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Archive name: ilene.txt (Fdom/F, sex-slave)
Authors name: Rachel Perez (specpress@earthlink.net)
Story title : Don't Misbehave Ilene
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-= This work is copyrighted to the author © 1993. =-
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Don't Misbehave Ilene
by Rachel Perez (specpress@earthlink.net)
Copyright (c) 1993 Spectrum Press
***
Ilene lives in an alternate existence where some are
slaves and others are masters. She escapes from her
mistress only to be tracked down and returned.
Punishment ensues.
***
My name is Ilene. I'm in a crevice at the foot of the
mountain of white rock, huddling in the crevice, naked
except for the iron slave collar that circles my neck.
The sun is shining, but the crevice is in shadow and I'm
cold. I've been here two days and two nights, every
moment filled with misery, every moment unbearable.
I've had enough; I've truly had enough. The rock in front
of me gets wet in the evening, and if I lick the stone I
can gather enough water to survive another day, and maybe
another. No, I don't want that; I want to die. But then
as this thought forms in my mind, I reject it as well.
Are there people who accept death easily? I'm not one of
them. I'm not yet thirty and too young to accept the
nothingness of death. The black void of death is a total
impossibility, unacceptable. But yet... Of course
they'll find me. They'll find me and they won't force
anything. They never actually force anything because
there's no need for it. They know that.
***
I slept awhile, and then I heard a noise. Now I hear it
again. Oh yes, it's them. I hear the chopping sound of
the helicopter. I can't see it but I can hear it. I've
heard it every day, but this is the first time I'm
certain they'll find me. Why? I don't know. It's
possible they've looked everywhere and now this is the
last place to look. They know all the places; they told
me that and they never lie. Not about that, anyway. The
helicopter again. I cringe as it passes directly over me.
I'm afraid to look at it, afraid I'll see someone looking
back at me. Instead, I huddle deeper into the crevice and
start shivering again.
Something moves against my foot. It's a tiny grey lizard
with red eyes. The lizard turns its head to look at me.
Then it scurries away and vanishes.
The helicopter is landing.
It settles down like a great metal creature fifty yards
away. The dust flies as it comes to rest on a flat place
in the scrub. The rotor blades stop turning and the dust
settles again. And now they wait for me.
A sea bird passes overhead, turning, gliding over us and
then turning out to sea again.
They wait for me and do nothing. I can make out two
figures in the helicopter, but the distance is too great
to see more than that. I crouch in the shadow of the
crevice, but after a time I know it's useless, finished,
and I rise and walk toward them. I walk naked toward the
helicopter.
The two figures are two women, both wearing sunglasses,
both looking at me, their faces flat, expressionless.
They say nothing as I arrive at the machine. I put my
foot on the boarding step and one of them extends a hand
to help me aboard. For a brief instant her eyes glance at
my breasts and sex. Then I'm inside. The rotor blades are
whirling again, the dust rising. I look in the sky for a
sea bird, but I can see nothing. The sky is blue and so
terribly empty.
***
Michiko sips a glass of champagne as she looks at me.
"Why did you do it?"
She wears a white dress and white sandals. The room has
only one chair in it and Michiko is sitting on it near
the open window. I'm in the center of the room, naked
except for my iron slave collar, squatting on my heels
with my back straight and my knees apart.
Michiko says: "Why did you do it?"
"I'm sorry."
She's not much older than I am, but the difference
between us is as great as that between night and day. Or
between master and slave.
Michiko does not wear an iron slave collar. She wears a
white dress and white sandals, and as I gaze at her knees
I can think of nothing except the terrible need I have to
push my face between her thighs.
Her cunt is thick-lipped, the hair on her mons like fine
black silk.
Now Michiko rises and she walks out onto the terrace that
overlooks the sea. She stands there a moment with her
face lifted to the sea breeze, and then she returns to
the room and she looks at me again.
"They've ordered me to whip you, but I've arranged to
have one of the servants do it."
I fall prone at her feet. "Please, only you!"
"No," she says.
