Jason, Armand Wilson's majordomo, found his employer in his library, sipping brandy. "Witherspoon informs me that there has been significant sexual activity among the distaff," he intoned.
"Young Mister Adams?" Armand guessed.
Jason displayed his teeth in what passed for a smile. "Indeed. But before that, your ex-wife put on an impressive display of obedience to your directive to please herself with the toys."
Armand chuckled, "Didn't she do that last night?"
Jason nodded. "Yes, and of course we have decent infrared video. But today she apparently adjusted the curtains to ensure visibility from our observation post and then put on quite a show!"
Armand laughed. "Sharon is a source of continual amusement! No doubt she wishes to be spared any gang-bang scenes -- although I KNOW that she would break down and enjoy it! If she only knew that we have the interior of the house covered in depth..." Another chuckle escaped him. "I assume that the raw catch is on the way?"
"Yes, Sir."
"I'll see it when it arrives." Armand waved dismissal, already thinking about what he would do for diversion while watching. Perhaps Felicia... "Oh, Jason," he murmured, prompting the majordomo to turn and face him, "Have you and Charles made up?"
Jason showed his teeth. Over the weekend, Felicia -- now known as 'the Wench' -- had occasioned a certain loss of face for Jason, and Armand had enforced it by elevating Charles, the head groundskeeper, to Overseer of his as yet tiny stable of actual slaves. Jason was still unhappy with having to share his domain with the interloper, but he figured that Charles would fail to please Armand at some point in the near future and all would return to normal. In the meantime, Charles had made shift to heal the breach by allowing Jason to vent his irritation upon the hapless Wench, and he had spent several hours making her life truly miserable despite having Charles looking on as chaperone. He'd engendered abject fear in the young redhead, and for now, that would do. "Yes, Sir."
"Good. Have the Wench deliver the take when it arrives."
"Yes, Sir." Jason dipped his head and stalked out.
Ninety minutes later, while Armand was going over production figures for the Midwestern states, the Wench arrived carrying a couple of DVDs and a few sheets of hardcopy. The statuesque redhead entered and knelt, nude, beside Armand's chair, presenting the documents. Until very recently, the Wench had gone by the name Felicia, and had been pursuing a promising career in modeling -- but about a month previously, she had drifted into Armand's orbit and become a toy. Armand had submitted her to a gentle course of the usual indignities, expecting more or less the usual rate of descent into depravity, but Felicia had surprised him by breaking almost immediately, becoming pliant to the point of overriding her instinct for self- preservation. Armand had subjected her to a whole catalog of tortures and humiliations, but Felicia merely absorbed the abuse and presented herself for more. Many masters would have been thrilled to death to obtain a slave of such pliancy, but Armand enjoyed observing the struggle, both physical and mental, of victims under his control. Felicia didn't struggle, either physically or mentally; she merely endured, and made shift to enjoy her mistreatment. Armand's first impulse had been to put her back on the street with his other ruined playthings, but it became clear that Felicia was altered to the point of being unable to operate properly in a 'normal' environment; she had needs and hungers the slaking of which would have no 'safe' venues in the outside world. So Armand had accepted her total submission and assigned Charles as overseer; she was the 'house slave', her station beneath even the young kids who maintained the grounds of Armand's estate. Her primary job function was to act as a vessel for the sexual energies of anyone Armand designated, whether it be himself, houseguests, servants... Charles' job was to see to it that she was sexed regularly, and that she considered no perversion unusual. The pair had only been in their new jobs for a couple of days; Jason didn't think Charles would measure up, but then Jason was unaware of the little incident that had brought Charles into Armand's uncle's and subsequently Armand's employ...
Armand let her stew a bit; it was good for her to learn patience, he reasoned. From appearances, the effort was wasted; the wench knelt there as if she had all the time in the world to act as furniture for her Master. After a few minutes, though, her arms began to shake from holding them in a raised position for so long. Armand let this continue for another minute or so, then blandly collected the materials. After having read the hardcopy, Armand announced, "We're going to the media room," rose, and stalked out, the Wench following at two paces. Once in the media room, he handed the DVDs back to the Wench, directing, "Mount these in the DVD changer, this one first, and start it."
