Wednesday, May 14, 2008

Holes for Rent

This story was triggered by this post (and very explicit video) on Zille Defeu's fetish fantasies and this from David's A View from the Top. The images, both seen and imagined, stewed and burbled in my brain for days, until they emerged transformed into the following.

I meant to give you this story on Monday, but it needed a little more work. So I posted a little apology, with a promise to deliver on Tuesday. Of course, I had no right to do that. The philosopher has given me the schedule of Monday, Wednesday, Friday, and Sunday, and I have no authority to change that. So this will count as Wednesday's post. Please forgive me for leading you to expect otherwise. The fault is mine alone.

* * * * * * * * * *

They needed the money.

They needed the money and he needed proof. Proof that he really did own her. Proof that she would submit to whatever humiliating task he forced on her. Proof that she wouldn’t love him the less for it.

They were down in the dungeon. He had tied her to the futon, had spanked her, had beaten her, had adorned her with hot wax. He put his hands around her neck, just tight enough to remind her that he controlled the very breath she took. She was so deep in subspace that she could barely speak, but he knew she could get out the answers to the catechism.

“These breasts,” he twisted her nipples until she screamed. “These breasts, kitten, which I can pinch and twist and cover with clothespins. Who owns these breasts?”

“You own them, master. You own them.” She had to struggle to get the words out, drawing them up from some deep well, miles away, in another universe.

“This mouth,” he forced it open, running his fingers over her teeth, and then briefly fucking her mouth with his tongue. “This mouth,” he continued, “that I will fuck until you choke and gasp for air, this mouth that I will fill with my cum. Who owns it, slave?”

The edges of her consciousness caught the switch from “kitten” to “slave” and she slipped even further into subspace. Each word that followed took a huge effort. She reeled them in one by one.

“Y-You… own it…., master. Y-Y-You o-own…. m-m-my……m-m-m-mouth.”

“This cunt,” his fingers sloshed down the slide of her submission, grabbing onto her clit to save himself from drowining in her womb. “Who owns it, slave? Who owns this cunt?”

He rushed ahead, without waiting for an answer.

“And this ass, slave. This tight little asshole,” which his finger easily breached with the aid of the cunt juices that coated his hand. “Whose little anus is this?”

She tried to answer, she really did. But the bridge to her words had dissolved in the mist.

“I own them.This cunt, this clit, this ass, they’re all mine, slave. YOU’RE all mine, SLAVE. And do you know what that means? Do you know what that means? You’re my property. You know that. And what can I do with my property?”

She tried again. And again, she couldn’t do it.

He slapped her face. Not very hard. Just enough to restore her power of speech and some basic vocabulary.

“I’m your property. You… you can sell me. You can… can… give me away.”

Tears wandered down her cheeks.

“Ah no, kitten, don’t cry. I would never give you away. I would never sell you. But your holes, my little slave… I’m going to rent out your holes.”

She gasped. And disappeared back down into subspace.

The idea was not new to him. The fantasy had lived and congealed in his brain for weeks. All the details had been worked out. But only now was he sure enough of them both to go ahead with it. Her response to objectification and humiliation had been growing, as had his security in the bonds between them. He needed to do this. Just this once. Just to see how far her obedience would take her.

The set-up was simple. He would reduce her to two holes. She’d be nothing but a cunt and an anus. Her mouth was his alone.

He bought a saw-horse, and trimmed the legs until when she was bent over it her hands and feet touched the ground. He wrapped the top in foam rubber, but that was his only concession to comfort.

He advertised to the audience that had witnessed her masturbation performance. The participants were limited to twenty, of which three would be women with strap-ons. He rented two rooms in an office building that would be empty on a weekend night. One would be the waiting room.

She floated through the preparations as if permanently hung over, never quite out of subspace. She tried not to think about what was coming, and could think of nothing else. She was terrified. She was excited. She was leery. And she wanted to prove that she would accede to any demand he made.

The night arrived. The customers arrived. The fee had been paid ahead of time. A healthy fee. He hadn’t told her what they needed the money for, but some of it would be a gift for her – the trip to Paris and Ireland she had long dreamed of taking with him.

What the customers would experience would barely deserve the name of having sex with her. They would be fucking her holes. It would be one step above masturbating. Cold, clinical, and effective. There was one fee for either cunt or anus, and ten per cent off the combined fee for both.

Her ass had rarely been used, and she found herself dwelling on the ass fucking more than anything else. He didn’t want her hurt, so gradually prepared her for the invasion ahead. Every night for two weeks, he kept her filled with a butt plug, increasing the size every few days until she could easily tolerate the middle size and take the largest one without too much pain. He didn’t want to risk bleeding. Her cunt, he knew, could open to most anything with enough lube.

The first customer was a man. He entered the room and saw nothing ahead of him but a pair of buttocks, an anus, and a cunt. Stanchions and ropes, a waiting line at the bank, directed him straight towards the target. He was there to make a deposit.

There was to be no undressing. The customer merely extracted his penis through his fly. At the doorway he was handed a condom. He unrolled it onto his already hard cock, and then anointed it with a handful of Astroglide. Customer #1 was a cunt man only.

