water off, and she lay still, shivering and
moaning against the white tile. He reached down and pulled her up, then helped
her out of the tub. He got a large bath towel and started to dry her off. He was
grinning.
	"Not the kind of punishment you expected, huh, fucktoy?" he said. "Well,
consider yourself lucky. I could have given you the hot water instead of the
cold. Maybe next time I will."
                                #
	Her tiny skirt was still wearable, but her torn blouse was not. He
rummaged around and came up with something else for her to wear: A thin, light
brown pullover that stretched so tightly over her bosom that it looked as though
she would burst out of it at any moment. It lovingly molded every curve and
contour of her breasts, and clearly defined the little protuberances of her
nipples. He uncuffed her hands long enough to allow her to put it on, along with
the skirt. Then he fastened them behind her again, but instead of the cuffs he
tied them securely with a thin strip of cloth. She wondered if he really meant
to take her out in public that way, and if so, how she would be expected to eat;
but she said nothing.
	She soon had the answer to the first question He found a light coat
sweater and hung it over her shoulders, buttoning the top button at her throat
to keep it in place. It covered her arms and hands, and no one looking at her
casually would realize that they were tied behind her. He looked her over
carefully and nodded, then  put his hands on her breasts and gave her nipples a
hard pinch. Pain and desire throbbed through her, and she knew those nipples
were stiffening rapidly. "Let's go," he said.
	They got into his truck and he drove to the restaurant. She was
surprised that they seemed to be closer to some urban amenities than she had
thought. The restaurant was a neighborhood place, not too fancy but fairly
crowded. She was very self-conscious, and the attention she attracted as they
walked in did nothing to stop the fearful beating of her heart, or to diminish
the stiffness of her nipples, or the moistness between her legs. She was aware
that men were goggling at her avidly as she went by, some of them turning around
for a long look at her legs or gazing hungrily at her thrusting, jiggling
breasts beneath the tight pullover.
"Enjoying yourself, fucktoy?" he whispered to her.
Her voice was breathless. "It's...it's humiliating...."
"And it makes you hot, you filthy slut," he said.
She said nothing.
       The headwaiter gave them a table away from most of the other diners, but
one which allowed them to be seen by them. She wondered if he had set this up in
advance. People were still looking at her. She tried to sit down carefully,
holding herself erect in her chair so that her pulled-back arms would not be
uncovered. Seated, her skirt was drawn back even further over her thighs. The
waiter's eyes kept dropping to her breasts as he put the menus on the table. She
glanced down and saw that her nipples were poking out the material in little
spikes.
       He ordered steaks for both of them, and the waiter went away slowly. Most
of the customers seemed to have gone back to their food, content with occasional
glances at her, but some of the men were still watching her.
       "There's a guy across the room who's crazy about your legs," he said to
her. "If you slide forward a little bit, he'll be able to see just about all of
them."
She swallowed..
"Do it, fucktoy," he said.
	She felt herself flushing deeply, but she moved forward in her chair,
and her skirt pulled up almost to her crotch. He grinned. "There'll be a lot of
guys here thinking about you when they screw their wives tonight," he said.
	As they waited for their food she began to feel uncomfortable in her
erect position, but she was reluctant to move around too much for fear that
someone would realize that her hands were tied. Her slight twitchings and
squirmings only seemed to add to his enjoyment of the situation.
       Finally the waiter brought their steaks, his eyes again devouring her
blatantly displayed body, while trying vainly not to be too obvious about it.
When he had finished asking if they wanted anything else, and trying a few more
delaying tactics, and had gone away again, she looked at him helplessly. "How am
I going to eat, Sir?" she asked.
	He was busily cutting his steak up into bite-sized pieces. "With your
mouth," he said calmly.
"What...what do you mean?"
	He went on cutting the steak, and when he finished he took her plate and
put his in front of her. "There you go," I said. "all ready for you. All you
have to do is bend over, pick up a bite in your mouth and chew it up. Just like
you did in my kitchen, remember?."
       She stared at him, her eyes wide. "I--But . . ." she stammered.
       He looked at her. "You're not refusing an order, are you, Pamela cunt?"
"I--No." She swallowed. "No, Sir. But everyone will--"
	"Yes," he said, smiling. "That's the idea. To show them what a little
animal you are. A little animal slave bitch. Now do it."
"Oh god," she whispered.
"Eat!" he said. "Now!"
	She looked wildly around, then took a deep, shuddering breath and bent
over her plate. She swiftly picked up a bite of meat with her teeth, and then
straightened up with it in her mouth. Her face was flaming.
       "That's a good little piggy," I said. "Now chew it up and swallow it, and
you can have another one."
       She could see that a lot of people were staring at her now, having seen
or been told by their companions what she had done. It took her a long time to
chew the bite, but she finally got it down.
"Now take another one."
       She made a little whimpering noise, but after a second she bent her head
to her plate again and snared a second bite. A low buzz went around the
restaurant, and through a haze of humiliation she saw their waiter conferring
worriedly with one of his colleagues.
       After she had taken the third bite, the waiter came over to the table,
looking a little nervous. "Excuse me, sir," he said politely. "Is
there...ah...anything wrong?"
       "No," he said. "Everything is very good."
       The waiter nodded doubtfully. "Is...ah...the young lady all right?"
       "The young lady is fine," he said. "Her hands are incapacitated at the
moment, so she's using her mouth instead. The young lady is very good with her
mouth," he added.
       Oh god, she thought. Oh dear god.
       The waiter, who was a dark-complexioned young man in his late twenties,
looked at him sharply, as if to see if he could have meant what he seemed to
mean. She couldn't look up from her plate. "Her . . . hands? . . ." the waiter
said inquiringly.
       "They're tied," he said. "Behind her back."
       Without looking, she could feel the waiter staring at her. The moment
seemed to go on forever. "I see," the waiter said finally. She realized she was
breathing hard.
       "Actually, what the young lady needs," he said to the waiter, "is a place
where she can kneel on the floor, and use her mouth . . . properly. Would you
have such a place here, perhaps?"
       The waiter hesitated only a moment. "I think we may be able to be of
service, sir," he said. "If you and the young lady will follow me . . ."
       He got up and motioned to her. The waiter held her chair politely as she
rose. Her breathing was quick and shallow as they followed the waiter to the
back of the restaurant, and through a door into the kitchen, where several
people were working. Beyond that, he led them into a small room that was
evidently used as a pantry, with cans and boxes of food stored on shelves along
the walls. When they were inside, the waiter closed the door and slid a bolt.
       "Will this be satisfactory, sir?" he asked.
       "This is fine," he said. "Now if you would care to make use of the young
lady's mouth . . ."
       "I certainly would, sir," the waiter said.
       "Kneel down, Pamela slut," he said to her.
       "If you don't mind, sir--" the waiter said hastily. His hands made a
tentative but eager movement toward her tightly outlined breasts. "May I?"
       "Please do," he said.
       She closed her eyes as the waiter's hands came to rest greedily on her
protruding bosom, but the watching man ordered her to keep them open, and she
did. For several moments the waiter played with her breasts, rubbing and
caressing, squeezing and palpitating, testing the hardness of the nipples.
Pamela stood motionless except for her heavy breathing, which sounded loud in
the little room.
       "Thank you, sir," the waiter said. "I am ready now."
       He nodded to her, and she sank to her knees on the floor.
       The waiter unzipped his trousers and released a quite sizeable pole,
which sprang fully erect into the air. Pamela brought her head forward and took
it into her mouth.
       She began to suck him slowly and thoroughly. As her head bobbed up and
down, she could hear the sound of him panting above her.
       "I told you she was good with her mouth," the watching man said.
       "Oh yes, sir," the waiter moaned. "She is, indeed....Oh yes,
indeed....Ohh she is...wonderful....Ohhh...Ahhh...Ah yes...Ohh yes!..."
       Pamela obediently continued to pleasure him, her head gradually moving
faster over his rock-hard cock. When she sensed that he was close to the end,
she heard the watching man say, "The young lady would be obliged if you would
come in her face."
       "Of course, sir," the waiter said chokingly. And a moment later, he
pulled his cock out of her mouth and with a small cry shot several spurts of
semen directly into her eyes. Pamela didn't move.
       "Very good," the watching man said. "No, don't get up, Pamela slut.
You're not finished yet. Not by a long shot. Tell me, young man, how many other
male employees are there on duty this evening?"
       "Well, there are two more waiters, sir," was the reply. "And two busboys.
And the chef, of course. And one of his assistants, I believe."
       "Do you think you could arrange for them, discreetly, to come back here,
one by one, and enjoy the lady's favors as you did?"
       "I don't think there would be much of a problem about that, sir," the
waiter said.
       "Good. Please do so. I can see I'm going to have to leave a large tip
this evening."
       The waiter left, and returned a minute later with one of the busboys. He
was somewhat bemused by the situation, but showed no reluctance in bringing out
his penis and letting her suck it, and he too, on request, ejaculated all over
her face. He was followed by the roster of employees the waiter had mentioned.
Pamela stayed on her knees throughout, and she sucked off each of them in turn,
and took their come on her face. She was still sucking the last one when the
watching man left, saying that he wanted to go back and finish his steak before
it got cold. When the last one left, the waiter returned for a repeat
performance. When he finished he helped her to her feet and told her that the
gentleman was waiting for her at their table. She asked him if he would please
wipe her face for her, but he refused.
       She went back to the table, her knees dirty from the pantry floor and her
face covered with sperm. She couldn't look at the other diners. She sat down
tremblingly, breathing hard. "He wouldn't let me wipe my face," she got out.
       "I told him not to," he said, smiling. "All right, fucktoy. You did well.
We can leave now." He stood up and put some money on the table.
       "My face..." she said apprehensively.
       "It looks beautiful," he said. "Let's go."
       "Ohhh..." But she got up, and, looking straight ahead of her, her breasts
bobbing, her bare legs soiled, and her face dripping with come, she walked with
him through the restaurant, past all the tables of gawking, gaping diners and
out into the street.
       Once outside he pulled out a handkerchief. "I'll wipe your face off now,
fucktoy," he said. Carefully, he cleaned the still-wet sperm from her features,
being sure to get every drop. Then he told her to open her mouth. When she
obeyed, he stuffed the handkerchief into it.
       "There," he said. "Now you can suck on that all the way home."
	And she did.
		                       #
	When they got home he took the binding cloth from her wrists, had her
strip, then used the cuffs to resecure her hands behind her. Then he took her
into his bedroom. "It's been a long day for you, fucktoy," he told her. "I'm
sure you're tired. You need a good night's rest to prepare you for tomorrow's
delights." Something in his voice told her that her night would be anything but
restful, and she was right.
	He led her to the end of the bed, where there was a high footboard that
came up to just below her waist. Turning her so that she faced the bed, he had
her spread her legs, then tied each of her ankles to the bottom of a corner
bedpost, using stout cord to secure them. There was another of his ubiquitous
rope and pulley devices hanging from the ceiling just above, and he tied the end
of that rope to the chain of her cuffs. When he pulled on it, her arms were
drawn up painfully behind her, putting such a strain on her shoulders that she
was forced to bend forward, over the footboard. He continued to pull until she
thought her shoulders would surely be dislocated, or her arms ripped from their
sockets. By the time he tied off the rope, she was bent over as far as she could
go, her arms pulled up almost vertically behind her, her hips pushed tightly
against the footboard, her breasts hanging freely, her face pressing into the
bed. She was moaning and whimpering with the pain and strain in her arms and
shoulders, but she was so helpless, so defenseless, so utterly vulnerable, that
a part of her rejoiced in her captivity, and in her suffering. Captivity and
suffering was what she was for.
	"Are you comfortable, Pamela bitch?" he said. "You look very nice that
way, fucktoy. Very tempting, with your ass sticking out like that. Reminds me
that I haven't fucked it yet. But I think we'll leave that till the morning,
when we're both fresher. For now I'll just give it a few kisses with the cane,
to stimulate me so I'll have pleasant dreams about hurting you further." He went
to a closet and took out an object, then moved into her line of vision to show
it to her. It was a thin bamboo cane, and when he swung it back and forth a few
times it made a wicked whistling sound. Her stomach turned over.
	He smiled and walked around behind her. She closed her eyes, tensing.
She heard the whistle almost at the same time that she felt the cane slash
viciously across her buttocks. It was agony of a somewhat different quality from
that of the rope she'd been whipped with earlier, but it was agony nonetheless,
and it was enhanced by the sharp harrowing pain in her shoulders as her body
jerked  reflexively under the blow.
	Again the whistle, and the spasm of her body in its limited position,
and the shriek of anguish she couldn't keep down. Again the cane slashed into
her ass, and again. Then a blow on the back of her thighs, and another. She was
sobbing and biting at the bedclothes to stifle her squalling. Then he stopped
and put his hand between her legs. She knew it came away wet. He moved around
and held his dripping fingers to her face. "Taste this," he said.
	She turned her head and took the fingers into her mewling mouth and
sucked off her own juices.
	He dropped the cane then and took off his clothes, then got onto the
bed. He moved down so that his erect cock was under her mouth. "You know what to
do, fucktoy," he said.
	She did. She took him into her tired mouth and sucked him off through
her pain. When he had come and watched her swallow his sperm,  he said, "Keep my
cock in your mouth, Pamela cunt. I'll expect to find it there when I wake up."
And with that he composed himself for sleep.
	The night went by slowly. The unrelenting ache in her straining arms and
shoulders became unbearable, and yet she bore it. She had no choice. And she
didn't want a choice. Her exhausted body begged for sleep, even in her stringent
position, but she was afraid he would wake up and find that his penis had
slipped from her lips. Still, she did drop off briefly from time to time.
Fortunately, she was awake when he stirred at one point in the middle of the
night, and woke to announce that he had to take a piss.
	"I don't feel like getting up," he said, yawning. "So you can be my
toilet, cocksucker. Take it all down now, and don't spill one damn drop on my
bed, you hear me?" And with that he began to piss in her mouth.
	She drank it. She held her lips tightly around the base of his penis so
that nothing could escape, and fought off her desire to gag as his foul-tasting
piss streamed into her throat and filled her mouth. She forced herself to gulp
it down, praying she would not choke, and kept swallowing and swallowing it as
it came, until he was finished. Then he went back to sleep.
	She still held his cock in her mouth. She was his toilet.
                                   #
	He did not release her in the morning. He got up and went about what
seemed to be his morning routine, leaving her still painfully bent over his bed
with her aching arms in the air. He returned finally, still naked.
	"Good morning, fucktoy," he said. He picked up the cane and gave her one
quick hard slash across the buttocks. She yelled. "Just a little wake-up call,
Pamela slut," he said, dropping the switch again. "And now, since you are in
such a perfect and tempting position,  I'm going to fuck that fine sweet slut
ass of yours. Would you like that, you little pain-loving, piss-drinking twat?"
	"Yes, Sir," she whispered hoarsely. What else could she say?
	"Well, we'll see," he said. He came up behind her and put his hands on
her ass cheeks, spreading them apart. Then she felt the head of his hard cock
pressing against her anus. She held her breath, biting at her lip.
	He didn't bother with lubrication. He just pushed his way in, forcing
himself brutally past her instinctively clenching sphincter, then ramming
himself up into her tight narrow passage with a series of powerful thrusts,
battering at her body. Her pinioned arms wrenched agonizingly at her shoulder
muscles with each lunge, and though she pressed her face against the bed, she
could not stifle the cries and squalling noises that came from her mouth. He
bent over her and his hands moved around to clutch at her hanging breasts,
squeezing them and vising the nipples, holding on to them as he thrust at her.
As much as he was hurting them, as terrible as was the torment of her shoulders,
which she was certain must now be dislocated, the pain of his unprepared and
unrelenting invasion into her small resistant back passage seemed even worse.
She closed her eyes and willed herself to endure it, even as she felt herself
responding to it, felt her helpless tortured body reaching out to it, coiling
and tightening and opening itself to it... Oh god, no, she thought. I can't
come. Oh please god no. I can't. Please. I can't...
	She did.
	Immediately he stopped moving. He straightened up and pulled out of her,
then stepped back and stood watching the helpless spasming of her pinioned body.
	"I'm sorry," she sobbed, when she had caught her breath. "I'm sorry,
Sir. I couldn't--I didn't mean to--I'm--"
	"Shut up, twat," he said. "You came without permission. That was direct
disobedience."
	"I'm sorry!" Pamela pleaded. "I couldn't help it! It just--"
	With one swift motion he picked up the cane from the floor and brought
it down viciously across her back. She screamed.
	"Shut up, I said. From now on I don't want to hear a word from your
cock-sucking piss-drinking cunt mouth unless I ask you a question, you got
that?" He moved to a table by the bed and opened a drawer, taking out a small
packet, along with a book of matches. Her eyes widened when he opened the packet
and drew out a small thin cigar.  Putting it into his mouth, he struck a match
and slowly and deliberately lit the cigar, watching her face.