The Wench executed her instructions and returned to kneel beside Armand's recliner, remote presented. Armand reflected that there WERE things to be said for perfect service... The next twenty minutes were occupied by Armand's perusal of his ex-wife's VERY visible interlude with the vibrator. Yes, she knew him; her intent was clear: it was a show of obedience to stave off his threat of escalation. Armand was somewhat surprised that she allowed herself enjoyment of the exercise -- but then control, ultimately, was not one of Sharon's strong points. More amusing than watching her responses while in the throes of orgasm (he was as familiar with Sharon's response pattern as Witherspoon's operative was not) was her fastidious recovery; it was an exercise in denial of the type that never ceased to bring forth a chuckle.
"Switch DVDs," he directed, and the Wench did so, after some fumbling with the remote. Armand settled back to watch the antics of his daughter and her rangy black lover. After a bit, he stood, and ordered, "Have someone bring my robe and pajamas."
The Wench punched the intercom button on a nearby console. "My Master wishes to have his pajamas and robe brought to the Media Room."
A waspish male voice issued from the speaker, "So why don't you go get them, Slut?"
The Wench glanced up at Armand, who frowned and shook his head. The Wench spent a moment visibly composing her response before replying, "That is not my Master's intent."
"Oh," came the short response. "Very well." There was a bit more before the intercom cut off, the word 'lazy' being the only one clearly discernable.
"That was Raoul, wasn't it?" Armand asked mildly.
"I believe so, Master," Wench answered carefully. She knew that tone.
Armand pointed at the receiver for the house phone and snapped his fingers; Wench leaped to retrieve it. "Jason, we have a disciplinary problem," Armand announced.
"Sir." There was a click -- Jason was on his way. In a moment, Consuela arrived with Armand's clothing. The Wench collected it while Armand queried, "Raoul sent you?" A nod. "Get him." Consuela got out of there.
Armand signed for the video to be put on hold while this other matter was dealt with; the Wench handled it, juggling clothing and the remote.
Jason arrived next, followed quickly by Raoul, for whom one look at the occupants of the room signaled trouble. "Raoul," Armand murmured, "You are correct that the Wench occupies a position of low estate in this house. However, if she is responding to my directions, she represents ME, does she not?"
"Uhhh, yes, Sir, sorry, Sir," Raoul placated nervously, his eyes flicking back and forth between Armand and Jason.
"The Wench was very clear in relating her instructions, and again very clear in transmitting the fact that it was my will that she remain here," Armand continued inexorably, "yet you insisted upon assuming that she was merely being lazy. Why?"
"I, uh," Raoul really had no answer; he'd been watching television, and had reacted more or less instinctively at the interruption. "I, uh was being less than attentive, Sir."
Armand's eyes flicked to Jason. "See to it that Charles is informed that Raoul is to have no use of the Wench, either sexually or as a menial." Raoul blanched a bit; this lowered him somewhat in the staff pecking order. "How old is your daughter?" Armand continued, "Fourteen?" Raoul knew fear; his whole family was quartered below stairs. This was the first time he'd realized that this was a bad thing, that they were hostages to his good behavior. "It's time she learned a bit about reality," Armand announced. "For the next week, she will see to the Wench's needs; feed her, clean her kennel, and such. Yes, that's an idea." He flicked a glance at Jason, who nodded. It would be done. Raoul's family knew their place; his wife, in fact, had been well able to read the writing on the wall without troubling Raoul with any announcement of the fact. In fact, she'd offered physical acknowledgement of Jason's power over her household on a number of occasions... Jason stood there, reflecting that next time he fucked her, maybe he would allow Raoul to detect the fact... He showed his teeth in his characteristic blank grin and Raoul wondered what ELSE he would heap upon the Master's punishment.
Armand wasn't quite through yet, though. "She'll have to be available twenty-four by seven, of course," he mused.
Raoul swallowed, but gathered his courage. "She's in school, Sir..."
Armand dealt with this equably. "Quite right, mustn't interrupt THAT. When she's not in school, then. Day and night; school is her only excuse. Do you understand?"