***
And so I'm denied Michiko's punishment. Instead one of
the servants will whip me. To be whipped by a servant
here is the worst of all possible indignities. For the
servants here are not masters; the servants are mere
servants. When I first arrived on the island, I thought
all the servants would be Nash locals, but none of them
are Nash; the servants are Mallon, brought all the way
from Mallosia, silent slender women with no expression in
their eyes. Sometimes I think their tongues have been
removed, for they never speak. No, that can't be; I've
heard them talk among themselves. Are they cruel? I don't
know if their cruelty is any greater than that of the
masters. I've been whipped by both servants and masters
and I think the masters are always more diligent. The
problem is not the cruelty; the problem is the indignity,
the absence of a master, the absence of Michiko's love.
If Michiko would whip me, her love for me would be a
solace. With a servant there is no solace at all; with a
servant there is only the pain and the indignity of
punishment by someone who is not a master.
Two of them come for me and they attach a chain to my
iron collar and they lead me away from Michiko. At the
last moment I turn to look at her, but one of the
servants pulls at the chain and my neck is abruptly
jerked forward.
Oh my love!
***
This is the way they do it: I'm standing in the center of
the whipping room, my arms raised above my head, my
wrists bound and attached to a chain suspended from the
ceiling. The chain has been pulled to bring my heels up
and only my toes touch the stone floor. My neck is
already tired and my head bends forward. The iron slave
collar still has the chain-leash attached to it, but the
chain drags on the floor behind me. I don't want them to
lift that chain. I remember the one time I was whipped
with the chain-leash and the pain was awful.
No, they won't use the chain. I hear them behind me as
they talk in their language, an easy sing-song
interchange. They may not be talking about me after all;
they may be discussing their next meal, or their next
trip to the mainland when they have time off. Then one of
them touches my buttocks and I know that something will
happen soon. The only time the servants are allowed to
fondle the slaves is when the slaves receive punishment
from them. I should imagine they want to do more than
merely fondle the slaves, but it's never allowed. I would
reveal it. Or maybe I wouldn't reveal it under the right
circumstances. I don't know because it's never happened;
I've never been taken by a servant and I can't imagine
it. Would the masters ever allow it?
This room is dank, grey, the stone walls glistening with
moisture. I've seen other whipping rooms that looked less
forbidding. Is there any significance in my being in this
room and not in one of the others? I don't know; I don't
know very much. I know hardly anything, and at the moment
I'm afraid because the degree of pain is always
unpredictable. Even if they don't draw blood, the pain
can be horrible. But first the fondling. They always
fondle from behind, as if to avoid looking at my face, as
if to avoid my eyes. One of them now slides her hands
around my body, and as she presses against me from behind
she puts her hands on my breasts. I feel the hands
gripping my breasts, a hand for each breast, then the
fingers finding my nipples and twisting them. As I bend
my head further, I can see them, see the hands on my
flesh. The hands are slender, feminine, and the first
awakening of desire begins in my belly.
But then her hands are withdrawn. Whoever she is; the
Malay servant; the unknown. She moves away and I feel the
other woman press against me now. This one wants
something different from my body. Her hand pushes between
my thighs from behind, her fingers pushing forward to
find my sex. I feel the fingers parting the lips, pushing
between them, pushing inside the opening. She says
something to the other woman. She slides her fingers in
and out of my vagina a few times, and then finally she
pulls her hand away completely.
Silence now. I hear them moving behind me, doing things,
and my skin begins to crawl, the tingling feeling
spreading across my shoulders and down my back to my
buttocks. I listen. All my attention now is focussed on
the sounds in the room.
One of them speaks in their language. The other one
answers, a guttural sound.
I hear it suddenly, the sound of the whip cutting through
the air, and the next instant an intense burning streaks
across the skin of my buttocks.
What orders have they been given? Will they mark me?
Michiko promised I would never be marked, not like the
some of the other slaves I've seen here. But maybe they
were also promised; maybe the marking is simply another
stage in the progression. To where? Where are they
taking me?
The whip strikes again. And again. After the fourth blow
the burning is constant, hot, spreading up the lower part
of my back like a slow fire. And between my thighs. At
the next strike of the whip, I feel the heat in my sex,
the first tingling. And again the whip strikes. I moan.
My head hangs forward, my body slowly turning, a quarter
turn to the left, a quarter turn to the right, only my
toes touching the floor, and the ache in my shoulders
intensifying with each movement. I lose track of the
whip, the strikes, the number of blows. I hear moaning;
my own voice. I feel a drenching wetness between my
thighs; that too is my own.