	"Maybe this will teach you proper manners, fucktoy," he said. "As well
as maybe putting some life into that lazy ass of yours."
	Her breath quickened as he moved behind her again. Her mouth was dry.
She held her breath, half expecting to feel the burning heat of his cigar
against her buttocks. But what she felt was his cock again plunging brutally up
her ass. He didn't stop until he was all the way inside her, his hips against
her backside, her arms strained to the utmost, the footrail cutting into her
stomach to add to her torment.
	"Come on, Pamela cunt," he gritted. "Move that ass for me, cocksucker."
	She tried, but there was no way she could move. The best she could do
was to twitch a little, trying to flex her thighs and buttocks for him. The
movement was tiny and barely noticeable, but even so it put further strain on
her arms and added to her pain.
	"You pathetic bitch," he said. "All right, let's see if this will help."
Holding the cigar in his right hand, he brought it around to the front of her
torso and touched the tip lightly to the side of her dangling breast.
	She screamed and reflexively tried to jerk away, sending a wave of agony
through her body.
	"Well, that's a little better," he said. "Did that hurt, Pamela bitch?
Let's do it again, shall we?" And again he placed the glowing cigar briefly
against her breast. Another scream, another painful spasm as she tried vainly to
move away.
	"Oh yes, that does hurt, doesn't it, Pamela? Oh, but it feels real good
to me. Do that again, cocksucker." This time the cigar did more than touch her
breast; it remained there for several seconds, while Pamela howled, her body
convulsing sharply within the limits of its bonds.
	"Oh, that really hurts, right, fucktoy?" he panted. "Oh yes, that's
wicked, isn't it?" He moved the cigar away long enough to flick the ashes from
the tip, then brought it back. "Let's try the other one now, okay?"
	Searing pain as the burning cigar found her other breast. She was lost
now in a mist of pain, through which she dimly heard herself screaming and
shrieking, dimly yet clearly heard his words as he savored the enforced
writhings and squrmings of her ass around his cock. "You gonna come now, Pamela
shit? You gonna disobey me again, hmm?" Another burn. "Ahh, yes, that was a bad
one, huh, fucktoy. But you like to be hurt, cunt, remember? So just think of
them as hot little kisses. Hot burning kisses all over your sweet fucktoy tits."
And the cigar continued to kiss her, moving from one breast to another, touching
lightly, then more lengthily, grazingly then searingly, while her helplessly
jerking, bucking body brought him closer to culmination. And then, when he was
ready to come, he jammed the cigar directly onto her nipple and ground it out
slowly but firmly against the cringing, quivering flesh. She had screamed
herself hoarse again, but another loud guttural shriek forced itself from her
throat as he shot everything he had into her torturously twisting ass.
                                    #
	When he released her he told her she would be allowed her to clean
herself up, and then get some rest. "I'm having some guests for lunch today," he
told her. "I want to show them my latest plaything. You will be putting on a
little exhibition of obedience for them, to show them what a low, crawling slut
you are. Among other things, you will be required to fuck the guest of honor.
Now go take a bath."
	There were about half a dozen guests, all men. She was naked. She was
not tied, but she was on her hands and knees, forbidden to rise. As each man
arrived, she was ordered to crawl to him and kiss his feet. When they were
seated around the lunch table, their host gave her the same instructions as he
had the day before. Even after her rest, she was so sore and exhausted and
filled with pain that she could hardly move. It didn't matter. She still had to
crawl all over the room to retrieve the bits of food he threw. She still had to
eat them off the floor, with her mouth. The guests watched appreciatively,
complimenting the host on her docility. This time, instead of sucking him off
for dessert, she was ordered to suck off his guests. All of them, one after
another. Crawling from man to man under the table and swallowing their come.
	All this, she was made to understand, was a prelude to the main event,
in which she was to fuck the guest of honor. She wondered who the guest of honor
was, but knew better than to ask.
	It was after they had moved into the living room, and the men were
seated around, with Pamela still on all fours in the middle of the floor, that
the guest of honor was brought in. He was led in by the host on a leash, with a
collar around his neck. He was a large, black, fierce-looking Doberman dog.
Pamela stared in frozen shock as the other guests laughed and applauded.
	"This is King," the host said. "He's our guest of honor this afternoon,
and your lover, Pamela bitch. Because you are a bitch, aren't you, Pamela?"
	He was going to make her fuck a dog.
	She felt faint.
	He was waiting for an answer. She could hardly speak. "Yes," she got
out. Then, "Yes, Sir. I am."
	She was.
	"A fucking animal," he said. "A crawling dirt-eating worthless mongrel
animal bitch. Aren't you?"
	"Yes, Sir."
	"Tell us," he said.
	She was shaking. There were tears in her eyes. And there was a tiny
little worm squirming deep inside her, a perverse little worm that quickened her
breath and stiffened her nipples and moistened her crotch, a worm that fed on
degradation and humiliation, and grew as it fed, and demanded more.
	He was going to make her fuck a dog.
	A dog was going to fuck her.
	While they all watched.
	Degradation. God...
	"I am," she panted. "I am a fucking...crawling...worthless... animal
bitch. Yes. I am. Yes."
	Not even a person any more. An animal. A thing.
	The Doberman was straining at the leash, whining. "I think he likes you,
Pamela bitch," the man said. She could see the dog's big stiff red cock beneath
his belly as he reared up on his hind legs. "Or maybe it's just that he hasn't
been with another dog for a couple of weeks now." He advanced a few steps,
allowing the panting, eager beast to get closer. Fear made her cringe, but she
didn't move. "Turn around, bitch," he said.
	She turned on hands and knees, her ass now facing the dog. She was
shaking harder, and little whimpers came from her mouth along with the sound of
her heavy breathing. "Down on your elbows," he commanded. "Face on the floor.
Spread your knees, so King can get at you."
	Her face in the carpet. Her ass up in the air. Waiting to pleasure a
dog. To be a dog's plaything. That's all she was. And she could hear the men
murmuring and laughing, see them lean forward in their chairs to watch her
debasement. That's all she was. A naked, crouching, groveling object for their
pleasure. For the dog's pleasure.
	Now he brought the dog close enough to reach her with his mouth. She
felt King sniffing at her ass, felt his nose, his hairy face, felt his tongue
licking eagerly at her flesh. Her whimpers got louder. And now the host was
standing beside her, still holding the leash, standing on the other side of her
so he wouldn't block the view of the watching men, while the dog mounted her.
She cried out as his sharp paws slid across her skin, felt the weight of him on
her back, heavier than she had imagined, heard his panting, whining, growling
breath in her ear. Then his huge cock was stabbing blindly at her, sliding over
her flesh, poking at her backside as it attempted to find an entry point. The
men were laughing.
	"Help him, Pamela bitch," the host said. "Put him inside you."
	Dear god.
	She reached back, all the way back, groping, searching, until she found
the dog's member. He growled dangerously, pulling away as she curled her fingers
around it, but on the second try she managed to grasp it and bring it down to
her vagina. Once he felt the opening he needed no more guidance. With a shrill
yelp he lunged at her, burying himself inside her with one push.
	Her cry was as shrill as his. He was so large and thick that she was
afraid he would tear her insides as he immediately began to hump at her with
short but vicious strokes. He seemed to swell even larger inside her, stretching
her unbearably and battering at her wildly with his rapid-fire lunges. And still
the men laughing at her, enjoying the spectacle, savoring her pain and
degradation.
	It didn't last long. King yelped again, several times, as he poured his
canine sperm into her belly. His weight was even heavier on her after he came,
but he soon scrambled off her, his still swollen tool bringing another cry from
her as it tore out of her vagina.
	But it wasn't over.
	"King's not finished yet," the host said. "He usually likes to go two or
three times, at least. And it's been so long for him. But I'm sure he'd like a
little encouragement, Pamela bitch. Why don't you suck his cock for him."
	A murmur from the seated men.
	She couldn't believe it.
	Yes, she could.
	Suck the dog's cock. How low could he make her sink? What was next? Lick
the dog's asshole? Eat his shit? She would do it. Oh god, she would do it, she
would do anything, that was why she was here, that was what she was. God help
her.
	"Yes," she said. She didn't recognize her own voice. "I'll suck his cock
for him."
	"Turn over," he said. And she turned and lay down on her back, and the
dog stood over her, still panting, and she slid down until her face was under
his cock. It was not as large as it had been before he had fucked her, but it
was still red and shiny, and it twitched and throbbed, and there was moisture
oozing from the tip. And she raised her head and opened her mouth and took the
dog's cock into it.
	She held onto his legs as she sucked him, taking as much of him as she
could, sliding her lips back and forth, even licking him with her tongue. He
emitted a low, steady growl as she did it, and his cock swelled and stiffened.
	The worm inside her was a monster now, eating away at her, devouring her
mind and her soul and her very humanity, leaving her an empty shell, a lifeless,
brainless object who lived only for self-abasement, for suffering, for the
pleasure of others. Human and otherwise. The monster worm was her true lover,
and she surrendered to it utterly, feeling the familiar overwhelming lust rising
higher and higher as she sucked on the dog's filthy cock, and the host urged her
on with foul words, and the seated men laughed....
	But she must not come. She concentrated on not coming, and then the dog
was pulled away from her, and the host was pulling her up and sitting her in a
chair and pulling her legs apart, hooking them over the chair arms so the dog
could mount her frontally. And he did, standing on his hind legs with his body
pressed against her, his strong rough tongue swiping over her face, drooling on
her face as he again fucked her roughly and painfully, and she was crying and
moaning and twisting and trying not to come, trying so hard not to come, and
then he was finished again. And again she screamed as he finally pulled out of
her.
	"You want to come, don't you, dog-fucker?" the host said.
	She made a sound, unable to form words.
	"Tell me, bitch. Ask me. Nicely."
	She forced herself to speak. "Yes," she choked. "Yes, Sir. Please.
Please let me. Please."
	"Do it," he said.
	And she slid off the chair and rolled over on the floor and put her
hands between her legs and came, helplessly, convulsively, irresistibly, in
front of them all, came again and again, rocking back and forth and moaning and
gasping and coming, as if she would never stop.
	                              #     
	When she did stop the host asked the men if any of them wanted to fuck
her. But none of them wanted to follow the dog. So they put her in the bathtub
and all the men pissed on her before they left. The dog pissed on her too.
	                              #
	It was time for her to go home. She got herself cleaned up, and she put
on her little skirt and the small pullover he had given her, and he drove her to
the airport. Before she got out of the truck he told her he had a parting gift
for her, and he brought two small objects out of his pocket.
	Nipple clamps.
	Her throat tightened as she saw that they were the kind with tiny screws
set into them, to allow the pressure to be adjusted to whatever degree was
desired. Or required.
	"Aren't you going to thank me for the gift, fucktoy?" he said.
	"Thank you, Sir," she whispered.
	"You're welcome. Lift up your shirt."
	She pulled the snug top up over her breasts. Her nipples were already
stiffening with that combination of fright and anticipation she knew so well. He
fitted one of the clamps onto her left nipple and slowly turned the little
screw. The clamp grew tighter and tighter, and still tighter, until in spite of
her efforts to be stoic, she emitted a short, sharp cry and bent forward.
	"Straighten up, Pamela cunt," he said, and she did. Her breathing was
ragged. He gave the screw another half-turn, and a thin whining sound came from
between her tightly clenched teeth.
	"That should do it, I think," he said, and picked up the other one.
	This one was even worse, because her right nipple, the one that had been
burned, was still blistered and sore. But he set the screw just as tightly as
the other one. The pain throbbed through her whole body, and though she waited
for the worst of it, the first shock, to diminish, it only seemed to grow
stronger. She knew the pain was her lover, but right now it was a love-hate
relationship. Sometimes that love could be so cruel!
	"Now listen, Pamela slut," he was saying. "This is my last order to you.
You will not take those clamps off, you will not loosen them, you will not even
touch them, until after you get home. Or until after you get fucked, whichever
comes first. Do you understand me?" 	
	"Oh god..." she moaned. How could she...
	"What's that, slut?"
	She swallowed. "Yes, Sir."
	"Furthermore," he went on, "you will not come either. Until after you
get home, or after you get fucked. Understand?"
	"Yes, Sir."
	"One more thing." He took out a small cellular phone and gave it to her.
"When you do take them off, no matter where you are or what you are doing, I
want you to call me. My number is there. You will call me before you take them
off. I want to hear your cries of pain as the blood rushes back in. I look
forward to that."
	"Yes, Sir," she panted.
	"Now go," he said.
	                          #
	She was getting more strange looks than ever. No wonder. In addition to
the tiny skirt, the ultra-snug top now clearly outlined the shapes not only of
her breasts, but of the nipple clamps as well. She wondered how many of the
people who stared at her chest knew what they were. But she couldn't worry about
that. In a haze of pain she boarded the plane and found her seat. She looked out
the window, seeing nothing as the plane took off. Her shoulders were hunched,
and she twisted in the seat, unable to keep still. The agony was doing its thing
with her now, taking her over, her crotch was wet, but the terrible throbbing
never let up. She longed to at least touch the punishing clamps in a vague hope
of some tiny assuagement, but she did not. It was not allowed. She found herself
rubbing her legs together; oh god, yes, she wanted to come, she needed to come,
her cunt was throbbing in time with her nipples, the need rising with the
anguish. But it was not allowed. All she could do was try not to moan, try not
to squirm too noticeably. But she couldn't keep still, oh Christ... how much
time till she got home? Hours yet. Hours...
	"Are you all right, Miss?"
	"What?" It was the man next to her. She hadn't even noticed him when he
sat down. Hadn't noticed anything. How long had they been flying? Hours to go...
	"Is something wrong, Miss?" the man asked, looking at her curiously. Oh
Jesus. Looking at the odd shapes on her chest. At her legs. At her writhing,
twitching body.
	Then she heard the voice in her mind. "Until after you get home. Or
until after you get fucked."
	Oh god.
	But not him.
	He was fat. Really fat. And bald, and sweaty, and his teeth were bad.
No.
	"You look like you're sick, lady. You want me to call a stewardess?"
	"No. No thanks. No."
	Not him.
	Please not him.
	"Can I get you anything? A drink? Is there something you need?"
	Why not? she thought. He was perfect. He was what she deserved. He was
disgusting, and she was a filthy cunt. She had fucked a dog. This man was at
least human. He was more than she deserved.
	"Yes," she said. "Yes. I need your cock."
	He stared at her. "What?"
	"I need your cock,' she said, panting now. "I need you to fuck me.
Please. Please, I'm begging you. Don't you want to fuck me? I'll be good for
you. I swear, I'll do anything you want. Please fuck me. Please."
	"Jesus Christ!" the man said. He looked like he'd been poleaxed. "Jesus,
lady, I...I mean...shit...how? Where?"
	"The bathroom," she said. "Come on. Come on." She pushed at him and he
got up. She squeezed past him, remembering at the last minute to take the little
cell phone with her, and led the way to the lavatories in the back of the plane.
She didn't care who was watching or what they thought. She couldn't think about
that. She only knew she needed to do this, she needed it like she needed her
breath.
	He was so fat that the two of them could barely squeeze into the tiny
lavatory. She gave a cry of pain as he pressed up against her, crushing her
tormented breasts. There was no room to lie down, and she didn't see how they
could do it standing up. She was backed up against the little iron sink, with
its midget counter surface, and now desperately she hoisted herself up on the
edge of it. With him standing, the height was right. With a groan she pulled up
her skirt and spread her legs wide. "Do it," she panted. "Come on, you bastard.
Do it to me."
	He fumbled at his zipper and managed to get it down, and to pull his
cock out. It was hard, and as ugly as the rest of him. She pulled him to her. He
reached out his hands to put them on her breasts. "No!" she cried, suddenly
hitting out at him, even kicking at him. He backed off as much as he could,
bewildered. "Don't touch me," she gasped, almost sobbing now. "Don't fucking
touch me. Just fuck me. Please. Come on. Oh god, please."
	He moved close to her again, his hand on his cock, guiding it to her
crotch. Even so she had to help him find her. She was sopping wet and he went in
without any trouble. She groaned loudly and pushed back at him. The pain was
worse than ever, but she belonged to it now, she loved it without reservation,
and if it was cruel to her she wanted that cruelty, she needed it, she craved
it. And this strange disgusting man was fucking her and she was coming, not for
him but for her lover the pain, coming, she was CHRIST...
	She screamed so loud that she thought the passengers must have heard,
but she didn't care now. The man was coming too now, and as he spurted into her
she climaxed again. She had a third orgasm as he withdrew from her, but when he
started to say something she just yelled at him to get out. Looking more
bewildered, and more unattractive, than ever, he hastily zipped himself up and
left the bathroom.