"Yes, Sir. Sorry, Sir." Raoul hung his head and Armand waved dismissal. Before Raoul hit the door, though, Armand added, "She starts tomorrow at, say, six a.m.?" He glanced at the Wench, who nodded. "She can check to see that the Wench hasn't fouled her cage." Raoul nodded acquiescence and got out of there before things got any worse. Jason dipped his head and followed Raoul out; Armand knew from experience that Jason would add icing to the cake in some manner.
Turning to the Wench, Armand announced, "You may undress me." He didn't do this often; it had been a spur of the moment thing brought on by mild arousal -- and, frankly, Raoul had ruined it. But the Wench had his change of clothing, so it was politic to follow through... The Wench stepped up and began sliding him out of his jacket. She didn't realize it, but she was smiling; this was a good thing -- it might lead to sex, and maybe even a chance to sleep in a bed (her kennel was a hard, unpleasant place, made so deliberately as an incentive to provide good service). Armand looked on, amused, as the Wench divested him of several layers of clothing and installed him in his pajamas and robe, helping her only minimally. The Wench's obvious happiness at such menial activity brought a return to joviality; Armand settled in his chair and ordered, "Send for refreshments -- iced tea and some fruit, I think. And restart the DVD." The Wench leaped to obey. This time, there were no screw-ups; Consuela found the Wench kneeling between Armand's legs having her breasts fondled absently while the pair watched some interracial content on TV when she delivered the drinks ten minutes later.
That 'interracial content' was Nora and Nate making like bunnies, of course. Armand watched the proceedings with a curious mix of detachment and arousal; he had no sexual interest in Nora, but fucking WAS fucking, and the pair was doing a fine job. Armand grasped the Wench's chin, turning her head, and she got the hint immediately, reorienting and engulfing his member. The Wench might not fulfill his urge for strife, but she had the mechanics down pat. And she appeared to enjoy her work, going deep every few strokes without prompting. Armand let her deal with it on her own, and returned his attention to the video. Yes, obviously Nora had her mother's wild response pattern -- but without her hang-ups, apparently. Armand had sometimes wondered if Sharon came so hard BECAUSE she was otherwise so rigidly controlled, or it was purely her natural state; the jury was still out, but Nora was definitely a slut, once aroused. On the other hand, the Adams boy had a decent-sized erection and the will to use it -- and he WASN'T treating Nora like a tramp. No, Armand's genes were apparent here -- Nora had the black boy wrapped around her little finger, and controlled him virtually without thought -- smoothly, too; the boy seldom realized he was being manipulated. That he was smitten was obvious; time would tell whether it was love or merely the miraculous fulfillment of his every sexual need.
Armand began to feel some urgency, which was surprising -- he didn't expect to get much out of a blowjob given by a woman who obviously wasn't feeling anything much in the way of humiliation. Perhaps he should have choke-fucked Raoul for his temerity... The thought added to Armand's arousal, but he dismissed it -- it would have left Jason with fewer options when HE heaped his own punishment atop Armand's. Besides, Jason liked doing men a lot more than Armand did... Things got really good, and Armand sat up to take a hand, capturing the back of the Wench's head and driving her to repeated deep strokes. The orgasm arrived, and Armand spiked the hapless redhead, pouring spunk down her choking throat and taking additional pleasure from its spastic movements.
Immediately after her release, the Wench vomited, spewing on the floor. She looked up, sniffling, "I'm sorry, Master! I tried to hold it down..." The woman never ceased to amaze Armand; the expected reaction would have been something on the order of "Why did you do that? See what you made me do?" Of course, Armand would have punished THAT severely...
After a moment's thought, Armand returned, "Practice makes perfect. Throw a towel over it; your new assistant can clean it up in the morning. Tell Charles I said to have the yard boys use your throat until you develop control."
"Yes, Master."
The Wench rose to collect a towel from an adjoining bathroom, and Armand added, "Hurry back and kneel up; I want to soak a while." The Wench left the room at a dead run, and was back in no time, covering the slimy mix of saliva and semen (which didn't smell much, thank God), and kneeling up to accept Armand's still solid member, doggy-style. For the moment, Armand merely made insertion and soaked his cock in the hot oil bath that was Wench's pussy; time for more, later, if he felt like it. Wench tried to up the ante by rhythmically clenching her vagina -- anything to make Master happy. She'd fully expected to have to clean her vomit from the floor with her tongue.