***
Michiko lies naked on her belly on the air mattress as I
kneel straddling her legs. Is she sleeping? The window is
open, the warm air carrying the sound of the surf beating
on the rocks below.
I dip my hands in the warm oil and slide my fingers over
Michiko's shoulders. My hands mold the muscles, coaxing
them, urging them to relax.
As I work down her spine, I shift backward. I gently
stroke her flesh with my fingers, rubbing, squeezing,
stroking the oil of her perfect skin.
My sex is wet. I want very much to rub it against
Michiko's leg, but she'd be aware of it in an instant and
berate me for it. Instead, I allow my hunger to
continue, daring no more than a subtle pressing of my
knees against her thighs. She moves. She stretches and
arches her back in response to my touching her. She
undulates her body, a lazy rocking movement, and then she
lies still again.
I slide my hands over her buttocks, over the firm flesh,
the sweet globes. Is she breathing harder now? I feel the
sweat rolling down between my breasts. Then her body
stiffens as I grip her buttocks in my hands and begin
stroking them with the warm oil. My palms roam over the
twin globes of her ass. Nowhere has her skin been touched
by the sun, but the skin of her buttocks is a lighter
shade than the rest of her. Only in the groove does the
darkening begin again.
I shift backward. I raise my left knee and change my
position so that now I'm straddling only her right leg.
She responds by spreading her legs slightly, and then
even further as my fingers rub deep into the valley
between her buttocks. I take her movement as an
invitation, a sign of permission, and now I lean forward
and I graze the tips of my breasts over her ass. I slide
my palms between her thighs and fill them with her warm
flesh. My face pressed against her buttocks, I begin to
gently bite the globes.
My sex is on fire, my cunt ravenous and dripping as I
move my lips over Michiko's skin. The heaviness is
unbearable, the flames of desire leaping through my veins
to the tip of my clitoris. I bite harder at Michiko's
perfumed flesh. The musky scent of her cunt is now in my
nostrils as I plunge my tongue deep into the crevice
between her buttocks, searching, then finding the ring of
her anus. I prod the opening, then hold still, waiting
for a sign, waiting for Michiko's permission. She
wriggles gently; her hips move; her ass rises to meet my
mouth and a wave of happiness washes over me. Now my
belly jerks with an unleashed frenzy. My body shakes as I
push my tongue deep into Michiko's ass, my face pressed
against the sticky groove, my chin rubbing her thick-
lipped sex. She suddenly lifts herself against my mouth,
and my tongue slips down past her anal passage to the wet
slit of her cunt. Her taste inflames my senses. Oh, the
marvel of it! What a wondrous feeling it is for a slave
to dip her tongue into the well of her mistress and find
the liquid evidence of acceptance and love!
Michiko writhes as I push my head deeper between her
thighs. She lifts her hips to roll her buttocks against
my face. I plunge my tongue inside her anus again, and
immediately she captures it and cries out, a soft cry,
then another, the sounds of pleasure muffled in her
throat.
Later, when I try to rub myself against her calf, she
kicks me away. "No," she says.
My clitoris is a hard marble; my destruction is total.
***
These are the Rules of Engagement:
The slave speaks only when ordered to speak.
The obedience of the slave is always complete.
The punishment of the slave is never questioned.
The pleasure of the slave has no meaning. I first
learned them in New Cazzon when Michiko wrote them down
on paper and taped the paper to my bedroom mirror.
***
The chastisement for my attempted escape lasts three
days. Each day I'm whipped in the morning and then again
in the afternoon, always by two servants, sometimes the
same women and sometimes others. The routine of the
whipping is always the same: first the fondling of my
body, fondling of various kinds, and then the whipping
from behind, the blows on my buttocks and thighs. So far
they haven't marked me; they've been careful not to draw
blood. But I cry nevertheless. The pain is awful, and at
the end of each whipping I'm a sobbing wreck, shattered,
trembling, too weak to stand.
Concerning damage:
If the skin is brought to a deep red color by the whip,
the color will fade in an hour.
If welts are produced by the whip, the welts will be gone
in a day or two.
Soreness produced by a beating doesn't last; the tissues
heal themselves within two or three days. Blue marks are
the worst; they last longer and they look ugly. I don't
like them.