	She slid off the counter, but her legs wouldn't hold her and she sank to
the floor, where she lay almost in a foetal position, panting, a diminishing
series of mini-climaxes shuddering through her. She had been fucked. Yes, thank
god, now she could remove the clamps. But no. First she had to call him. Call
him so he could hear her pain when she took them off. His last order.
	She found the phone on the floor and picked it up. With shaking fingers
she pushed the buttons. A pause, then the ringing. Two rings, three. Then he
answered.
	"Hello?"
	"It's me," she breathed. "Pamela. Sir."
	She could hear him chuckle. "I knew you wouldn't make it home, fucktoy.
You got someone to fuck you on the plane?"
	"Yes. Yes, Sir."
	"Where are you now?"
	"I'm--I'm in the bathroom. Sir. On the floor."
	"Tell me about it."
	She did. She told him everything. She knew he could hear the anguish in
her voice, the pain, the degradation.
	"Very good, Pamela slut," he said when she had finished. "And now I
suppose you want to take the clamps off."
	"Yes, Sir. Please. Please."
	"All right. Keep the phone to your mouth so I can hear you."
	She tried to keep the phone in place with her shoulder as she lifted up
her top, but the involuntary twitchings and twistings of her body made her
fearful of dropping it, so she held it with one hand and used the other to
unscrew the clamps. It was more difficult that way, and more painful, but she
did it. As she loosened the first screw and drew the clamp away, the unexpected
severity of the pain as the blood rushed back to her nipple did indeed cause her
to scream into the phone. She writhed on the floor, clutching her breast, and
now she was frightened of loosening the other one. But of course she had to.
Again her cry of agony echoed around the little room, and now, having satisfied
his desire to hear her pain, she dropped the phone and rolled over on the floor,
coming again.
	When she picked up the phone again he was still there. "That was very
gratifying, Pamela," he said. "Excellent."
	"Thank you, Sir." Panting,
	"I would like you to come to me again, Pamela," he said then.
"Unfortunately, I will not be here next weekend, but the weekend after is free.
I would like you to come to me then. Will you do that?"
	For a long moment she could not speak. She felt faint. She felt fear,
terror, even panic. But she knew what her answer would be.
	"Yes, Sir," she said finally. "I will."
	"Good," he said. "I will be looking forward to it."
	"Thank you, Sir."
	"Oh, one more thing, fucktoy," he said.
	"Yes, Sir?"
	"You may call me Master now."	  

                           II
                     AFTER THE WEEKEND

	She had been back for three days and she still ached. Her whole body
ached, but especially her nipples. The right one, which had been burned before
he had put the clamp on it, throbbed with every beat of her heart. Sometimes she
couldn't tell whether it was her heart beating or the steady throbbing that was
keeping her alive. Because she was feeling more alive than she had for a long
time. Because of the constant aching. The residue of the pain.
	And the memories.
	Gradually, over the days, the pain had subsided. The ache was fading.
	The memories would not.
	God. She had let herself in for it again, what she had kept at bay for
so long. Her own particular hell. Or paradise.
	Both.
	And now she was in it, and didn't know if she could get out again.
	Or if she wanted to.
	She came home from work and went into the bedroom to change. Took off
her blouse, skirt, and bra, reaching for the soft pullover and faded jeans she
would wear for her planned evening at home. But she stopped. The air felt good
on her aching nipples. She was sharply aware of the steady throbbing. Keeping
her alive.
	Her eyes went to the little drawer in her night table.
	No, she thought.
	She was going back to him for another weekend. Not this weekend, but the
next. So she had promised. The thought tightened her throat, made butterflies in
her stomach. She had promised.
	Wait till then, she thought.
	It seemed like a long time.
	Wait.
	Her hand went to the knob on the little drawer.
	She pulled it open.
	There they were. The clamps. The ones he had put on her nipples before
she left. The ones he had told her not to take off until she got home. Or until
she fucked somebody. And of course she had obeyed.
	They were so wicked.
	No, she thought.
	Her nipples were hard.
	Throbbing.
	Don't, she thought. Wait.
	She started to close the drawer. But she didn't.
	A tiny whimper came from her throat.
	Just one, she thought.
	No.
	Just for a little while. A few minutes. That's all.
	Don't.
	She closed the drawer. She was panting. She opened it again.
	She picked up one of the clamps. Her hand was unsteady.
	Doomed, she thought.
	She put the saw-toothed clamp over her right nipple and turned the
little screw.
	She turned it until she cried out.
	Then she gave it another half-turn.
	As he would.
	She sank to her knees and bent over, rocking.
	The throbbing filled her now.
	Filled her with pain.
	With agony.
	With life.
	She fell onto her side and put her hands between her legs.
	                              #
	She had stopped coming and was lying on the bedroom floor, trying to
recover her breath, when the doorbell rang.
	Oh god.
	"Who is it?" she called, making an effort to sound calm.
	"Pam? It's Gretchen."
	"Oh. Okay. Hold on a minute, Gretch, okay? I'm--I'm in the john."
	"Okay."
	Long breaths. Swiftly she pulled on her jeans, then the pullover. It
took some effort.
	She didn't take off the clamp.
	She wiped sweat from her face as she went to the door.
	"Hey, Pam, I just came over to ask you about--" Gretchen stopped and
stared at her. "Hey, what's wrong?"
	"Nothing," she said. Her voice didn't sound normal, she knew. "Nothing,
come on in."
	Gretchen kept looking at her as she entered the apartment. "Pammy, you
look--Pammy, what the hell's going on?"
	She started to speak, then just shook her head. There was no hiding it.
Not from Gretchen.
	"Wait a minute," Gretchen said. "Did I interrupt something? You got a
guy in here?"
	She shook her head again.
	"Well, what?" Gretchen said. "It's something. I know you. Oh Christ,
you're into that again, aren't you? You're hurting. Oh Jesus, Pam. You got
something..."
	Pamela nodded. She knew the agony was in her eyes. She also knew they
were shining.
	"What?" Gretchen said. "What is it, for god's sake?"
	Pamela lifted up the loose pullover.
	"Oh, Jesus H. Christ!" Gretchen said.
	"Gretch..." She was breathless.
	"Take that thing off," Gretchen said.
	Pamela shook her head.
	"Okay," Gretchen said. "I'm leaving."
	"No."
	"Pamela--"
	"Gretchen, please."
	"No way."
	"Gretchen, remember..."
	"Yeah, I remember. No way, Pam."
	"You used to enjoy it."
	"That was a long time ago. When David was alive."
	"You used to like it."
	"Not any more."
	"Please, Gretch."
	"Pammy--Jesus--"
	"Please."
	Gretchen stared at her as she stood there, still holding the top above
her breasts. Her body swaying, shivering, her breath coming hard. Gretchen
looked at her breasts. After a minute she moved forward and reached out,
touching the breast with the clamp on it. Her hand moved to the nipple and
fondled the clamp. Then her fingers closed around the clamp and twisted it hard.
	Pamela screamed loudly and fell to her knees.
	"You bitch," Gretchen said.
	"Yes, Gretch. Yes. Yes."
	Gretchen reached down and slapped the clamped breast with all her force.
Pamela screamed again.
	"Fucking twisted cunt."
	"Yes," Pamela whimpered.
	Gretchen took the belt out of the jeans she was wearing. Then she took
the jeans off. Then her panties. She spread her legs wide, then took hold of
Pamela's hair and pulled her face into her crotch. As Pamela began to do what
she wanted, she raised the belt and brought it down on the moaning girl's back.
                                   #
	"I'm going to get you for this," Gretchen said.
	"For what, Gretch?" They were lying naked on the bed, both spent and
languorous. She had taken off the clamp. The throbbing was worse, there were new
aches, and she was still alive. "For giving you pleasure? For giving you a
chance to do what you love to do? For making you feel better than you probably
have in years?"
	"For dragging me back in," Gretchen said. "Maybe you want to let this
sickness take over your life again, but I don't. It's like I was sober for
years, and you gave me a drink. That's evil, Pam. And I'm going to pay you
back."
	She felt like laughing. She was almost giddy. "How are you going to do
that, Gretch? What can you do to me that I won't enjoy?"
	"I know where Brad Golub is," Gretchen said.
	There was a long silence.
	"So what?" Pamela said at last.
	"I'll tell him where you are," Gretchen said.
	Another silence.
	"Go ahead," Pamela said. "Tell him."
	                              #  
	He was waiting for her that Friday when she came home from work.
	When she turned on the lights and saw him she almost fell down. But she
forced herself to appear cool. "Hello, Brad," she said.
	"I hear you're back in the game, Pamela," he said.
	Cool. "In the first place, Brad, it's not a game for me. It never was.
In the second place, I'm not back in anything. But I am involved with someone.
So I'm not available, if that's what you're thinking."
	"Sure you are, Pamela. Don't shit a shitter. You're a shit-ass piece of
pussy who'll crawl over ground glass to eat my turds. Isn't that right, crud
cunt?"
	"Go to hell, Brad," Pamela said. She knew he could see how his words
were making her breathe faster.
	"If I do, you'll come with me, shitface," Brad said. "But don't worry, I
don't want to own your filthy ass. I just want a little good dirty fun with you,
like your fucking fart brother wouldn't let me have. You remember that, turd
breath? He'd whore you out to every fucking guy in school, but not me. And you
know why, don't you, pig tits?"
	"Brad--"
	"Sure you do. Because I could get to you like even he couldn't. I could
take you away from him in a fucking heartbeat, I could make you do things he
couldn't even imagine. Isn't that right, you fucking whore cunt? Isn't it?"
	"I'm not doing this," Pamela said as evenly as she could. "I'm not
getting into this with you, Brad. I'm not."
	Brad smiled.
	"I'm seeing someone else," Pamela said.
	"Strip for me, Pam," Brad said.
	"He is my Master, all right? I'm seeing him again next weekend. I'm not
available, Brad. Please understand."
	"Come over here and stand in front of me and take off your clothes,"
Brad said. "Then get down on your knees and take my cock out. Then ask me if you
can suck it for me. Then do it very slowly. And when I come, pull it out and
take my come all over your face. Then clean my cock off with your hair. Then
kiss my feet. And we'll go on from there. Do it, whore."
	"No," Pamela said. "Please leave, Brad." She went into the bedroom and
closed the door behind her. She sat on the bed and closed her eyes and hugged
herself tightly, rocking on the bed. She sat there for fifteen minutes. Then she
got up, went to the door and opened it. Brad was still sitting in the living
room. She went over and stood in front of him. Then she took off her clothes.
All of them. Then she went down on her knees and took out his cock. She asked
him if she could suck it. He made her beg for it before he said yes. She sucked
him as slowly and as skilfully as she could, and when he came she took it all
over her face. Then she cleaned off his cock with her hair, and then she kissed
his feet.
	And they went on from there.	
	                            #      
	She awoke to the sound of screaming.
	It was loud, female, and obviously agonized. It assaulted her eardrums
and made her head ache. It was coming from her living room.
	Brad, she thought. He was still here. Had he brought another woman into
her house? At this hour? And was he doing to this woman the things he had done
to her last night? Pamela closed her eyes as she remembered last night. Not that
she could have forgotten. Every part of her body ached and throbbed, and she
could barely move. She was a little surprised to find that she wasn't bound. But
she might as well have been. Every attempted movement brought new pain to some
part of her. She lay as still as she could, absorbing the pain, remembering the
night, and listening to the screams.
	Oh god, what was he doing to her?
	And then Brad was standing in the bedroom doorway, grinning at her.
While the screams went on, unabated.
	"Good morning, fuckmouth," Brad said, over the noise. "Enjoying the
music?"
	She was confused. She opened her mouth, but nothing came out. She had to
swallow and clear her throat several times before she could speak.
"Brad...what...who..."
	His grin broadened. "Don't you recognize that, pig tits? It's you!
Sounds real good, don't you think?"
	Understanding came to her. "You--last night--you taped it..."
	"That's right, piggy. Preserved for posterity. Entertainment for some
lonely night. Or to share with others who might be interested."
	She didn't even want to think about what he meant. "Are you staying?"
she asked flatly, wondering what she wanted the answer to be.
	"Maybe for a while," Brad said. "We had fun last night, didn't we, whore
face?"
	"You did," Pamela said.
	"And you loved every minute of it. Didn't you, baby bitch? Come on, you
know you can't lie to me."
	"Oh god," Pamela said. A tear rolled out of her eye.
	"You don't want to give that up, do you, slutmouth? Not when we've just
found each other again."
	She labored to keep her voice steady. "Brad...I told you...I'm
already..."
	"Yeah, yeah, I know. You got some guy out in Nowheresville you said
you'd go back to next weekend. Well, we'll have to see about that, Pammy cunt.
If I'm not tired of you by then, you might just wanna stick around."
	The screaming was still going on.
	"I never get tired of this," Brad said. "My dick has been stiff for the
last half hour, listening to your music, Pammy slut. Come on inside and suck me
for awhile."
	"Christ, Brad," Pamela said. "I can't even move right now."
	"Sure you can, fucktoy." Her eyes flew to his at his use of that word.
All the words he used for her, all the abusive names he called her had an effect
on her, and he knew it. But this word went deeper. David had called her fucktoy.
Did he know that? Of course he did. "Now get out of that bed and come inside.
You don't have to walk. You can crawl. You know I like to watch you crawl." And
before she could say anything else he turned and went back into the living room.
	Fire shot through her body as she slowly and laboriously eased herself
out of the bed. Sliding herself over the edge until she could reach the floor
with her hands, resting on them, the lower half of her still on the bed. Every
muscle, every joint, everything she had seemed to radiate pain. With a great
effort she pulled herself along until she was clear of the bed, her knees
cracking against the floor as her legs fell free. Slowly then, she began to
crawl across the room on her hands and knees. She was breathing hard and making
little whimpering sounds of pain.
	And her crotch was wet.
	Brad was sitting in the chair in which she had seen him when she had
come in the night before. His fly was open, his cock sticking up. The screaming
on the tape was louder in here. Had she really screamed that much, that long? He
must have started the tape over, she thought. He must have. God, it sounded
awful. And it had been. Awful and wonderful. Tears fell from her eyes again as
she made her slow crawling way across the living room, crawling to Brad's chair,
crawling between his legs.
	His head fell back and he closed his eyes, smiling contentedly as Pamela
bent her head to him and sucked him off to the sound of her screams.
                                     #
	"Yeah, last night was nice," Brad said. "But that's just not gonna do
it, shitlicker. Pain is easy. Besides, you like it too much. That's not what I
looked you up for."
	"You looked me up because Gretchen told you where I was," Pamela said.
Her voice was muffled because her head was still buried in his crotch, held
there by his hands tangled in her hair. Now he pulled at that hair so that her
head came up, her eyes meeting his. Holding her that way, he calmly and
deliberately spat in her face.
	"That's how I found out where you were, not why I decided to come," Brad
said. "I came because we have some unfinished business, Pamela cunt. And that
fucking brother of yours isn't around any more to interfere."
	Tears came to her eyes. They were caused partly by the sharply painful
pulling at her scalp as he forced her head back by her hair. But not completely.
"You don't...have to talk...about David that way," she said, fighting for
breath. "I...I loved him."
	"Yeah, you loved him, you cunt." He gave a sharp tug at her hair,
bringing a small cry from her. "And you hated me. But you know fucking well who
you belonged to, deep down. You know I could make you tie yourself into knots
for me, you worthless piece of shit. I could take you places your shit brother
never heard of. And you were dying to go there, but you chickened out and let
him run me off. Well I'm back now, turd tits. And this time I'm gonna take you
places even you might not wanna go to. But you will, won't you, fucktoy? 'Cause
you can't help yourself, and you fucking well know it."
	Pamela felt sick. Little involuntary moans were coming from her mouth,
and the juices were flowing between her legs. But she felt sick.
                                   # 
	She was glad it was Saturday, because she would have been too stiff and
sore to go to work that day. Although Brad had lightened up on the physical
abuse over the weekend, she was still stiff on Monday as well, but Brad insisted
she go in. "I'm tired of looking at your face, shitpuss,* he told her. "Go to
your fucking job. And bring back some food, for Chrissake. There's nothing but
shit to eat around here."
	Part of her was surprised that he wanted her to leave. She had half
expected him to keep her there by force for however long he intended to stay.
How did he know she wouldn't run off, hide someplace? Or even go to the police?
	No. He knew she'd come back. And so did she.
	When she was dressed for work and about to leave he stopped her. "Hold
it, pig tits. You don't think you're going out like that, do you?"
	She looked down at her tailored blouse and slacks outfit. "Yes, of
course. What's wrong with it?"
	"Take it off."
	"Brad, I'm--"
	"Take it off, turd breath. Now."
	She took off the slacks and the blouse.
	"The other stuff too."
	She took off her bra and panties and stood naked before him.