Wench's efforts had their effect; toward the end of the younger generation's second bout, Armand began moving his hips. Depletion from the throat fuck kept him from attaining orgasm during the playback, despite the primal energy of the content; Armand had just killed the playback and was beginning to concentrate on getting some pleasure out of the Wench when the intercom came alive. Jason's voice announced, "Sir, Witherspoon's people say that Sharon is preparing to again amuse herself. They recommend the live feed from her bedroom..."
Wench picked up the remote from where Armand had tossed it on the floor and handed it to him over her shoulder. While she wouldn't have his full attention, even money said she would collect his seed -- something she'd been worried he would not allow. Armand muttered "Thank you, Jason," rubbed Wench's back in a silent extension of the same sentiment to her, and tuned the monitor.
Sharon had retired for the evening soon after Nate had bounced out of there; Nora hadn't complained because she, too, had reason to seek quiet relaxation (while thoroughly enjoyable, sex was hard work, and she was feeling the effects of using muscles never used before). Sharon was jangled -- the kid's antics, even merely overheard, had her imagination going and her juices flowing. She pretended to herself that this was not the case, however; her efforts at self-justification centered around the idea that perhaps Armand's surveillance team had been unable to obtain good footage during the daytime. If she did this thing at night with some lights on, it should be better... She slid into a short nightie and fussed with the curtain, again deliberately leaving an opening.
Sharon then fished the large vibrator out of what she had come to think of disparagingly as the 'toy box' and started rummaging through the DVDs. She perused each of the commercially made videos, but the underlying thought process at work made her pass them by and select one of the pair of DVDs at the back -- the ones Armand had had made. Viewing visible evidence of her humiliation might not be stimulating, but should at least be educational...
Sharon popped the DVD in the player and a professional-looking menu appeared, displaying dates and strange codes: 'O's and 'A's predominated, but there were a couple of 'V's and 'W's. There was no legend; Sharon figured that if she looked at a few scenes, she would puzzle it out. She selected a date early in the year, and the scene opened...
She remembered it immediately; they had discussed the interest of a local city councilman in securing ongoing support for a youth program and its possible benefits when hearings on the variance required for some plant upgrades Armand was pursuing came up. Then, as usual, conversation veered away from business...
"Those are nice hose," Armand commented. "They aren't pantyhose, are they?"
"No," Sharon replied shortly, thinking, 'Here we go... '
"Show me."
"Armand," Sharon huffed, "We're NOT married any more! You can't go lording it over me like this! It's not right!"
Armand merely eyed her through this outburst. "Now!" he ordered, flatly.
Habit and training took over; Sharon found herself on her feet, with her skirt pulled above her waist. In an attempt at recovery, she hissed, "There! See?"
Armand got up and came around his big mahogany desk, eyeing the exposed garter belt and panties. "Red, huh? They go well with the black garter belt, but not the skirt." Armand's hand flashed out and one leg of her panties shredded.
Sharon shrieked, "Armand!" indignantly, but it did no good; while she was reaching for the torn spot, Armand shredded the other leg, and they fluttered to the floor.
"Take off the skirt," Armand directed. Sharon shook her head in negation, but Armand wasn't having any. "It will be worthless to you in the future if you don't," he warned, while he caught a forearm in one hand and menaced her waistband with the other.
Sharon forestalled him, her hands flying to the button and zipper at her back. "Armand, you shouldn't be doing this. It's not right -- not decent." But the skirt pooled itself on the floor.
Sharon sat before the TV, watching the incident, remembering. It was every bit as humiliating and degrading as she remembered, but those memories were shifting a bit from their well-worn track. A vague disquiet made itself know within her. On the screen, events continued...