***
After my three days of punishment, I'm allowed to rest
for two more days, and then Michiko tells me I'm to be
used by the masters again. "You'll be called in a few
hours," she says. "Make yourself ready and come back to
me."
The room where I sleep is in a wing added to the main
building some years ago. The stone walls are whitewashed
and the wooden floor is covered by a worn rug. I sit at
the small dressing table and prepare myself for the
evening. I work a long time on my makeup, my eyes and
lashes, my cheeks and lips. When I have the coloring of
my face just right, I apply rouge to my nipples and then
just a hint of it to the outer lips of my sex. After
that I pin up my dark hair in a chignon and I clip
pendant earrings to my earlobes. I turn my head from
right to left and back again in front of the mirror. Yes,
it's fine; it's the look that Michiko favors. After that
I rummage through a dresser drawer to find a red French
cache-sexe. It takes but a moment to put that on, to
adjust the thin strap in back between my buttocks and the
triangle in front so that it completely covers my pubis.
I find a pair of red shoes with spike heels, and I put
those on and inspect myself in the mirror.
What I see is a naked woman wearing a black choker
necklace.
Except the necklace is made of iron and it's a slave
collar.
***
"Yes," Michiko says.
She has me stand in front of her as she looks at me. She
wears a white evening dress and her beauty is so
exquisite it makes my hands tremble. She tells me she's
flying to a party in Athens this evening. She won't be on
the island while I'm being used. The idea frightens me,
makes me desperate, but I do my best to conceal it.
One of the servants is waiting to escort me.
"Don't misbehave," Michiko says.
She waves a hand and I'm dismissed.
***
The fact is I feel alive only when Michiko is angry with
me. If Michiko is not angry with me, then she must be
thinking of other things and I'm not the center of her
existence. When Michiko is angry with me, all she can
think about is me. Nothing else is on her mind. I adore
that; I adore Michiko's anger. But this evening, Michiko
is in Athens.
***
This master has not told me her name.
The room is sparsely furnished, but a thick lamb's wool
rug covers the floor, and in the center of this I squat
on my heels in the usual position, my back straight, my
knees apart, naked except for the red cache-sexe and the
red heels. She manacled my hands as soon as I entered the
room, and now I'm finding it difficult to maintain the
posture without discomfort. Against the far wall is a
bed, the mattress covered by a white embroidered
counterpane. I know the riding crop is on the bed, but I
don't want to look at it. I don't want to look at
anything, least of all that.
So far she hasn't said much. She speaks English with a
British accent, but I don't think she's British. She's
been sitting in that chair for the past ten minutes and
all she does is look at me. She's about forty, strong
looking, wearing a dark blue suit, a red string tie, a
white shirt with a bit of lace at the sleeves. She has
short dark hair and green eyes and a cruel mouth. I
suppose if I saw her on the street or at a party I would
say she was beautiful. Here that doesn't matter; the only
thing that matters here is that we both know she'll soon
be very nasty to me. Michiko says I can always trust them
to go only so far, but I'm never certain of it. Maybe
this one will be an exception. Finally she speaks to me.
As she sits with her legs crossed, she tilts her head to
the side and she says: "I like your breasts."
Is it my rouged nipples? I feel the heat in my face as
she gazes at me. I'm afraid to look down at my breasts
for fear I'll see my nipples erect. I want Michiko. I
feel abandoned, lost, unwanted. Will my love return?
Now the master rises and she begins to undress. She does
it slowly, methodically, removing each piece with care,
her jacket draped over the back of the chair, her tie
untied, pulled out, draped over the jacket. She continues
to gaze at me as she removes her clothes, no expression
on her face, no way to read her, a great threat because
when they don't talk you never know what to expect.
But then she says: "I'll flog you first. And then we'll
try some other things. Have you had any experience with
alligator clips?"
"Yes."
"That's why you've painted your nipples, isn't it? You
want them attended to."
"Yes."
"That's fine."
Meanwhile all her clothes have been removed and she's now
naked. She has square shoulders and small firm looking
breasts, the brown nipples unusually long. Her pubic tuft
has been clipped to a narrow triangle. She walks to the
bed and she picks up the riding crop. Now I'm forced to
look at it, forced to see my punishment rod.
"Over here," she says. "Kneel on the bed." It's not easy
to rise from my knees with my wrists manacled behind my
back, but I try to manage it without being too clumsy.