	"Now," Brad said. "Go get that stuff you wore to that restaurant last
weekend."
	She stared at him. She had told him the story, of course. At his
request, she had told him all about the weekend, every detail. Between screams.
	He had particularly liked the part about the dog. "Hey, that's a new one
even for you, right, Pammy twat?" he'd said. "Old David never made you do that,
did he now? This old guy sounds like he knows what he's doing. What's his name
again?"
	"I don't know his name," Pamela had said truthfully. "He never told me."
And for that Brad had made her scream again.
	Now she stared at him. "I can't wear that to work, Brad," she got out.
"It--it's just--"
	"Why not? Afraid you'll get raped, Pammy poop? Hell, you'd enjoy that,
wouldn't you?"
	"Brad, look--"
	"Get it," Brad said. "Put it on."
	"Can I at least..." she indicated the bra and panties.
	"No," Brad said.
	The costume was as bad as she remembered. Worse. Her nipples were
swollen from the things Brad had done to them, and they stood out even more
conspicuously, more boldly against the tightly clinging pullover top, as did
every curve of her breasts. The skirt seemed to have shrunk even more, if that
was possible; it barely hid her crotch. She bit at her lip as she looked at
herself in her bedroom mirror.
	He'll ruin your life, she told herself. That's what he wants, after all.
To ruin your life. You don't have to let him.
	She turned and walked into the living room.
	Brad whistled and then grinned when she came in. "That's perfect," he
said. "Have a good day, baby."
	"If I wear this I'll get fired," she said flatly.
	"You? You think they would fire a nice sexy girl like you?"
	"Yes, if I--"
	"A sweet luscious piece of ass like you? A fine, willing little
cocksucker, who can--"
	Pamela's face changed. "Brad--"
	"--who can make them happy with her--"
	"Brad, no."
	"Tell you what you do, Pamela."
	"No. Brad. Stop right there."
	"If your boss gives you a hard time..."
	"Don't say it, Brad. I don't want to--"
	"If he complains about what you're wearing..."
	"Stop, Brad! Please. Please!"
	"Just tell him you'll take it off," Brad said.
	"No," Pamela said. "No. No."
	"And then do it," Brad said.
	"I won't do that," Pamela said.
	"And then tell him you'll suck his cock for him. I bet he won't fire you
then."
	"I won't," Pamela said, tears in her eyes. "You bastard. I won't."
	Brad smiled. "Let me know how it goes," he said.
                                    #
	You don't have to do this, she told herself, all the way to work. Doing
her best to ignore the staring eyes, the turning heads, the remarks made to her
by	men on the street, on the subway. You don't have to ruin your life. Not
for Brad, for god's sake. You can stop it right now. Just say no. Go back and
change your clothes. Or even stop into a store, buy new clothes to wear to work.
Something.
Anything.
	At work the stares continued, but this was worse, because here she knew
the people who were staring at her, and they knew her. Even those who tried to
be tactful and not to stare couldn't help stealing looks at her when they
thought she wouldn't notice. And not everyone was tactful. There were whistles.
And comments too. "Damn, you look sexy today, Pamela!" "Hey, Pam, really letting
it all hang out there, aren't you?" The women regarded her either with outright
disapproval or unbelieving wonderment. Walking around, she couldn't keep her
breasts from jiggling obviously under the snug top, and hunching her shoulders
to make them less obvious didn't seem to help at all. Seated at her desk, she
pulled her chair as close to it as possible in an attempt to hide the skirt that
constantly threatened to ride up over her naked crotch. The fact that that
crotch was moistening the chair beneath her did not lessen her sense of
humiliation and shame.
	The day crawled by, and it was four o'clock when the thing she had been
dreading happened. She was called into the office of Mr. Posner, the office
manager.
	She became aware that she was shaking slightly as she walked across the
floor toward his office. You don't have to do anything, she told herself. Just
be polite, apologize, say it was an aberration or something, say you won't do it
again. That's all. The hell with Brad. The hell with him!
	She went into Mr. Posner's office and, without being asked, closed the
door behind her.
	Posner was a plump, pleasant-looking man in his mid-forties, with
thinning hair and a small mustache. He smiled at her, a little nervously, she
thought, and he seemed to be making an effort to keep his eyes on her face. "Ah,
Pamela," he said. "Um--sit down, please."
	Just apologize, she told herself again, sitting in the chair across from
his desk. A lapse in judgement, a silly whim, won't happen again, sir, I'm
sorry. Seated, she folded her hands over her nearly visible crotch and tried not
to breathe too deeply.
	"Um," Posner said. "Pamela, you--ah, how long have you been with us now,
Pamela?"
	"Two years," she replied. "A little more."
	"Ah. Yes. And you are--you have always done a good job for us. We,
ah--we value you as an employee here at C&H. I hope you know that."
	"Thank you, sir. I try to do my best."
	"Which is fine. We have no complaints. Except--" he hesitated.
	She waited, saying nothing.
	"Well, it's just--the way you are dressed," Posner said. "Today, I mean.
It's just--it's a little--well, it seems a bit inappropriate, shall we say. For
an office environment. It's, um...distracting, and--well..."
	She nodded, as if agreeing with him. She felt tense. Okay, just say
you're sorry, that's all. Smooth it over and get out of here. The hell with
Brad. Don't think about Brad. He'll just ruin your life.
	"I understand," Pamela said. "I'm sorry. I'm really sorry." She paused.
"These clothes...are a mistake," she said. Then she stood up. "I'll take them
off," she said. And before Posner could react she had grasped the bottom of the
pullover and peeled it up, over her breasts and off over her head, dropping it
onto the chair.
	Posner's mouth was open, his eyes wide. "P-Pamela!" he gasped.
"What--what--"
	She didn't pause. She couldn't, because if she thought about what she
was doing she might as well kill herself. She undid the catch on the skirt and
let it drop around her feet. Naked, she stood there.
	Posner wasn't even trying to say anything now. He just stared at her.
I'm sure to get fired now, she thought.
	The remainder of Brad's instructions burned in her brain. `And then tell
him you'll suck his cock for him.' No, she thought. No. This is enough. Oh god,
isn't this enough?
	"Mr. Posner?" she said. "I'd like to suck your cock for you."
	His face was blotchy, his eyes popping. She wondered if he was going to
have a heart attack. That's it, she thought. Brad just said to tell him that. He
didn't say I actually had to do it. Did he?
	No.
	But that was what he meant.
	No.
	Of course it was.
	I don't have to. I don't have to do any of this. Screw Brad. Screw him
all to hell.
	Oh god, the door's not even locked, she thought as she moved around the
desk and knelt in front of Posner's chair. Anybody could come in. Posner could
only gaze at her like a deer in the headlights as she opened his fly and brought
out his penis, which was hard, and surprisingly large.
	Oh lord, I am shit, she thought, and took him in her mouth.
	"Oh, Jesus Christ!" Posner cried out, so loudly that she was sure his
words could be heard outside the closed door. Pamela shut her eyes and began to
suck him deeply.
                                 # 
	"Well, how did it go?" Brad asked as she came home that evening,
carrying several bags of groceries.
	"I didn't get fired," Pamela said. "Yet. But I still might."
	"Well, don't worry about it, shitface. You can always go out on the
streets. You can wear one of those signs like the out-of-work bums do. `Will
fuck for food.' How's that?" He grinned at her. "Hell, I'd like to see that.
You'd never starve, I guarantee you that."	
	"You're a bastard," Pamela said tiredly. "But you know that, don't you?"
	"Well, you've told me enough times," Brad replied. "And yet here we are.
Did you do what I told you with your boss?"
	"With one of them. Yes. The office manager. Yes, I did it. I took my
clothes off for him and I sucked him off. I don't know why, but I did it."
	"Because I told you to, fuckmouth."
	"Yes. Because you told me to." She had put the bags down and now
collapsed into a chair. "But Christ, you don't have magical powers. I don't even
like you."
	He grinned again. "That's what makes it so nice," he said.
	"For you," she said. "All right, yes, I'm sick, I'm twisted, I'm a
freak. I can't help getting turned on when I'm hurt or mistreated. We all know
that. But Jesus, I've got a brain, I've got some choices, I don't just go around
doing every damn thing everybody tells me to do. I must have some
self-preservation instinct, or I'd be dead. Why should I let you ruin my life?
Why?"
	"You think too much, Pammy poop," Brad said. "Just accept it. You'll
jump off a cliff if I tell you to. That's how it is. I own you. Body and soul."
	"I can't let you," Pamela said, almost to herself.
	"No? Tell you what, fucktoy. I think you need a little refreshment to
cheer you up a little. Go into the bathroom and drink the water out of the
toilet."
	She closed her eyes. "Brad--"
	"Do it," Brad said.
	"Brad, please. Don't--"
	"Do it, fucktoy."
	"I don't want to," Pamela said.
	"I know. Do it."
	"No," she said. "I won't."
	Brad just waited.
	She used all the will power she had to keep herself in the chair. He
couldn't make her do anything she didn't want to do, she told herself. He could
use physical force, he could hurt her, but that wasn't what this was about, and
they both knew it. She gripped the arms of the chair and planted her feet on the
floor and ordered herself not to move.
	Then, with tears in her eyes, she stood up and started toward the
bathroom.
	"Crawl," Brad said.
                                    #
  	After that he had her drink the water in the toilet bowl every day.
Sometimes he peed in it first. Sometimes he pushed her face down into the bowl
as she was drinking, soaking her hair and holding her there for long moments,
until she almost wondered if he meant to drown her. She knew he wouldn't, but he
became adept at keeping her head in the water right up to the point where she
couldn't hold her breath any longer. It always made him hard to see her there on
her knees, her bent body jerking spasmodically, her hands wildly fluttering,
trying to find something to grasp at. And when he finally pulled her out, he
loved to jam his cock into her mouth as she was still gasping and panting and
gulping desperately for air, and make her suck him off that way.
	Meanwhile she had lost her job. Brad had made her wear that same outfit
the next day, telling her to repeat what she had done with Posner with anyone
else in authority who admonished her. And if that's not enough, he had said,
fuck him too. Pamela had been too weary even to make a show of objecting. What
if it's a woman? she had asked him. So what? Brad had replied. Nobody's gonna
pass up the chance to fuck you, sweet tits.
	And nobody had. Although none of them were women. On the second day she
had been called into the Personnel office and threatened with dismissal, and she
had stripped and sucked off the Personnel Manager, and had thus been let off
with a warning. When she wore the same outfit the third day, the matter came to
the attention of the president of the company. By then everyone there had heard
about what had happened in Posner's office (his cries had indeed been overheard,
and besides, he had been unable to refrain from telling people about it), and
the president was no exception. So he was not surprised when she stripped for
him, but he wasn't satisfied with a blow job. So she had fucked him, sitting on
his lap in his big chair and moving up and down on his cock while he squeezed
and mouthed her breasts. After that he said he would give her one more chance,
but she must dress properly in the future. When, on Brad's insistance, she wore
the same clothes again the following day, she was fired. 	
	Brad actually made a sign saying `Will Fuck For Food' and talked about
making her wear it on the street. But that idea was soon pushed into the
background by another.

                          III
                       FOREVER AFTER

	It was clear now that Brad meant to stay, at least for a while, and
Pamela despaired of keeping her weekend appointment with the faraway man who,
after their first meeting, she had been instructed to call Master. "At least let
me call him," she said to Brad. "Let him know I'm not coming. Please."
	"Fuck that," was Brad's reply. "He'll know you're not coming when you
don't show up, won't he, turd breath. You know you'd rather be with me, anyway,
right?"
	"No," Pamela said in a low voice. "No, I would rather be with him. He is
my master."
	"Okay," Brad said. "Then go. Go to him. I won't be here when you get
back, but that's what you want, right? Go on, go."
	"I can't," Pamela said. "You know I can't. You know it, damn you."
	"Yeah," Brad said. "So what the hell are you talking about? I'm your
fucking master, shit eater, and don't you forget it."
	"No," she said stubbornly. "He is my master. You--you're my sickness."
	Brad laughed. "You were sick long before you met me, pussy pants. Your
fucking brother showed you that, didn't he? Damn, what a fucked-up family."
	"Don't," Pamela said.
	"Don't what? Don't tell you your family is fucked-up? A brother who
whored out his own sister, when he wasn't banging her himself, and making her
do--"
	"He didn't whore me out," Pamela said wearily. "He never took money. He
never charged anything for me. Never."
	"Oh, excuse me. Big deal. He made you fuck everybody he knew just to get
his kicks, then, right?"
	"Everybody except you," she said wickedly.
	His expression didn't change, but something in his eyes as he looked at
her made her shiver inside. "Yeah, well we're making up for that now, aren't we,
slut breath? So that was David. Then there was you, the sick cunt sister who
loved everything he did to her and still needed more. Right?"
	Her tone went dead again. "Yeah. That's about it."
	"Right. And then there was mommy and daddy, who let all this go on right
under their noses and didn't give a shit. Probably got their kicks from it."
	"No," Pamela said. "They never knew. They never even suspected. David
was very careful about that. Even though he--" She stopped.
	"Even though he what?" Brad said.
	"Nothing."
	"Don't tell me nothing, turd tits. I want to hear all about you and your
sweet normal family. So what were you going to say? Even though he what?"
	"Brad--"
	"Come on, cocksucker, you know I'll get it out of you one way or
another. Just tell me."
	"Christ. It's nothing, for god's sake. It's just--he used to say he was
going to make me do it with my father. It was just a way to scare me, to
threaten me or something. He wouldn't really have done it. He--he said my father
wanted me. Or at least that he would do it with me if he got the chance. But it
was just talk. My father wouldn't--he didn't--It was just David trying to--"
	"Trying to what?"
	"Like I said--to scare me."
	"Yeah? Scare you or turn you on? I bet you just loved the idea, didn't
you, candy cunt? I bet thinking about fucking your own daddy--about being forced
to fuck him--made you come all over yourself. Right, whore?"
	"No. Jesus, no. No!"
	"Don't shit a shitter, baby. It might have been David's idea, but I bet
it made you hotter than hell. I bet he told you that while he was screwing you,
so you would think about it and give him the fuck of a lifetime."
	She shook her head. "You're wrong, Brad. This time you're wrong. In the
first place, David didn't need to do that to get me to give him a good fucking."
She gave a weary laugh. "If he wasn't satisfied with my performance, all he had
to do was hurt me. He knew all about how to turn me on that way, and he did. God
knows he did. And in the second place--"
	"Yeah, yeah, I know, you never wanted to fuck your daddy. Sure, right.
But I bet you'd have done it anyway if old Dave had told you to, wouldn't you,
fuckface?"
	Pamela was silent.
	"Come on, cunt, if your asshole brother had given the order, you would
have been in there in a minute and fucking him in front of the whole world.
Right?"
	"Brad, for--"
	"I asked you a question, Pammy slut."
	Pamela closed her eyes. "I would have done anything David told me to,"
she whispered finally. "Anything."
	"Yeah. But of course it was just bullshit. Typical gutless David. He
could hurt you all right, he could degrade you up to a point, but when it came
to the real stuff, the real deep-down stuff, he wimped out. Right, Pammy puss?
That's why you really needed me. And you still do. Right, shitlicker?"
	Her eyes were still closed. "I hate you," she said, her words barely
audible. "I really hate you."
	"Yeah, I know," Brad said. "That's what makes it so much fun. For both
of us." He paused. "So dear old mom and dad were nice normal people, huh? Just
deaf, dumb and blind. Okay. And who else? Wasn't there another brother in there
someplace? A little brother?"
	"Tommy," she said. "He was just a little kid, for god's sake."
	"Yeah? Not old enough to get turned on by watching his big brother
fucking his big sis?"
	"No. Jesus."
	"I bet he is now, though. How old is he now?"
	She shrugged. "Fourteen, I guess."
	"Just about right," Brad said. "Kid's probably still a virgin, just
dying to get his wick dipped. Bet he'd love to screw his older sister, wouldn't
you think? Kind of carry on the family tradition?"
	"Oh, for god's sake," Pamela said. "There is no damn tradition. It was
just David, and he's dead. Let it go." She paused. "Let me go," she added in a
lower tone.
	"You don't really want me to do that, though, Pammy slut. Do you?" Brad
said.
	"Yes," she said, but only after a long silence. There were tears in her
eyes, because he didn't believe her, and she didn't believe herself. "You've
ruined my life," she whispered.
	"I haven't started," Brad said.
                                 #
	"So when was the last time you saw your family, anyway?" Brad asked.
	She couldn't answer him right away because she was gasping for breath,
struggling to take in air between her moans and cries and whimpers of both pain
and passion. She was stretched on her bed with her arms tied above her head, and
Brad was on top of her and inside her, his expertly cruel hands moving over her
naked body, hurting and torturing and tormenting her, making her writhe and buck
and twist, her convulsive thrashing adding to his pleasure as he took her in his
brutal, disdainful way.