Armand caught her right arm while it was still behind her, and occupied his left hand by firmly collecting her left breast in a hold she KNEW could become viciously painful -- he applied just a bit of pressure to remind her of the fact as he drove her before him toward his desk with his hip. "It suits my purposes," was his bland reply to her accusations. The hammerlock and breast grip were more than sufficient to maneuver her around behind his desk and to drape her over it. "Don't move," he admonished, punctuating the order with a vicious squeeze of her breast that left her breathless.
Armand's desk had a couple of items of optional equipment that weren't visible to the casual eye of someone seated before it, to wit: a pair of ankle restraints, attached to the drawer pedestals. Swiftly, he knelt and secured her ankles in the quick-closing Velcro wraps.
Watching, Sharon mused to herself that if she'd been able to shake off the pain, she might have disabled Armand with a swift kick at this point. But short of killing him under circumstances that made it clear that her life was in danger, crossing Armand only caused him to escalate things; if he decided that it was necessary to get even for some slight, and his imagination kicked in... Sharon shuddered. Dark things moved in the back of her imagination when she envisioned the possible consequences of, say, kicking Armand in the testicles... And those dark things would move in the forefront of Armand's imagination...
On screen, Armand ordered, "Take off the top and the brassiere -- I want you nude."
"No!" Sharon protested.
Armand removed a ruler from a desk drawer beside her and whacked her soundly on the ass. "You're in no position to argue," he retorted, blandly.
"Ow! Ouch! Ow!" Sharon took two more swats, spaced a second or so apart, to re-think her position and whip her blouse over her head, then reach back to unclasp her bra.
Armand waited until she was working at the clasp, then deliberately jangled her with another swat. "Hurry up!"
"Y-yes, Armand!" Sharon piped, struggling with the clasp. Finally, the hooks popped loose, and her breasts spilled out as the straps dropped off her shoulders.
"Good," Armand approved. He didn't just stand by during this exercise, however. Reaching into the drawer, he extracted a bottle of lubricant and drizzled it down the crack of her ass, causing Sharon to jump at the cool sensation between her burning ass cheeks. Picking up a bit of lubricant, he roughly worked two fingers between her labia, sliding them up and down to apply the lubricant, then sliding them into her vagina to use as an anchor for the thumb he began driving into her protesting anus. Lubrication battered down her defenses, and Armand applied more, left- handed, as the thick digit sank to the first knuckle.
Sharon remembered this; it had hurt like Hell... But things were starting to morph a bit; memory patterns were shifting...
On screen, Sharon whined and arched her back as Armand pushed the thumb in and out, pulling the fingers out and rubbing the wet groove between her inner lips so he could get more depth for the offending digit. "Oooooh..." It WAS a whine, but was there another component there? Armand's fingers began to whirl over her clitoris, and Sharon moaned, "Ohhh, God..." She dropped on her elbows and raised her ass...
Watching these antics on-screen, Sharon went white as a sheet! It looked like she was enjoying it! Sharon remembered this episode as a brutal anal rape -- or did she? Oh, God! A veil lifted in her mind, and her sensations matching the on-screen activity began to flow through her consciousness...
It WAS a brutal anal rape -- in that much, Sharon's memories had not deceived her. Armand gave her about thirty seconds' worth of clitoral manipulation while she moaned and gasped in pleasure, then stopped to step out of his trousers and drape them nonchalantly over a nearby wooden valet. Sharon surged and whined and reached between her legs... Whack! "Ah ah!" Armand admonished. "I didn't tell you that you could play with yourself!" He came around the front of the desk and grabbed a handful of Sharon's hair, pulling her head toward his crotch. Sharon's mouth was open and her tongue was out, questing, before it came into contact with his glans. Armand used her, holding her head by the hair and playing with a nipple with his other hand while driving himself deep, choking her and incidentally coating his cock with her spit, then he withdrew and returned to a position behind her.
Spit wasn't required for vaginal penetration; Armand attempted to be brutal about the insertion but failed, solely due to Sharon's wet readiness. The penetration had only been Phase Two, anyway, though; after a couple of strokes, Armand withdrew and repositioned to Sharon's anus. This time, brutality WAS possible, but Sharon apparently welcomed it. Sharon watched herself in horror as she braced herself against the desk, moaning about the pain while obviously working to assist the insertion. And the look on her face... Sharon covered her face in shame, but peeped between her fingers, mesmerized by the revelations on-screen.