The customers were not to touch her with their hands. They could brace themselves on the saw horse as it extended on either side of her ass. She was bound so tightly to the frame, wrists and ankles each chained to the base of one leg, that an erect cock could enter either orifice with a single thrust.

She sensed #1 walking up behind her. Sensed him from the bottom of her subspace pit. Her owner had whispered dire threats in her ear before they started, he had spanked her, he had beaten her, he did everything he could to send her far away. This was a joint experiment – to see how thoroughly she could disappear.

She was nothing. She was her holes. Whatever was left of her brain dwelt in those holes. She felt the first thrust. She felt nothing. She was a cunt. This is what she was born to be. She was a hole, she was nothing, she felt nothing.

#1 fucked. #1 came. #1 left.

#2 and #3 repeated the pattern.

#4 was a women with a very large strap-on. Very hard and very large, but not more than she could take. She swam up a little ways and held on to the sensation. She was being fucked by a stone phallus, by a statue, Venus with a penis. And then she slipped away again.

#5 wanted her ass. Her master basted her with K-Y before allowing the customer to enter. It took a little pushing before he made it through, and she needed to be conscious for it, pushing out to help him enter. It hurt. She tried not to but she cried out. He pounded her ass and she screamed, and that only made him harder and more brutal. She tried to keep silent, but the pain flowed out her eyes instead. She thought his final thrust would split her in two, but at least he finally came and withdrew. She promised herself she wouldn’t scream again, no matter what. The screaming brought her back to consciousness, and she wanted nothing more than to float away.

After that, it was mostly routine. A couple of the guys wanted both holes. The rule was clear: cunt first, then ass. She returned to feeling nothing. She could have been one of those toys men can buy in a sex shop, a pseudo-cunt with which to masturbate. Plastic has no feelings. Plastic doesn’t bleed. Plastic doesn’t cry.

She did bleed, just a little. But she was too far gone into subspace to cry.

He wanted to go to her. He wanted to reassure her. He wanted to tell her what a good job she was doing, how proud he was of her, what a good kitten she was. But he knew better. He knew that his words would shatter the armor she had built around herself, and make it harder to play it through until the end. He knew so well how his slave kitten’s mind worked. He would wait.

Finally, it was time for #20. Just another cock. It was all the same to her by now. Wherever she was. A tiny part of her brain, a microchip calculator, knew this was the last one. This one wanted it all. A fitting way to end. He fucked her cunt, he fucked her ass, he grunted, he groaned, and he came. It was over.

He left her bound while he ushered out this last of their customers. He locked the door and stood for a moment, gathering himself together, wrestling with the feelings that surged within him. Had it been a mistake? Perhaps. He wasn’t sure. But it was done. And they’d never do it again.

The 2 room suite came with a small washroom. He filled a bowl with warm water, and picking up a bar of her favorite soap and a washcloth, he came up behind her. Gently, he cleansed her abused orifices. He knelt at her feet and unchained her ankles, then moved around to the front and unchained her wrists.

He felt a tear drop onto his neck. Standing up, he gathered her into his arms and eased her to the ground. He kissed her tears, stroked her hair, rubbed her limbs to get the blood flowing again, but it wasn’t yet time for the ritual reassurances.

“You’re not quite done yet, kitten. Not quite done.”

He pulled of his jeans, lay down on the industrial carpet, and pulled her on top of him.

“Now, my slave, my pet, my cock whore, my fuck toy. Now. Whose mouth is this, kitten? Whose mouth is this, slave?”

She was wrung out, her head was swimming, but the words rang out in love and triumph.

“It’s YOURS, master. Yours and no one else’s. You own me, master. You own me. They fucked me, but they never had me. Only you.”

Or that’s what she WOULD have said. The last words were lost as he pushed her mouth down over his screaming cock. Clutching her hair in his grasp, the hair she’d grown at his command just for this purpose, he pushed her down over his erection, pushed her throat down over his urgency, he fucked her with all the anger that had built up against the other cocks that had used her, and he exploded his joy at her obedience.

And then he took her home.

8 comments:

Mina said...

Fantastic story! I've written a few dark pieces myself over at my erotica site. I love crossing the boundaries in my writing.

David said...

I am pleased and honored to have provided some inspiration to you. Such debauchery brewing from a poor young girls dilemma. Quite a piece og, thank you.

Paul said...

OG, this is dark but brilliant, I love it, thank you.
Warm hugs,
Paul.

oatmeal girl said...

wow. i'm truly touched by the response. thank you so much.

mina - doesn't writing such dark fantasies make you feel as if you are stripping yourself bare?

david - that post provided major inspiration. it was the position she was in... i kept trying to think how to replicate it but without the softness and, um, touch of the homey that a sofa provides.

paul - welcome. i've seen you leaving comments on other blogs - especially gray lily's. it's good to have you here.

Anonymous said...

oatmeal girl...


the story telling was very good indeed...but for some reason it had me in tears..

sera said...

I love it. I especially like the fact that you let us in on both his and her thoughts.

oatmeal girl said...

anonymous - as you know if you read my follow-up post, i especially appreciated your comment. i'm curious to know who you are. please feel free to e-mail me via my profile page.

sera - thank you. i did want to be sure to get her perspective in there, too. the private branding story i wrote for the philosopher was all from his perspective, written in second person, and he was somewhat disappointed at that.

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