	It was only when he had allowed himself to come inside her and had taken
his hands away that she was able to speak, although she was still moaning and
panting with frustration as well as pain, for he had deliberately not allowed
her to reach her own orgasm.
	"I asked you a question, fucktoy," he said, still lying heavily on top
of her, his hand now tugging warningly at her hair.
	"I--it was--it was a few months ago, I guess," Pamela got out. "Why?"
	She was immediately sorry she had asked. And she was suddenly certain
that she didn't want to know the answer.
	"I've been thinking about them," Brad said. "About what we were talking
about. You know, your daddy, and your kid brother. And your mommy, of course.
They still live in the same place, don't they, Pammy cunt? Not that far from
here, right?"
	"Brad--" she said fearfully.
	"What?"
	"Nothing." But she was trembling a little. He couldn't--
	"I was thinking we ought to pay them a visit, Pammy."
	She was silent, only shaking her head. She couldn't trust herself to
speak.
	"I think that'd be nice, don't you? Real sociable. It's been a while,
after all, and I'm sure they'd want to see you. And meet your new boyfriend.
Don't you think so?"
	"No," she said, as calmly as she could. "Brad, no. That's not--it
wouldn't--"
	"What's the problem, Pammy slut? You don't want them to know what you
are, is that it? You don't want them to find out that you're a sick little whore
who loves being hurt and degraded? That you used to be a fucking slave to your
dead brother, and that now you're my slave? You want them to think you're still
a sweet little--"
	"I'm not your slave," Pamela whispered.
	Brad raised his head and looked down at her. She couldn't meet his gaze.
She closed her eyes.
	"You're not?" Brad said softly.
	She didn't trust herself to speak. Stubbornly, hopelessly, she shook her
head.
	Brad reached between their bodies and found her nipples with his
fingers. Crushing them between his thumbs and forefingers, he pulled at them
until she arched from the bed, then twisted hard and cruelly. She howled with
pain, her stiffened body strained to the utmost, her legs thrashing blindly. He
still pulled at her nipples, twisting them as far as his hands would allow.
	"Come for me, you worthless piece of shit," he gritted, gazing into her
wild, tear-filled eyes. "You cocksucking little whore, you love this, you
crawling slut. Come for me now. You're not a slave, huh? You don't know what you
are, you stupid cunt. You wanted to come just now, but you didn't, you bitch,
why? 'Cause I told you not to, right?" He twisted still harder, and her
squalling cries of agony had passion in them too. "Well now I'm telling you to
come, Pammy slave. Yeah, here we go. Here we go. Come on, that's my sick little
twat. Come for me, fucktoy. Come!"
	And she did, helplessly, screamingly, excruciatingly, gloriously,
exploding again and again amid the pain and the taunting words and the
relentless, twisting fingers. She was crying and moaning and convulsing all at
once, and then he released her nipples and she slowly, gradually came down until
she lay drenched in sweat beneath him, still moaning with the throbbing pain,
and with the lingering ecstasy, and still sobbing with hatred for him and for
herself.
	Brad was laughing softly. "Why try to fight it, Pammy puss?" he said.
"You're my slave and we both know it. Tell me that, fucktoy. Tell me you're my
slave."
	He was right. It was useless. Who was she trying to kid? "I'm--I'm your
slave," she gasped out brokenly, between sobs of despair.
	"For as long as I want you," Brad said. "Right? Say it."
	"For--for as long as you want me," she moaned.
	"That's a good little slut," Brad said, and then he drew her legs apart
and with a swift, sudden movement thrust his rigid cock all the way inside her.
She cried out as his hardness filled her, and he laughed again. "And you want
the whole world to know it, don't you, Pammy bitch? Including your sweet little
family. Right, Pam? You want us to pay them a visit so I can show you off as my
obedient little slave. And whore. And fuck toy." He was moving now, moving hard
inside her, his hands again punishing her body. "Right, Pammy slut? Isn't that
what you want?"
	 Even as she responded to the pain, even as her perfidious body began to
move in rhythm with his hard thrusting, she shook her head desperately. "No,
Brad, please!" she begged breathlessly, the tears flowing now. "Not that,
please. I can't. I can't, please, please, Brad, no. Please, oh god, please, I
can't do that! I can't!"
	"But you will," Brad said. "If I tell you to. Won't you, fucktoy?" He
bent his head and took a nipple into his mouth, biting down hard on it until she
screamed. "Won't you, you dog-fucking, shit-eating whore? You'll do anything I
want you to do. Including that. Won't you? Say it, Pam. Say it!"
	"Yes!" she shrieked out. And she knew it was true, and she was coming
again, and then she was crying her heart out, because it was true, there was
nothing she wouldn't do, there was no depth to which she wouldn't sink, there
was nothing or nobody she wouldn't destroy, including herself. Especially
herself. Only once she had cried her heart out, she felt that there was nothing
left inside her to destroy.
                                  #
	She was shaking as she dialed the number. It was her mother who picked
up the phone. She was relieved, in a way, that it wasn't her father or her
brother, but still she had to force herself to speak. Talk to whoever answers
the phone, Brad had said. Tell them everything.
	"Hello, Mom?" Her voice sounded strange to her. "It's Pam. How--how are
you?"
	Small talk then, inquiries and replies about the family, about how she
was doing, why she didn't call more often, etc. But she could only stall for so
long. Brad was watching her. "Listen, Mom," she said finally. "I thought--I was
thinking I might come to see you for a few days. I'm--I have a little vacation
coming, and I--"
	Wonderful, her mother was saying. It had been too long. When was she
coming?
	"This weekend, I thought. What? Yes, tomorrow. Friday. And Mom--I'm--I'd
like to bring somebody with me, okay?"
	Her mother's voice perked up. A man?
	"Yes. Yes, Mom, a man. He's--" She took a breath, steadying herself.
"He's my owner," she said.
	That's what Brad had told her to say. Just tell them I'm your owner,
he'd said. And you're my slave. Simple as that.
	Your what? her mother said.
	She closed her eyes. "My owner," she said as steadily as she could. "He
owns me, Mom. I'm his slave."
	A bewildered pause. Of course. What in the world are you talking about?
her mother asked.
	Brad was watching, smiling, nodding, encouraging her. She couldn't do
this. But she was doing it. "Just what I said, Mom. His name is Brad, and I am
his slave. I want you to understand that, okay? I know it's strange to you, but
that's how it is. Please understand. And please tell Daddy, okay? And Tommy.
Just so you'll all know what's going on. Okay, Mom?"
	I don't understand, her mother said. What do you mean, his slave? There
are no slaves any more, Pamela. What are you--what do you--Are you in some kind
of trouble? Do you need help? Is that it?
	God, yes, she thought. "No, Mom," she said tightly, trying to keep her
voice under control. "It's all right. I'm--I'm doing what I want to do, okay?
I'm just--it's just how I am. How I want it. All it means is I--I do what he
tells me. That's all. Anything he tells me. That's all. Okay?"
	But--
	"Please, Mom. Just accept it. Okay? Please. And--and explain it to Dad
and Tommy, all right? Tell them--tell Dad not to worry, I'm fine. It'll be fine.
I mean, I don't want anybody getting upset or anything. Please. Okay, Mom? We'll
see you tomorrow night. Bye."
	And she hung up while her mother was still groping for questions. Tears
ran down her face. "Shit," she whispered. "Oh, shit, god help me."
	"He can't," Brad said.
                                #   
	Of course he made her wear the pullover and the short skirt for the
journey. But as they pulled up in front of the familiar old house in which she
had grown up, he told her to take them off.
	She stared at him. He gazed back at her calmly. Worms crawled in her
stomach. Worms of horror, of shame, of--
	But what had she expected?
	But god, not like this. Not right off the bat. Not--
	She knew, looking into his eyes, that it was no use. But she had to try.
She had to.
	"Brad, please. Please. Not this way. I can't just go in there naked, I
can't. They won't--it would be--At least give them some time to--"
	"They might as well see how it is right away, Pammy slut. And you too.
Why do you keep on trying to fight it? Take it off."
	She took it off. Her hands felt numb, her blood was pounding, and the
limited space in the front seat made it awkward, but there wasn't much to take
off, and in a minute she was naked.
	Luckily there was no one on the quiet street as they got out of the car.
It was dusk. She wondered if anyone in the neighboring houses was looking out
their window. But she couldn't think about that. She felt unreal, and she
thought she might faint as they walked up the path to the front door. Brad rang
the bell.
	The door opened, and she had to resist an overwhelming impulse to cover
herself with her arma, which would only have made things worse. Her next impulse
was to turn and run, back to the car, anywhere; but she stood still as the door
swung wide, and there they were, her mother and father side by side with smiles
of welcome on their faces, and Tommy just behind them, grinning also. The smiles
quickly disappeared as they saw her, and it seemed to her that their faces just
fell apart, their expressions conveying incomprehension, realization, shock,
disbelief, astonishment, horror, bewilderment, outrage, one after the other in
rapid succession, and all at once. For a long moment everyone stood as though
frozen. Her father was trying to speak, but could not find the words, or his
voice, or both. It was her mother who spoke first.
	"Pamela! What in the world--Are you crazy?! Oh my god--get in here!" She
moved aside, nearly knocking her husband over as she reached out to pull her
daughter through the doorway. Brad followed.
	Her father wasn't looking at her now. His face was red. Tommy, though,
was staring with his mouth open. She wanted to turn away from him. She didn't.
	"Tommy," her mother said, her voice shaking. "Go upstairs." When the boy
hesitated, her voice rose. "Now{" she commanded shrilly. "And stay there till I
call you!"
Slowly and with obvious reluctance, Tommy went. "Ben," she said to her husband,
"for god's sake, get something to cover her with!"
	"No," Brad said quietly.
	They turned to him, staring. He smiled in his most charming manner. "Hi,
I'm Brad," he said, and put out his hand. Neither of them took it. "Pam and I
have known each other for a long time," he said. "And now we're together. I've
told her I want her to be naked as long as she's in this house." He smiled
again. "It's her home, after all. She shouldn't need clothes to feel
comfortable. Don't you agree?"
	Her father's face was redder than ever. "Who the hell--" he began, but
had to stop. Then he tried again. "Just who the hell do you think you are?"
	"I'm Pam's owner," Brad said calmly. "And she does what I tell her to
do. I think your wife must have explained that to you, hasn't she, sir?"
	Meanwhile her mother had gone to the hall closet and pulled out a long
coat, which she now brought over to Pamela. But when she tried to put it around
her, Pamela waved her off.
	"No, Mom," she said. "I can't."
	"Pamela, stop that!" Her mother tried again to cover her, and Pamela
moved away from her.
	"I can't, Mom!" she said, as firmly as she could. "You heard what Brad
said. I do what he tells me. If he wants me naked, I stay naked. So you might as
well get used to it."
	"That's impossible!" her father said. He still wasn't looking at her.
"You can't stay in this house that way."
	"Then we'll leave," Brad said.
	"No," her mother said. She looked at Pamela, who nodded slowly.
	Her mother was close to tears. "We--we'll have to... we'll work
something out," she said. "You--Pamela, you take your old room. I've put Brad in
the room next door."
	Her father tried to say something more, but failed. Finally he stalked
out of the room, and she heard the back door slam behind him.
                                     #
	"You're going to make me fuck him, aren't you?" Pamela said in a dead
voice. They were in her room.
	"Isn't that what you want, Pammy whore?"
	"No, Brad. It's not what I want. He's my father. Jesus."
	"Right," Brad said. "And maybe you don't want to fuck him, Pammy cunt.
But you do want me to make you fuck him. That's what lights your fire, baby,
being made to do things you don't want to do. And the more you don't want to do
it, the harder you get off. Right, fucktoy?"
	"But this--this is--"
	"What? Incest? You didn't worry about that with David, did you,
cocksucker?"
	"It's different. This is--my father doesn't want to fuck me. He's not--"
	"Well, that's a debatable point," Brad said. "He might not think he
wants to, but I bet if he got the chance he'd surprise you. So I want you to see
that he does, Pammy puss."
	She closed her eyes. "Brad--" But it was no use. Her stomach was in
knots. She started to shiver.
	"You're little brother damn well wants to, though," Brad said.
	She opened her eyes, and there were tears in them. "For god's sake!" she
whispered. "He's fourteen years old!"
	"And randy as a goat," Brad said. "You'd be doing him a big favor. A
nice sisterly gesture, letting him have you for his first fuck, don't you
think?"
	She hugged herself. She was shivering harder, although the room was not
cold. "I don't have to do this," she said, speaking to herself as much as to
him. "I could get up right now and get out of here."
	"Of course you could," Brad said. "Nobody's stopping you. But since
you're not about to do that, slut face, let's make your father our first
priority, okay? Tommy is easy, you can do him any time." He grinned. "Now let's
see, who does that leave?"
	Pamela's eyes leaped to his face, suddenly very wide open. Then she had
to press her fisted hands over her mouth to stifle her scream.
                                   #
	Brad left her for a while, and returned to report that her mother had
been cooking all day in preparation for a nice family dinner, but her plans had
been upset by what had happened, and she hadn't been sure of what to do. Her
father had returned, but had locked himself in his study. Brad, who she knew
could be surprisingly charming when he wanted to, had persuaded her mother to go
on with the dinner as planned, overcoming her reluctance and confusion by
convincing her that the sooner the family accepted the situation and got used to
it, the quicker things could get back to normal. Dinner, he told Pamela, would
be in half an hour. Yes, he was sure her father and brother would be there. Her
mother wanted peace in the family, and he was sure everything would be all
right. No, she couldn't put anything on. She looked just fine as she was.
	So she remained naked as the five of them sat around the table, with
Brad carrying most of the conversation in a pleasant and affable manner,
complimenting her mother on her cooking, asking Tommy about his school and so
on. Her mother tried her best to be pleasant in return, although it was
obviously difficult for her. Her father said barely a word, and still would not
look at her. Tommy had evidently been admonished not to stare at her, but he
couldn't help sneaking glances at her body as often as possible. Pamela was
acutely uncomfortable, her stomach clenched so tightly she could hardly choke
down any of the food. But her crotch was moist, and her nipples remained hard
throughout the meal, adding immensely to her embarrassment and shame.
	After dinner, her father cleared his throat and told Brad that he wanted
to speak to him in his study. Tommy was sent to his room to do his homework, and
Pamela helped her mother with the dishes. Their conversation was strained and
awkward, her mother obviously restraining herself from saying anything more
about Pamela's nakedness, or about Brad. Presumably they had decided that her
father should handle the situation. She wondered what he and Brad were saying to
each other.
	She was back in her room, having told her mother that she had a headache
and wanted to retire early, when there was a soft knock at the door. Expecting
Brad, she quickly opened it, saying, "Come in." But it was her father who stood
there.
	He immediately looked away from her nakedness. "I'd like to talk to you
for a minute, Pamela," he said. "If you're not busy."
	"Of course, Daddy," she said, as normally as she could. "Come on in."
	He came in and walked across her room to the window, where he looked out
at the dark back yard. "Please put something on, Pamela," he said.
	"I can't do that, Daddy," she replied. "I'm sorry."
	He took a breath. "At least--at least get into bed or something. So
you'll be covered. Can you do that?"
	She considered. In the bed, she would still be naked. She wouldn't be
disobeying Brad that way. At least not technically. "All right," she said, and
pulling back the bedclothes she lay down on the bed and drew the covers up to
her armpits, leaving her arms and shoulders free. "All right, Daddy." Was she
supposed to seduce him right now? she wondered. Brad had told her to do it. See
that he does, he had said. Meaning fuck her. Let's make him our first priority,
he had said. Slut face. She shivered. But as her father finally turned to look
at her, she could see no trace of desire on his face. Only sadness. And anger.
	"Your--your friend--" he began, then stopped. He cleared his throat and
began again. "Your friend, Brad, has been telling me some things, Pamela. Things
that I--I find hard to believe. About you and--and your brother. David."
	Oh Christ, she thought. Oh Jesus. Brad. You fucking shit.
	"What things?" she said, just to fill in the silence.
	"Is it true?" he said, ignoring the question. "Just tell me, Pamela. For
god's sake. Is this some--some monstrous joke or was it--did you--with
David--Oh, dear God. I can't--" He stopped, putting his face in his hands.
	She could have lied to him, but what was the use? He obviously knew that
Brad was right. Damn Brad. Not content with ruining her life, he had to ruin her
family's too. It was her fault for bringing him there. But it was too late now.
	"Yes," she said flatly. "Yes, it's true. I'm sorry, Daddy."