Armand got himself fully organized and began pounding Sharon's ass in a steady rhythm. Sharon continued to moan, but the quality of the sound was different; Sharon's masochistic pleasure was there on her face for all to see, and, given the visible cue, the matching memories were there, too. She'd enjoyed it! Oh, God! She'd enjoyed it! Always before, Sharon had remembered the pain, the humiliation -- but the worst of it had been 'put away', bottled up, hidden, an avoidance that let her live with Armand's brutal practices. Now, however, with the evidence before her eyes, she realized that what she'd been hiding from herself was not the worst horrors of the acts that he forced upon her, but the shameful pleasure she took from his abusive treatment! Now the memories rushed in, and Sharon recognized the glazed look on her on-screen face as that of a woman chasing an orgasm!
Armand drove his thick cock into her rectum again and again, going deep and delivering an occasional swat to Sharon's ass to keep her clenched and focused. Sharon became red-faced, hunkered down on her forearms and began actively driving herself back onto his probing member, her agitation rapidly increasing moment by moment. Armand, who had obviously been awaiting a particular moment, picked up his telephone and directed, "Send Therese in."
In a moment, the door opened to admit a leggy blonde with suspiciously large breasts and a look of open-mouthed surprise. Armand collected her attention with, "Ah, Therese. Come in, have a seat; I'll be done here, shortly." He paused a moment, and then in a tone that only slightly reflected the effort he was expending in pounding Sharon's abused rectum, announced, "This is my ex-wife. I know any number of men who would be envious of my ability to visit this particular activity upon her, but to me it is only another indication of my basic nature." His eyes bored into Therese's. "Once I have something, letting go of it is something done at MY discretion, not someone else's. Isn't that right, Dear?" He punctuated the question with a loud swat to Sharon's right ass cheek.
Sharon's memory had held this to be a moment of supreme humiliation
not an uncommon occurrence, but a peak, in any case. The video revealed another peak; Sharon's eyes rolled up and her eyelids fluttered, she emitted an impassioned, "Uuuuuuuuhhhhhh!!!!", and clear fluid poured down her thighs as her vagina pulsed in a thunderous orgasm. Armand enforced the sensations by doubling the impact power of the next four shattering thrusts, then pouring several bursts of semen into her spasming colon.
Sitting there, Sharon remembered everything clearly -- even the feel of Armand's cock surging and pulsing in her anus. She remembered the shame, the humiliation, and the intense masochistic joy as the pleasure and pain mixed to bring her to a mind-numbing peak. She remembered that Therese had backed out of the room, shocked -- which was Armand's intention, no doubt -- but that she'd been there ten days later, sucking Armand's cock, nude, her hands tied behind her and Armand controlling her efforts by pulling a chain suspended between clips mounted on her nipples. Therese hadn't lasted to visit number three.
For ten minutes, Sharon sat there, blindly staring at the chapter menu of the DVD that appeared when the clip was complete, in an agony of remembrance. Oh, God! Would each of these scenes be similar? Would ALL of them depict not only the pain and humiliation she remembered, but the fact that she'd ENJOYED it? She knew the answer instinctively, but the implications refused to resolve themselves. What did it all mean? What was the big picture? Did this change anything as far as Armand was concerned -- provide a justification for his atrocities, and for her endurance of them? Sharon shook her head to clear it. All she knew for certain was a single, highly-embarrassing fact... Resolutely, she reached for the vibrator and applied it to her vaginal lips in an effort to ease the unbearable itch that her daughter's antics had started and the video had amplified.
For ten minutes, she worked the hard, buzzing phallus, sliding it along her labia to rattle the nerves of her clitoris, then sliding it in and out of her channel, slowly losing her deliberation and control until the orgasm lurking there came rushing out to overcome her. When it was over, she collapsed across the bed, chest heaving. Was it enough? Nooooo... Sighing, she picked up the remote for the DVD player and restarted the scene she'd just watched, this time with the vibrator to augment her memories.
And Armand, slowly sawing his cock in and out of the Wench's distended ass, chuckled again and again...