When I'm on my feet, I walk to the bed while avoiding her
eyes. Climbing onto the bed while not using my hands is
not easy either, but I manage that too.
Now my head and shoulders are down on the counterpane, my
ass up, my knees spread. Of course she can see
everything. I've seen Michiko's photographs of me
kneeling like this and I know what I look like.
She says nothing. Then I feel something graze the inside
of one of my thighs. It's the tip of the riding crop. It
moves up and down slowly, and then it moves upward to
make contact with my sex. She gets the rod between my
labia and she spreads them. Is she looking at me? When I
first arrived here, I thought they would shave me
completely but they didn't. Only the lips are shaved, and
I'm thankful for that because I think having some hair in
front is attractive. I've seen several slaves here who
are shaved completely. All of them are blonde except one
English girl who's a brunette.
The master is still prying my cunt open with the riding
crop. Now she moves it again and I feel the tip entering
the outer rim of my vagina. She holds it there, moving
just the tip of it to produce a tickling sensation. It's
almost like the tip of a finger, but not quite. Am I wet?
I suppose if I'm wet she can see it clearly. But she says
nothing. It's maddening. I feel my belly quiver and I try
not to move.
Now she withdraws the tip of the riding crop from my
vagina and she slides the length of the rod between my
buttocks. "You've been flogged recently," she says.
"Yes."
Then she pushes the tip of the riding crop at my anus.
"And what about here? Do you like it here?"
"Yes, if the master wishes it."
She chuckles. "I'll draw some stripes first." My belly is
quivering again. I feel the riding crop sliding in the
groove between my buttocks, and then a moment later it's
gone. I remain motionless, waiting.
"Now," she says softly.
And the next moment I hear the sound an instant before I
feel the stinging pain across my buttocks. "You're a
lovely bitch," she says.
She hits me again. And again. She whips me with a
measured pace, each blow causing a great burning pain
across my buttocks. She continues whipping me until I
groan.
She says: "Yes, that's better."
She whips me again.
Then three more blows with the riding crop and she stops
it. I hear her toss the riding crop away, and then I
feel her fingers unlocking the manacles that bind my
wrists together. When she has my wrists free, she pulls
the manacles away. "Turn around," she says. "Sit on the
edge of the bed."
I turn my body and take the position she wants, glancing
at her, fixing my eyes on her sex, on the dark narrow
triangle. Will she be rough with me? I gauge my
vulnerability. She comes forward with an easy stride,
approaches me close enough so that her legs touch my
knees and the dark tuft sways only inches from my face.
"Go on," she says.
I touch her mound with my mouth, stroke the triangle of
hair with my lips, exciting myself. The smell of her sex
fills my nose as I lean forward to lick her. She arches
her back, pushing her pelvis forward, pushing her cunt
against my upturned mouth. Michiko likes to tease me
about the way I suck a cunt. She says I have a gluttonous
mouth and I look whorish when it's covered. Oh my
darling, where are you?
The master remains motionless as I move my head from side
to side. I forage in the groove with my nose, find the
stiff clitoris and begin rubbing it as my tongue flaps
against flesh below.
Suddenly she begins to move. She takes control of me. She
holds my head between her hands as she moves her loins
back and forth. Her wet cunt slides over my mouth. Her
thrusting becomes more determined, more brutal.
Will she come? My mouth is filled with her. She holds my
face in her hands as she slams forward again. I hear the
noise of it, the slurping noise of her cunt on my wide
open mouth. The pace increases, her pelvis ramming,
ramming again, and then abruptly she stops and groans and
she begins coming, coming into my open mouth while she
grips one side of my head and my chin with her strong
hands.
She strokes my throat with her fingers as I swallow her
thick syrup. "Thirsty little whore, aren't you?" I suck
her dry, and when it's finished she pulls her cunt from
my lips. "Stand up now," she says.
When I rise, she lifts my breasts in her hands and she
looks down at them. Then she takes hold of my nipples
between her thumbs and forefingers and she pinches
them.
"How much can you take?"
"I don't know..."
I'm afraid now. She's a total stranger and I have no
idea about her capabilities. I have to trust them; I
have no choice but to trust them...
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Please keep this story, and all erotic stories out of
the hands of children. They should be outside playing
in the sunshine, not thinking about adult situations.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Kristen's collection - Directory 13