	Her father said nothing for a long time. Then he said, "But he--he said
David made you--that you did things for him--with others too--he said--"
	She closed her eyes, then opened them. She felt the tears inside her,
but strangely enough, her eyes remained dry. "Yes," she said, still without
expression. "I was a slut, Daddy. A whore, if you want, although I never took
money. I did it for free. I was David's slave, just like I'm Brad's slave now. I
did anything he told me to do, and one of those things was to have sex with his
friends. Or whoever. I was sick, Daddy, all right? I'm still sick. I like being
made to do things. Bad things. I like being hurt and I like being degraded. I
respond to those things. Sexually. And--and emotionally too. I mean, part of me
hates it. Hates it. Maybe most of me. But the part that loves it is stronger.
Stronger than anything. I can't help it. I'm sorry."
	He was staring at her. "And--and David--"
	"Yes, David found that out and took advantage of it. I guess he was sick
too, in his own way, because he loved doing it to me. The two of us were a real
pair."
	Her father's legs sagged under him, and he sat down on the bed. "I
can't--I--"
	She took a deep breath. She was telling the truth, she might as well go
on telling. "You know why Brad told you this?" His head had been bowed, but now
he looked up at her. "Because he wants me to have sex with you," she said.
	He stood up slowly, shock twisting his features. "What?"
	"Yes, Daddy." She paused. "See, David used to say that--that you wanted
me. He would threaten to make me do it with you. He was--I think he was just
trying to scare me. But Brad means it, Daddy. He wants me to have sex with you.
And I have to do what he tells me, Daddy. I'm his slave, you see."
	He was backing away from the bed, automatically, his face still
reflecting the impact of what she was saying. "That's--that's disgusting!" he
said hoarsely. "Pamela, my god--how can you--this man--Christ!"
	It was impossible. There was no way she could seduce him, even if her
heart was in it. But she had to try. She had to try her best. "Was it true,
Daddy?" she asked, putting some expression now into her voice. "What David said?
Did you want me?"
	"What?" He was staring again.
	"Did you have thoughts about me, Daddy? About making it with your pretty
young daughter? It's okay, I mean lots of fathers do. It's nothing to be ashamed
about, really."
	"Pamela, for god's--"
	"You know, Daddy, if David had really told me to have sex with you, I
would have done it. Would you have liked that? Think about it, Daddy."
	"Pamela--"
	"And what about now? I'm not a girl any more, Daddy, I'm grown up.
You've seen me naked. Don't you think I'm sexy, Daddy? Don't you want me, just a
little?"
	"You're talking filth, Pamela," he said hoarsely. "Filth. How can you do
this? What is wrong with you?"
	"I think I just told you that, Daddy. But there's nothing wrong with my
body. Look." And with a quick convulsive movement she flung the bedcovers aside. 	
Immediately he looked away again. He was trembling a little, and breathing
rapidly with the intensity of his emotions. "For god's sake, Pamela!"
	"Look at me, Daddy." She got off the bed and moved to stand in front of
him. He shifted his gaze again. "No, come on, look at me," she insisted. "Look!"
	And finally he allowed himself to glance at her. A quick look, then
away. But as she continued to stand there he brought his eyes back to her, as if
reluctantly, and took her in. She stood straight and unmoving, arms at her
sides, as her father's eyes moved over her naked body.
	"Nice, isn't it, Daddy?" she said finally. "And it's all yours. Any way
you want it, Daddy. And nobody has to know." Unless Brad wants to tell them, of
course, she thought. Who knows what he might do. She shut that thought out of
her mind and took a step toward her father.
	He quickly stepped back. "Stop it!" he tried to shout, though it came
out more like a croak. "What are you--what--you're my daughter, for god's sake!
My own daughter!"
	"Yes," she said, moving toward him again. "Your slut daughter." He
suddenly started for the door, but she was quicker, reaching the door first and
standing with her back against it. "I'll make it good for you, Daddy," she said,
putting all the sensuality she could into her voice. "I'll make it great for
you, I promise. You'll never forget it, Daddy. I'll do anything you want. Think
about it, Daddy. Think about being inside me. Think about my body twisting
against yours. Think about me taking your cock in my mouth. Think--"
	"Stop!" he cried again. "Oh Jesus, how can you?!" He was almost gasping
for breath. "How can you, Pamela? Even think such things. Such--such--"
	She was afraid he was going to have a heart attack or something. But she
had to do what she had to do. "You do want me, Daddy," she said. "You know you
do. Don't fight it." I sound like Brad, she thought. Fuck Brad. "Just take me."
Again she stepped toward him. This time he didn't move. When he spoke his voice
was so low that she could hardly hear him.
	"I have been faithful to your mother for twenty-five years," he said
slowly.
	"Well," she said, coming closer, "it's about time you had someone new,
isn't it, Daddy? Someone young. Just once, Daddy. Just once before you get too
old. It'll be so good, Daddy. So good..." She was close enough to reach out for
him now, but as she did he grasped her shoulders and pushed her away so hard
that she staggered back against the door.
	"You're a disgrace, Pamela." His voice was low, and so unsteady that she
could hardly make out the words. He was shaking with anger. With grief. And with
what else, she wondered. Lust? Desire? "A disgrace to this family. To your
mother. And me. And to yourself. Shame on you. Shame!"
	"But you want me, Daddy," she whispered. "Come on, Daddy. Just once. No
one will know." She moved toward him, and he put up a hand, as if to ward her
off.
	"I wouldn't touch you," he husked. "Get out of my way, Pamela. You are
disgusting. A foul thing. An abomination."
	She could feel the tears start now. "Maybe I am," she half-whispered,
taking another step. "But David didn't think so. He didn't have any trouble
touching me. He loved it. He reveled in it. Was he a disgrace too, Daddy? Was he
disgusting too? You think that's why he killed himself, Daddy?"
	With a terrible suddenness his hand rose and he slapped her hard across
the face. She fell back, her hair flying as her face turned to one side.
Recovering herself, she looked back at him, her breath coming harder.
	"Yes, hit me," she panted. "Hit me, Daddy. I'm a whore and a disgrace
and I drove David to suicide. Hit me again!"
	And he did, an involuntary cry of anguish coming from his throat as he
slapped her perhaps harder than before. She almost fell down, but she caught
herself. He stood there, pale and trembling hard now, his own breathing labored.
	"Daddy..." She moved to him again, and now he was unable to ward her
off. She came against him, pressing her body to his, throwing her arms around
his neck. But when she tried to bring her mouth to his, he turned his face away.
	"No," he gasped out. "No!" He tried feebly now to push her off, but
there was no strength in him. But she felt his hardness against her, and she
knew she had won. If you could call it winning.
	"Yes, Daddy," she whispered, and keeping her body tight against his, she
lowered herself slowly to her knees. Her hands went to the bulge in his pants,
then to his zipper. He made a sound of protest and tried to pull away from her,
but again there was no strength in his movements and she wound one arm around
his legs, holding him easily and pressing her breasts against his thighs. More
sounds came from him as she pulled down the zipper and fumbled to release his
turgid penis. It jerked under her hand, and then her father cried out with a
mixture of despair, horror and helpless pleasure as she took it into her mouth.
	He made gasping, almost sobbing sounds as she sucked him, using all the
skill at her command. But she was afraid he would come too quickly, and then
when she stopped she was afraid he might still tear himself away, even before
they got to the bed. So she tugged him down onto the floor with her, pulling at
his trembling legs until he collapsed to his knees, then pushing him onto his
back. Giving him no time to recover from his state of dazed pleasure, no time to
think. Swiftly she straddled him, kneeling above his crotch, finding his cock
and guiding it to her pussy as she brought herself down to him.
	Then he was inside her and moaning helplessly as she moved on him,
pumping herself up and down around his cock, slowly at first, then gradually
accelerating. His hands rose, as if to touch her body, and then fell back. At
one point he gasped out her name, and she leaned forward to kiss him, letting
her breasts press into his chest, wondering if he could feel the hardness of her
nipples through his shirt. He didn't try to avoid her mouth this time; though he
didn't kiss her back, he allowed her to push her tongue between his slack lips,
and moaned into her throat as that tongue circled the inside of his mouth. When
she broke the kiss and straightened up, his hands rose again, coming to rest on
her pumping thighs. She reached for them and placed them on her breasts, still
moving rhythmically up and down. His eyes were open and staring, unreadable, and
she looked into them, moving harder now, twisting her body to make it better for
him, panting a little with her exertions. He was almost gasping now, he was
close. His hands closed around her breasts, his fingers sinking into the flesh
as his moaning got louder and his body began to stiffen beneath her. The
increasing fierceness of his grip on her tender mounds brought a cry from her,
and her movements became more abandoned.
	"Come for me, Daddy," she gasped out. "Come inside me. Come in your
filthy slut daughter. Shoot it in me, Daddy! Yes, Daddy. Yes!"
	And he did, his body straining, his hips arching from the floor, an
indescribable cry breaking from his throat as he exploded helplessly into her.
His hands clamped her breasts with all his strength, and she gave a cry of her
own as the pain and its attendant pleasure shot through her, and at that moment
the door opened and Brad came in, grinning at the sight before him, her father
still coming, his hands crushing her breasts, she still twisting her hips around
his cock, her head thrown back, groaning with pain and lust, and Brad said,
"Good work, fucktoy," and with that Pamela came helplessly too.
                             #       
	The next day her father and mother left right after breakfast, for a
previously scheduled visit with some friends in a suburb of the city, not to
return until evening. Her father had left her room hastily the previous night,
soon after Brad had come in, without saying a word to either of them, although
Brad had tried to engage him in friendly conversation. Pamela had felt sick, but
also, as Brad had predicted, aroused by what she had been compelled to do. Brad
stayed in her room that night, rather than in the one her parents had assigned
to him, and he took a perverse pleasure throughout the night in manipulating her
in such a way as to deliberately make her cry out, sometimes in passion,
sometimes in torment, her cries, shouts and screams echoing throughout the
house. When she begged him at least to gag her so her family would not be
disturbed, he laughed and said that was the point. They have to know everything,
he told her. They have to accept it all.
	Her father had not appeared at breakfast, and her mother had barely
spoken, and had not been able to look at her. She was sure her motner didn't
know about what had happened with her father, but she had certainly heard the
sounds Pamela had made during the night, the sounds Brad had intended her to
hear. Tommy had too, and his eyes sought out her naked body more boldly, more
avidly even than before. She shivered inside at the thought of what she knew she
had yet to endure.
	Brad didn't waste any time. As soon as her parents left the house, he
asked Tommy about his plans for the day. Tommy shrugged, and said that just then
he was going up to his room to fiddle around with his computer. Brad grinned.
"Got a lot of porn on there, Tommy?" he asked. "Planning to jerk off, are you?
Or have you been jerking off over your sister lately?"
	Tommy got red. They were still sitting around the breakfast table, and
now Pamela, to hide her own embarrassment and apprehension, got up and began to
clear the remains of the meal. But Brad said, "Hold on, Pamela," and she sat
down again.
	"I bet you have," Brad said, turning back to Tommy. "And hey, who could
blame you? She's got a really great body, doesn't she, Tommy?"
	Tommy was still blushing, his eyes cast down. He seemed to squirm a
little in his chair. "Come on," he muttered. "I don't know what you're talking
about."
	"Sure you do," Brad said. "Let's cut the crap, Tommy, okay? You've been
looking at your sister naked ever since we got here, and I think you've had a
hard-on the whole time. Am I right or not?"
	Tommy just shrugged, still not looking at him.
	"It's okay," Brad went on. "It's natural. Just because she's your sister
doesn't make her less hot, you know? And that body is really something, isn't
it? Go on, look at her. Take a real look. Pamela, stand up so your brother can
get a good view."
	She wanted to protest, but what was the use? Brad would do what he
wanted with her as long as she let him, and obviously she couldn't stop letting
him. So what was the use? She took a long, shuddering breath and stood up.
	"Look at her, Tommy," Brad said. And her brother raised his head and
looked, until she could almost feel his eyes boring into her body, crawling over
every inch of her flesh. "Stand away from the table, Pammy puss, so he can see
all of you. That's it. Now turn around. Slowly. All the way. Good girl."
	She stood, she moved, she turned, and Tommy's wide eyes devoured her,
his mouth open, his breath coming fast as he gazed uninhibitedly now at the
naked body of his sister. There was an unmistakable bulge in his pants.
	"You like that, huh, Tommy?" Brad said. "You want to have her, Tommy?
You want to do it with your sister?"
	Pamela clenched her fists. Tommy's eyes got even wider, and he looked
over at Brad in amazement. "Jesus Christ!" he gasped out.
	Brad grinned. "You ever make it with a girl, Tommy?"
	For a moment it looked like Tommy was going to lie. But then he just
shrugged. "No," he admitted. "I mean--well--no. Not--not really."
	"Well, I think it would be nice for your first time to be with your sexy
sister, don't you, Tommy?"
	Tommy swallowed. "God. I--yeah. Christ, yeah!"
	"Me too," Brad said. "And it can, Tommy. You can fuck her. You can fuck
her all you want. But you have to promise to do something for me, okay?
Something you can help me with later on. How about it?"
	"Yeah," Tommy breathed. "Yeah, okay. What is it?"
	Brad got up and went over to Tommy's chair, then knelt down by him and
whispered into his ear. Tommy's eyes widened again as he listened, and then his
face went pale.
	"I can't do that!" he breathed when Brad had finished.
	"Sure you can," Brad said. "Nothing to it. And think what you'll be
getting."
	Tommy's eyes went to Pamela again, moving over her, licking at her
flesh. "Oh Jesus," he whispered. "But--but I can't--"
	"Listen, Tommy," Brad said. "Listen to me. This is an opportunity you'll
never get again, you understand? Think about it. This is your older sister. What
was she like when you were growing up? Hmmm? How did she treat you? How did you
feel about her?"
	"She--she was kind of a bitch," Tommy said. "She kind of pushed me
around, you know? Called me a creep and a jerk and stuff like that."
	"Yeah. I bet she did. That's how big sisters are. But now you can get
back at her, Tommy. Now you can push her around like she pushed you, only
better. Because you can fuck her, Tommy, literally. And whatever else you want
to do. She'll do anything you want, Tommy. Anything at all. Isn't that right,
Pammy slut?"
	"Brad--" She said it automatically, knowing it would do no good. Knowing
it was hopeless. "Brad, for--"
	"Isn't that right, Pammy whore?" Brad repeated, glaring at her.
	"Yes," Pamela said.
	"Tell him."
	"I'll do anything you want, Tommy," she said flatly.
	"Now show him," Brad said.
	She looked at him.
	"Suck his cock," Brad said.
	Tommy gasped.
	Pamela felt the tears burning at her eyes. She blinked them away. Slowly
she moved toward Tommy's chair until she was standing in front of him. Tommy sat
as if paralyzed. Pamela slowly sank to her knees. She tried to ignore the
insidious little worm that crawled in her stomach as her knees hit the hard
floor. The worm that was the knowledge of what a degraded picture she made,
kneeling there on the floor in front of her own brother, her little brother,
stark naked, prepared to pleasure him with her mouth, prepared to give herself
to him, shamefully, humiliatingly, unwillingly, hating it, hating herself for
doing it, but unable to desist. Because of the worm, crawling into her blood,
crawling into her brain, twisting her thoughts, twisting her feelings, her
needs, making her fingers work at his fly even as the tears overflowed now,
making her open his zipper and pull out his hard young cock. Making her look up
at Brad, standing over them, knowing that he would command her again to do as he
said. And, at his command, making her take her brother's penis in her mouth,
hearing his sharp cry of "Oh, Jesus!", then suck it and lick it and suck it some
more, though she had some difficulty keeping it in her mouth because of how
Tommy was squirming and bucking in his chair, his cries of pleasure filling her
ears. Pleasure mixed with triumph at what his older sister was being forced to
do to him.
	He couldn't last long, and he didn't, shooting off into her mouth within
a minute, and Brad told her to swallow it all, and she did. Tommy was still
moaning as his cock slipped from her lips, and Brad said, "Don't worry, Tommy
boy, this is just the beginning. Let's go up to Pammy's room now. You young guys
are so resilient, I bet by the time we get there you'll be ready to fuck her."
	He was right. In her bedroom he had Pamela lie down on the bed and told
Tommy to get undressed. Tommy was naked in no time, and his cock was hard again.
"Good boy," Brad said. "Okay, buddy, she's all yours. Go ahead."
	Tommy was breathing hard as he approached the bed. He shot a quick
glance at Brad. "I--I want to touch her first," he said unsteadily. "Can I?"
	"Hey, you can do anything you want with her, buddy," Brad replied. "I
told you that, didn't I?"
	Tommy reached out a shaky hand and put it on her breast. He caught his
breath, and then his other hand was on her, and he was touching her all over,
playing with her breasts, squeezing them, tweaking her nipples, sliding over her
stomach, her hips, her thighs, and then between her legs, rubbing and probing
her sex. Pamela lay still, staring at the ceiling as he explored her, but she
could do nothing about the hardness of her nipples or the moisture at her
crotch.
	Then Tommy couldn't wait any longer, and he climbed onto the bed and
mounted her, his body pressing down on hers, his hips moving jerkily as his hard
cock probed blindly for her opening. "Help him, Pammy slut," Brad said, and she
reached down, found his member and guided it to her entrance. With a hoarse cry
he pushed inside her all the way, and then he was rutting at her, his hips
moving like a triphammer, his hands groping for her breasts, his breath like a
bellows in her ear. He didn't take much longer than he had taken in her mouth,
and he cursed as he spurted his seed inside her, then collapsed on top of her.
	"Don't let him go, Pammy slut," Brad said. "Keep him inside you till
he's hard again. Help him out. Next time he'll last longer."
	"Damn you, Brad," she whispered, but she clenched her vaginal muscles in
an attempt to keep Tommy's shrinking cock from sliding out of her. Tommy gasped.
She continued the effort, clenching and unclenching her pussy around him, and
soon she could feel him growing again, getting hard, and then with a groan he
was thrusting at her again.
	"Fuck him back, Pammy cunt," Brad said. "Go on, make it good for him.
Show him what a great lay his slut sister is. Do it, cockslut."
	Pamela closed her eyes. She put her arms around the panting boy on top
of her, her hands moving over his skin. Her knees came up, and her hips began to
move with him, matching as well as they could his jerky, sporadic strokes, and
then taking over the pace, leading him into a steady rhythmic tempo, gradually
accelerating. Tommy was moaning, and now she wrapped her legs around his body,
pulling him deeper inside her, thrusting back at him with her writhing body.
"That's the girl," she heard Brad say gleefully. "Kiss him, Pam. Give it all to
him."
	She opened her eyes as Tommy's red, sweaty face moved close to hers, and
she felt a sudden sickening revulsion for him, and for herself, and she met his
panting, moaning mouth with hers and opened her lips to his wildly probing
tongue and let it explore her mouth roughly as she continued to move with him,
and when his tongue withdrew she followed it with her own, searching his mouth
in turn, but sensually, caressingly, showing him how good she was, just as Brad
had ordered, and then Tommy was gasping loudly and then yelling into her mouth,
and then he stiffened, gave one final deep thrust inside her and collapsed
again.
	After a moment he rolled off her and sat on the side of the bed, panting
and shaking his head as if dazed.
	"Good, isn't she?" Brad said, grinning. "You're sister's a real whore,
Tommy. How did you like it?"
	"Jesus," Tommy breathed. "Christ, it was--it was fantastic!" He paused
as his breathing gradually slowed. "Only--" he began, and then stopped.
	"Only what?" Brad said.
	Tommy hesitated. "Well...it's just...I mean...Well, I heard last night,
you know?"
	"You heard what?" Brad said. "You mean all that noise Pam was making?"
	"Yeah. I mean...yelling and screaming and all. You know? How did you
make her do that?"
	"Ah. I see. You want to make your sister scream, is that it?"
	"Well, I--I just..."
	"You can do that, Tommy," Brad said. "All you have to do is get her
really turned on. Give her what she really likes. You know what that is?"
	Tommy shook his head.
	"Your sister is a pain whore, Tommy. She loves being hurt. That's what
really gets her going. You want to hurt her, Tommy?"
	Tommy's eyes went wide. He looked at his sister. She turned her head
away. "Yeah," he said huskily.
	"Runs in the family, I guess," Brad said, grinning. "Okay then." He
unbuckled his belt, then pulled it out of his pants and handed it to Tommy. It
was a broad black leather belt with a brass buckle. Tommy held it by the buckle
and stared at it, his mouth open, his breathing suddenly quicker. "Try that,"
Brad said. "Try whipping her with it. And don't hold back, Tommy. The harder the
better. Right, Pammy?"
	Her throat felt tight. "Brad--"
	"Turn over, Pammy cunt."
	It was too much. Somehow the idea of letting her little brother whip her
was more degrading than anything he had done up to now. She couldn't take that.
She couldn't. "Brad, listen--"
	"You want him to do it on your front?" Brad said.
	She turned over.
	Tommy hefted the belt, taking a step or two back from the bed. She heard
Brad instructing him to wrap it around his hand a couple of times to get a good
grip and adjust the length. Then he was ready. Pamela closed her eyes and
waited.
	She expected the first blow to be on her buttocks, but it wasn't. It was
across her upper back, and it was harder than she had expected. Her body jerked,
and she gasped sharply and gave a small cry. Her hands reached out to grasp at
the vertical bars in the headboard, so she would have something to hold on to.
	"Attaboy, Tommy," she heard Brad say. "Do it hard, now."
	Another blow, this one just below the first, and harder. She moaned
loudly through clenched teeth and lips, but her body squirmed involuntarily. She
could hear Tommy's excited breathing, hear him grunt as he brought the belt down
with all his strength. The third blow was across her ass. It stung mightily, but
was more easily absorbed than those on her back. Tommy must have noted her
milder reaction, for he returned to her back for the next lash. And the next.
And the next...
	The blows were coming more quickly now, and, it seemed to her, even
harder. Tommy was soon panting loudly, and whipping her all over her back, from
her shoulders to her waist, with an occasional lash across her buttocks and even
her upper thighs. Her body was jerking hard now in reaction to each blow, and
her moans turned to cries, her clenched teeth opening helplessly, her cries
getting louder and louder, and Tommy was tireless, whipping her and whipping
her, and then she was screaming, screaming herself hoarse, screaming with the
pain and the agony, and also with hatred of him, and with horror at herself for
letting this happen. And, of course, with passion.
	Tommy stopped only when his arm grew too tired to continue. Pamela's
screams became strangled moans, interspersed with sobs. She didn't have to look
at her brother to know that he was hard again, and she wasn't surprised when she
felt him climbing onto the bed, his hands scrabbling at her still quivering
body.
	"Don't turn her over, Tommy," she heard Brad say. "Why don't you take
her in the ass? It's a lot of fun that way, and it'll hurt her all the more."
	Then there were hands on her lower body--they must have been Brad's,
they were too sure of themselves to be Tommy's--pulling her onto her knees so
that her backside was up in the air. "Okay, go ahead," Brad's voice said.
	Tommy's hands now, on her buttocks. Pulling them apart. His hardness
poking at her, probing, and then he was pushing into her and she was screaming
again as his demanding cock forced its way inside her, unlubricated by anything
but his oozing pre-come. Instinctively she tried to pull away, but there was
nowhere she could go. "Hold onto her tits, Tommy!" she heard Brad say. "Don't
let her get away. She loves it!" And now Tommy's hands reached around and under
her body and grasped at her breasts, clamping them hard, pulling her backward,
and his tormenting prick slid deeper into her tight resisting passage, inch by
inch. She thought she might black out, but she didn't, and then she felt the bed
sag, and she opened her eyes and saw Brad in front of her. He was kneeling over
her outstretched arms, his hard naked cock pointing right at her face. His hand
came out to grasp her hair and he pulled her head up, then shoved his cock into
her open, yelling mouth. Her screams were muffled by his flesh, but they didn't
stop. Tommy was forcing himself all the way up her ass, his hands squeezing her
breasts with all his strength, and then he was pumping at her, fucking her
agonized asshole, his hands clamping and twisting her breasts in rhythm with his
strokes, and Brad was fucking her sobbing, shouting mouth, and then she was
coming, howling out her unholy, helpless ecstasy of pain and degradation, her
body convulsing, twisting, bucking, causing Tommy to shoot everything he had
left up into her backside, and Brad to empty his jism down her throat, cutting
off her screaming as she choked on it and swallowed it down.
	Tommy's hands fell away from her breasts, and a moment later she felt
another surge of pain as he pulled his detumescing cock out of her ass. But Brad
kept his in her mouth, holding on to her hair to keep her head in place, and
telling her to clean him off with her tongue, which she did, sobbing and moaning
and gasping for breath around the slowly hardening flesh.
	"Now you know what your sister is, Tommy," Brad said. "A cocksucking,
pain-loving, filthy little whore. How does it feel to have a sister like that,
Tommy?"
	Tommy didn't say anything. He was gazing in fascination at what Pamela
was doing, but even he appeared to be satiated now.
	"All fucked out, Tommy?" Brad said. "Well, you did great, kid. Tell you
what. Your parents aren't gonna be back till tonight. Why don't you come around
later on, when you've got your strength back, and you can have some more, okay?"
	"Yeah," Tommy breathed. "Oh Jesus, yeah."
	Pamela whimpered softly. Brad's hands tightened in her hair. "Hey,
Tommy?" he said as her brother moved toward the door.
	"Yeah?"
	"Bring some friends," Brad said.
                                   #
	She could hardly move the next morning, and she didn't bother to go down
for breakfast. Brad told her parents that she wasn't feeling well. Her mother
wanted to look in on her, but Brad said she was sleeping, and she should wait a
little while.
	Tommy had become the hero of the neighborhood youth. Following Brad's
suggestion, he had brought five of his friends along the previous afternoon to
sample the charms of his pretty, sexy and unbelievably pliant sister. There is
nothing as hormone-driven, as animalistic, as insatiable, and as cruel as the
young teen-age male, especially in a pack. They had taken her roughly and
repeatedly, without mercy and without pause, in every way they could think of,
and in every combination, for hours on end, while Brad looked on and encouraged
them, and they had laughed and chortled at her obedience and her helplessness
and her pain, and worst of all, at her responsiveness, as in spite of her tears
and screams and futile gestures of resistance, she had come again and again,
unable to stop herself as they put her through hell. At the end they had put her
in the bathtub and had all pissed on her, all of them at once, soaking her from
head to foot with their urine, and they had practically laughed themselves sick
as they did it, especially when she had climaxed again.
	And now it was time for Tommy to pay Brad back for that opportunity, as
he had said he would, by helping him out. How, Pamela had no idea, but she
became acutely apprehensive when Brad called Tommy into her room, sat him down
in a straight wooden chair and began tying him into it with some rope he had
picked up somewhere.
	"Now remember, kid, you've got nothing to worry about," Brad told him.
"I'm not really gonna hurt you, it's all part of the act, okay?"
	"Okay," Tommy said. "But you're not gonna hurt her either, right?"
	"We're just gonna have some fun with her," Brad replied. "Just like we
did with your sister."
	"But--"
	"Wait!" Pamela broke in. "Brad, what--what are you--you're not going
to--"
	Brad looked at her coldly. "What's your problem, Pammy cunt?" he said.
"Didn't I tell you I was gonna have you fuck your whole family? Didn't I?"
	Pamela had started to shake. She hugged herself, trying to control her
rising panic. "Not my mother!" she gasped out. "Oh Christ, you can't--"
	"Why not?" Brad grinned. "Hey, your mother may not exactly be a
teen-ager, but she still looks pretty good. How old is she anyway, forty-five
maybe? She's still got her figure and all, and women that age can be pretty damn
hot, you know?"
	"You filthy son of a bitch," Pamela said flatly. She was still trembling
a little. "If you think--"
	Brad turned to her. "If I think what, Pammy whore?" he said softly. "If
I think you'll do what I tell you to do? If I think you're a low, crawling,
dog-fucking piece of shit who would spread her legs for every last bum in the
world if I wanted you to? If I think there's nothing, not one fucking thing in
this whole damn universe, no matter how shameful or degrading or disgusting it
is, that wouldn't turn you on if I made you do it? That wouldn't give you your
twisted kicks and make you as hot as the worthless fucking whore you are? If I
think that? Then what? Would I be wrong, Pammy slave? Would I be mistaken,
fucktoy? Would I?"
	Pamela bowed her head, tears blinding her eyes. Brad stepped toward her,
tangled a hand in her hair and pulled her head up and back as she gasped with
pain.  "Would I, bitch?" he demanded.
	"No," Pamela replied in a choked whisper.
	"Damn right." Still holding her hair, Brad spat in her face. Then he let
her go and returned to finish tying Tommy into the chair.
	When he was done, he left the room, returning a minute later. "Your
father's working out in the yard," he announced. "I'm sure he'll join us
eventually, but we don't need him right now. I've told your mother she can come
up and see you now. She'll be here in a minute." With that he pulled out a
switchblade knife, moved behind Tommy's chair and held the knife at the boy's
throat.
	Pamela wanted to scream, but she didn't have the breath. She felt numb
and weak, and she was trembling again.
	In a moment she heard her mother's footsteps approaching her room. She
knocked on the door, and Brad called to her to come in. She was carrying a cup
of tea that was evidently meant for Pamela, but when she saw her son tied to the
chair, with Brad pressing the knife to his throat, she dropped the cup with a
scream. Her eyes stared wildly, and she swayed, her face going ghastly pale.
	"Don't worry, Marie," Brad said to her, before she was able to form
words. "Nothing's going to happen to Tommy. Just as long as you cooperate with
us, okay?"
	Her mouth worked, and she looked as if she might faint. Her staring eyes
darted spasmodically around the room, taking in Pamela seated naked on the bed,
then going back to Brad and the knife at Tommy's throat. She tried to speak, but
her throat was tight and she had to swallow once or twice before the words would
come. "What--what--I don't--"
	"Calm down, Marie," Brad said. "Everything's fine. Nobody's gonna get
hurt here. Unless you don't do what I tell you. See, that would make me mad, and
I'd have to slit poor Tommy's throat. Now you don't want me to do that, do you,
Marie?"
	A strangled moan came from the woman, and she shook her head
frantically. "Please," she gasped out. She was shaking now, and having trouble
catching her breath. "What--why are you--please don't--"
	"What do you say, Marie?" Brad said. "Tommy's life is in your hands
here. All you have to do is just what I tell you to do, and he'll be fine. Will
you do that, Marie?"
	She nodded jerkily. "Yes. Please. What--what do you want me to..."
	"It's very simple, Marie. Just follow instructions and everything wil be
fine. You can start by taking off your clothes."
	Pamela's mother looked like she had been hit in the solar plexus. She
staggered back a step or two, and her face went paler than ever, and then
flushed a bright red. She shook her head, as if she couldn't believe what she
had heard. "What?" she panted. "What do you--"
	Brad sighed, and pulled Tommy's head back by the hair, making a gesture
with the knife as if to cut his throat. Marie screamed. "NO! NO! OH MY GOD..."
	Brad released Tommy's hair, but still held the knife threateningly.
"Then do what I tell you, Marie. Take it off. Go on."
	Marie was shaking harder than before. Her hands twitched, but she seemed
incapable of moving them. Again she glanced at her daughter on the bed.
"Pamela..." she gasped.
	"Pamela can't help you," Brad said. "Pamela does what I tell her, and
now so do you. Isn't that right, Marie? See, I told Pamela before we came that I
wanted her to have sex with everybody in her family. Just like she did with old
David when he was alive." Pamela's mother stared at him, looking as though she'd
been struck by lightning. But Brad went on unheedingly. "She's already made it
with her father, and with her brother Tommy here." Marie was shaking her head, a
little mewling sound coming from her throat. "Oh yes, it's true," Brad said.
"Isn't it, Pamela? Tell her."
	Pamela didn't look at her mother. "Yes," she said flatly. "It's true."
	An inhuman cry came from the shaken woman, and she began to crumple to
the floor. "Stand up, Marie!" Brad commanded loudly. "Or I'll kill Tommy right
now." Marie somehow managed to will the strength back into her legs. She
remained standing, moving back against the wall, her body still shaking, the
whimpering sounds still coming from her mouth. "And now it's your turn, Marie,"
Brad said. "Get undressed. Now."
	Pamela's mother now began to sob. She was wearing a blue housecoat, a
one-piece garment that zipped up the front. Slowly, obviously forcing herself at
every moment, she raised her badly trembling hands to the zipper at her throat,
crying hard as she pulled it down. Her head was bowed, the tears dropping from
her eyes to the floor. She kept fumbling at the zipper tab, her fingers slipping
off it and grasping it again, pulling it further down, until the garment was
open. She paused for a long moment, and then, without raising her head, slipped
it off. Under it she had on a white cotton brassiere and a pair of old-fashioned
full-cut panties, also white.
	"Look at me, Marie," Brad commanded, and she slowly raised her head,
still sobbing. "You know, you've still got a pretty good body, Marie. Real nice
legs. You really keep yourself in shape. That's nice. Nice for old Ben, and now
nice for us. Show us the rest."
	"P-please..." Pamela's mother whimpered, between sobs. Brad just made a
threatening flourish with the knife, and she gave a little scream of fear, and
hastily brought her hands behind her to unhook the brassiere. Her head bowed
again as she forced herself to pull it off. Her breasts, while lacking the firm
springiness of youth, were full and rounded, rising and falling attractively
with her agitated breathing. She paused, raising her head briefly to look at
Brad as if hoping for a reprieve, but he simply looked back at her, waiting,
knife in hand. With a strangled moan of despair and helplessness, she pushed her
panties down and stepped out of them. Her pubic hair was dark brown, like
Pamela's, attesting to the fact that the short brown hair on her head was still
its natural color.
	When she was naked she covered herself with her arms as best she could,
crouching over to hide as much of her body as possible. Brad just laughed and
told her to straighten up and let them look at her, and she did, the tears still
flowing, though her sobs were quieter now.
	"Go over to the bed, Marie," Brad told her. "And lie down there by
Pammy, so she can complete the family circle, so to speak. Go on."
	Slowly, as if walking were something she had just learned to do, the
naked woman moved to the bed and sat down beside her equally naked daughter.
Brad told her again to lie down, and she reluctantly did so. "Okay, Pammy slut,"
Brad said then. "You know what to do. Eat her out. And make it good for her,
fucktoy. I want to see her come before you're through. Okay?"
	Pamela's mother half rose from the bed, an unbelieving cry coming from
her as she stared at Brad, as if just now realizing what he had in mind for her.
Pamela felt numb. There was not even a plea in her eyes as she gazed at him,
knowing he was not about to relent, knowing she was not able to resist him.
	"I'm sorry, Mom," she said wearily. Then she moved to the foot of the
bed, facing her mother. Putting her hands on the woman's trembling thighs, she
slowly pulled them apart so she could crouch between them.
	"Pamela--" her mother gasped. "For god's sake--"
	"Just let it happen, Marie," Brad said. "You don't have to do a thing.
Lie back and enjoy it. Think about how you're saving Tommy's life, okay?"
	Marie sobbed again as she lay back, putting an arm over her face to hide
her shame. Pamela gently pulled her thighs further apart, exposing the pinkness
of her mother's vagina. God, how could she do this? Her own mother! And with her
brother watching... She tried to ignore the faint stirrings of the familiar worm
in her stomach, that insidious little worm that reveled in her degradation, that
moistened her cunt and made her nipples hard and quickened her breathing even as
she shook and burned and felt like throwing up with shame and humiliation and
disgust. Closing her eyes, she lowered her head between her mother's thighs and
found her open pussy with her mouth.
	Her mother gave a cry of denial, and for a moment brought her hands to
Pamela's shoulders, trying to push her away; but then, evidently recalling
Tommy's supposed danger, she let them drop. Her sobs continued unabated as
Pamela proceeded to do what Brad demanded. She had made love to women
before--there was Gretchen, of course, and David had occasionally forced her to
gratify some of his female as well as his male friends--and she was not
unskilled. Brad had said he wanted her to make her mother come, and she knew he
would not let her stop until she did, so she did her best, using her lips and
her tongue to tease and arouse and stimulate the woman's most sensitive parts,
penetrating her vagina with her agile tongue, kissing and stroking her inner and
outer pussy lips, licking, sucking and nibbling her clitoris, even using her
hands to add to the stimulation.
	For a long while her mother showed no response, only continuing to sob
steadily, one arm still covering her face. Between the sobs Pamela could hear
Tommy's loud, excited breathing. Evidently he was enjoying the show. Brad made
an occasional comment, encouraging her not to slacken her efforts, but for the
most part was silent. Pamela worked on, trying not to think of what she was
doing, or what she was feeling, forcing herself to concentrate on the task at
hand.
	Then, after a time, her mother's sobs seemed gradually to diminish, both
in volume and frequency, and the tension in her body appeared to relax somewhat.
Occasionally she gave a little hiccup-like intake of breath as Pamela diligently
licked and sucked on her clitoris. A minute later a tiny moan escaped her mouth,
as if unwillingly.
	"Hey, her nipples are getting hard," Brad said. "Feel them, Pammy cunt."
Pamela reached up and put her hands on her mother's breasts. The nipples were
indeed stiffening, and she brushed her fingers over them, bringing a whimper
from the other woman, a tiny sound, but one in which protest, shame and passion
were mingled inextricably. Pamela continued to stroke her mother's breasts as
her mouth went on with its work.
	Pamela's mother was obviously doing all she could to ignore or resist
the sensations that her daughter's ministrations were arousing in her, but it
was soon also obvious that she was not succeeding. Her breathing was uneven, her
little hiccups turned to spasmodic gasps, and her moans were louder now, and
almost continuous, the element of pleasure in them, however unwelcome, becoming
more dominant. Her body was squirming slightly, and then it began to stiffen,
her hips almost leaving the bed as she strained toward the source of the
sensations that were overwhelming her. "Noo," she moaned helplessly, "nooo..."
as something inside her still tried to fight against surrendering to her body,
but it was no use. With one arm still flung across her face, her other hand
clutched at the bedclothes and she went taut, her entire body straining for a
long moment, before she gave a cry of release and of despair, spasming again and
again in the throes of the orgasm her daughter had given her.
	Brad was laughing. "That's the girl!" he said gleefully. "I knew you
could do it, Pamela! How you feeling, Marie? You enjoy that?"
	Pamela's mother did not answer him. She was sobbing again, even as she
still quivered in the aftermath of her climax.
	"I did," Brad said. "And so did Tommy here. I'm hard as a rock from
watching that, and I bet old Tom is too. Right, Tommy? So what do you say,
Marie? Which one of us you want to do first?"
	Pamela closed her eyes, but not before she saw the look of utter horror
on her mother's face. She had thought she had just undergone the ultimate in
shame and degradation, but with Brad there was always more. Pamela had learned
that. And yet she was still here.
	"I guess you better do Tommy," Brad said. "Or the poor kid's likely to
come in his pants. Come on, Marie, get over here. Since Tommy can't come to
you."
	Pamela could feel the bed shake as her mother literally quivered with
terror and disbelief. "You--you can't do that!" she gasped hoarsely. "My
god--you can't--"
	"Would you rather have him dead?" Brad said. "It's up to you, Marie. A
simple blow job from his mother or a slit throat. Which will it be?"
	A wrenching sob came from the woman. "Please!" she got got out. "I
can't--" And then she screamed. At the same time there was a shout from Tommy.
	Pamela opened her eyes to see that Brad had actually pricked the flesh
at the side of Tommy's throat with the point of the knife. A small spot of blood
oozed out. Tommy's eyes were wide with fear. Brad leaned down and whispered
something in his ear, and he seemed to relax a bit. But his mother was moaning
uncontrollably. Swiftly now she got off the bed and walked, trembling, toward
Tommy's chair.
	"Good girl, Marie," Brad said. "On your knees now. You'll have to get
Tommy's pants open. Then you know what to do. I'm sure you've given blow jobs to
your husband, right?"
	Marie did not answer him. Slowly and unsteadily, she lowered herself to
her knees. Still shaking, and emitting little whimpering moans, she brought her
hands to Tommy's fly and managed to lower his zipper. His cock was indeed hard,
straining at his pants, and she had little difficulty working it free. It stood
naked and throbbing in front of her face, and she looked up at Brad, her face
white, her eyes pleading wildly.
	Brad smiled down at her, still holding the knife menacingly. "Make it
good, Marie," he told her.
	An unearthly sound came from her lips as she lowered her head and took
her son's penis into her mouth. She began to cry again as she sucked it, the
sobs muffled by the rigid flesh as she moved her mouth up and down. Tommy's
breathing became even louder and more rapid than before.
	At that point Pamela heard her father's voice calling from downstairs.
Calling for his wife. "Ah," Brad said. "Just in time. No, don't stop, Marie."
The woman had lifted her head from Tommy at the sound, but Brad grabbed her hair
and pushed it back down. "Just keep sucking, lady. You stop and I'll kill you
too, you got it?" With that he moved to the door, opened it and called out,
"We're up here, Ben. Come on up."
	Pamela's mother was crying harder, but she didn't dare to take her mouth
away from her son's penis again. Pamela heard the sound of her father's steps on
the stairs. Brad grinned and crossed the room to stand behind the kneeling
woman. Still holding the knife in one hand, he unzipped his trousers with the
other, and brought out his stiff cock. He knelt down behind Marie just as
Pamela's father entered the room.
	Pamela didn't want to look at him, but she couldn't keep her eyes away.
His face turned absolutely white as he took in the scene before him--his wife of
twenty-five years, stark naked, on her knees, with their son's penis in her
mouth, her head moving up and down on him, while his daughter's boyfriend knelt
behind her with a knife in his hand, obviously about to defile her further. His
mouth opened, but emitted only a horrified choking sound. He staggered for a
moment, then lurched forward a step, but stopped when Brad placed the knife at
the back of Marie's neck.
	"Hi, Ben," Brad said, grinning again. "Glad you could join us." And with
that he brought himself up against Marie's crouching body, quickly adjusted
himself at the entrance to her vagina and thrust himself inside her from the
rear. Marie gave a stifled cry of torment and her head came up reflexively, but
Brad again pushed it down, forcing her mouth back over Tommy's cock. Pamela's
father also cried out and seemed about to throw himself on Brad, but instead he
stood as if paralyzed, his mouth working helplessly, gasping for breath as if he
might collapse at any second.
	"Just take it easy, Ben," Brad said, slowly pushing himself deeper
inside the sobbing, trembling woman. "You don't want me to have to hurt your
wife, do you? Or your son. So just relax, okay? We're having a little party
here, that's all. A little fun. You should have seen how much Marie liked it
when Pamela ate her pussy. Almost as much as you when she sucked your dick."
	Pamela's father was obviously in shock. He shook his head from side to
side and tried to speak, but no words came out, only hoarse groaning sounds.
	Brad now began to fuck Pamela's mother, moving slowly in and out of her.
"Hey, your wife is really nice, Ben," he said mockingly. "Pretty tight cunt for
a woman her age. You're a lucky man, Benny." He reached around with his free
hand to cup and squeeze one of Marie's breasts. "Nice titties too. Must run in
the family, I guess."
	Tommy was squirming in his chair now as his mother's enforced sucking
went on. Brad continued to move in and out of her, unhurriedly. "See, Ben,
before we came here I told Pamela I wanted her to fuck everybody in her family.
Just to show her what a filthy crawling shit-eating slave she is." Pamela closed
her eyes, then opened them again. "And now she's done it. Oh yeah, you didn't
know she screwed Tommy too, did you, Ben? Too bad you don't have a dog, I'd make
her hump him as well. It wouldn't be the first time she's done that, right,
Pamela slut?"
	Pamela hugged herself, closing her eyes again. She was trembling
slightly.
	"I asked you a question, Pammy cunt," Brad said. "I want an answer.
We're all waiting here."
	Pamela opened her eyes. "Yes," she whispered, then said more clearly,
"Yes. No. It wouldn't be the first time."
	Brad was moving a little faster now. Pamela's father's legs gave out,
and he crumpled slowly to the floor and put his head in his hands.
	"Your father looks a little depressed, Pammy twat," Brad said. "Go cheer
him up a little. Suck his cock for him. Just like you did before. Go on."
	And Pamela obeyed him.
	Of course.
                                #  
	But this time her father did not respond to her efforts. His shock and
sorrow and despair were too consuming, no matter how much she tried, with Brad's
encouragement, to arouse him with her lips and tongue. Brad had her hold his
limp penis in her mouth nevertheless, while he continued to fuck her mother.
When Tommy came, with a yell of ecstasy, into her mouth, Brad made sure the
still sobbing woman took it all, and swallowed as much as she could, before
allowing her to release her son's cock. He then proceeded to take her in
earnest, moving faster and faster until he came deep inside her with a series of
satisfied grunts.
	Marie collapsed to the floor as Brad pulled out of her, and it seemed to
Pamela that her mother might go on crying forever. Brad rose and moved to stand
over Pamela as she still held her father's penis in her mouth. Reaching down, he
grasped her hair and pulled her head up, bringing her mouth to his crotch.
"Clean me off, shit mouth," he said. Pamela took him into her mouth and licked
and sucked his own and her mother's fluids away until he was clean. Then he drew
away and, once more, spat directly into her face.
	"I'm done with you, Pammy whore," Brad said. "I've had what I should
have had a long time ago, if it wasn't for that fucking brother of yours. I just
hope that son of a bitch is looking up from Hell right now, and eating his
fucking guts out. I'm done with all of you, thank god. Have a good life,
fucktoy." And he went out, leaving Pamela sitting there, numb and shivering, in
the midst of her shamed and shattered family.
                                   #
	Have a good life?
	She had no life. She had no job, she couldn't face her family any more.
There was nothing she wanted to do, no one she wanted to talk to.
	Except one person.
	His number was still in the memory of the little cell phone he'd given
her. It took her a while, after she got back home, to get up the courage to call
it.
	"It's Pamela," she said when he answered.
	Without a word to her, he hung up.
	He was right. Why should he have anything to do with her now? She was
shit. She knew that.
	She couldn't stop herself from calling again. This time the phone rang
for a long while before he picked it up.
	"I have nothing to say to you, Pamela," he said then. "You are not worth
my time and trouble."
	"I know," she said. "I'm--"
	"You were to come to me last weekend. You did not. You did not even
call. You are untrustworthy, and I won't put up with that from my slaves. Do not
call me again."
	"Wait!" she said frantically. "Please! I'm sorry, I--Oh god, I'm so
sorry. This--this thing happened--I just--Oh Christ, I'm sorry, listen, please,
I--I want to come to you. I'll do anything, I'll be yours completely, I'll stay
with you forever, I swear it! I want to, I--I need to. Oh god, I have
nothing...I am nothing...please, I just want to belong to you, please..." She
was crying now.
	There was a long pause. 	
	"Please..." she sobbed.
	"Listen to me, Pamela," he said. "You are not worthy to be my slave. Do
you understand that?"
	"I do," she whispered. "But--"
	"Be quiet. If I allow you to come here, it will be in some other
capacity. Something less than a slave. Less than a whore. Less than a human
being. Is that clear, Pamela?"
	"Anything," she breathed. "Oh god, anything you want. Please."
	"You remember King, don't you, Pamela?"
	The dog. "Yes." She closed her eyes.
	"Poor King has suffered a loss recently. His regular mate died. He has
others, of course, but this one was special to him. He needs a replacement. You
can fill that spot, Pamela. He did seem to enjoy you so when you were here. You
will be King's mate. His bitch, literally. And, of course, service his friends
as well. You will live in the kennels, you will eat and sleep with the dogs, and
live like them. I will never touch you, except to punish you, which I will do
frequently. That will be your life for the forseeable future, and possibly
forever. Do you still wish to come?"
	Pamela felt dizzy. She had to clutch the phone tightly to keep from
fainting. But there was never a question of her answer. It was, after all, what
she deserved. More than she deserved.
	"I'll be on the next plane," Pamela said.
                                    #
	He didn't meet her at the airport this time. Instead, there were two
young men, grinning, gap-toothed, poorly clothed and not very clean, waiting for
her at the gate. "You Pamela?" one of them said, looking her salaciously up and
down.
	"Yes."
	"Man told us to give you a ride. Take you to his place. Said you'd be
nice to us if we did."
	"Real nice," the other one said.
	"That true?" the first one said.
	Pamela shrugged resignedly. "If that's what he said."
	"Hot damn!" the first one said. "Come on."
	They had an old beat-up pickup truck. There was only room for two in the
front. They put her in the back.
	Somewhere along the way, on a stretch of deserted road, they pulled the
truck over and got in the back with her.
	They were very eager and not very gentle. They tore her clothing off and
threw it out onto the ground. "He said you won't be needing clothes any more,"
one of them said. Then they proceeded to take her, both at once. Most of the
time one was in her vagina and another in her mouth, but they used her ass too.
It went on for a long time, and she was surprised at the number of times they
were able to come, in her and on her. But finally they were finished. They got
back into the front and the truck drove on.
	When it stopped again they were in front of the house that she
remembered. It seemed strange that it had only been three weeks since she had
been there. The young men didn't move to help her out of the truck. She had to
jump out on her own, and she stumbled and fell to the ground. The driver stuck
his head out of the truck window. "He said if he's not home you should just wait
till he comes back," he told her. And with that they drove away.
	Pamela got to her feet and walked slowly up to the front door. There was
no doorbell. She knocked and waited, but nothing happened. She knocked again,
more loudly. There was no sound from inside, but from somewhere out back--from
the kennels, presumably, her future home--she heard the barking of dogs.
	King. Whose bitch she was to be. With whom she was to live and eat and
sleep and fornicate from now on. There was a churning in her stomach, and a tiny
trickle of moisture between her thighs. Yes, it was more than she deserved.
	She turned to look out at the deserted road, and after a minute lowered
herself slowly to her knees. The countryside on either side of the road was
bleak and barren. The sun was hot, the sky a sheer unforgiving blue.  Pamela
kept her eyes on the road as she knelt there on the hard ground, naked and
motionless, waiting for her Master to come home.

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