Sex Slave at Sea (5 page)

I am aghast. “But I can’t entertain. I’m
still sore!”

“Uh, not really. Take a look at
yourself.”

To my surprise, my breasts wear only the
faintest of pinkish marks. And there is no longer an ache in my
pussy. My skin is healthy and glowing. I feel surprisingly . . .
rested – like I’ve been given ambrosia and a new lease on life.

Max smiles sheepishly. “We gave you sleeping
pills and you slept for three days.”

Three days!

I feel like I’ve been sucker-punched. How
could I have slept for three days?

“I’m not kidding.” Max wears an extremely
guilty look on his handsome face. Maybe he had accidentally
overdosed me.

But my gut is now roiling with the
revelation. Three days? And they didn’t attempt to wake me? How
could they? How could Max?

He senses this and puts his hand on my cheek
tenderly. “I’m sorry, OK? I would never let anything really bad
happen to you. As it is, you’re good to go.”

He leans over to kiss me again.

6

Good to go.

Ain’t those the damndest words for a modern
sex slave?

Max has prepared me well.

I am a wearing a dog collar, but I’m not
attached to a leash. Max has inserted an anal plug with a white,
furry dog tail that sprouts out of my butthole like a . . . well,
tail. For extra stimulation, he has clipped two metal clamps in the
shape of dog paws on my nipples. These are connected by a mesh of
silver chains to two similar clamps on both my outer labial
lips.

The anal plug is slender and triangular in
shape, and it sits snugly in my rectum like an old friend. It
amazes me that I have become so comfortable with plugs and clamps
that I actually relish the substance and feel of them upon and
inside me.

It’s a venerating mix of emotions when I’m
decorated this way. It’s the comfort of humiliation and debasement
. . . I know, I know. It sounds awful and screwed-up. But it’s the
truth. I have come to accept that I find a weird sort of inner
peace in my humiliation. It’s like I’ve in my personal sexual
Nirvana.

But I’m not visible to anyone. I’m under a
boardroom table – one that is bedecked with an expensively-textured
tablecloth. Ordinarily, boardroom tables aren’t covered (I mean,
from what I know about boardroom tables). But I know why this one
is. It’s because I’m underneath – as some kind of
cake/stripper-style surprise.

Up there, voices drone on. Russell Devlin is
having a client meeting. I haven’t met those clients, of course.
And they are all talking shop.

“ – oil-gas piping is necessary under the
Pacific Basin – ”

“ – signed contract, of course – ”

“ – the terms and conditions aren’t
favorable – ”

And yadda yadda yadda. Not exactly the most
interesting stuff to me, so I find myself studying their accents
instead.

Russell is with his three clients, wrapping
some sort of major deal that involves billions and shareholders and
stuff I can’t even wrap my head around. There’s a man with a
Russian accent, though – unlike Russian movie stereotypes – he
speaks very good English. There’s another with a Southern drawl,
and yet another with an upper crust British accent, who sounds
remarkably like Colin Firth. I study their expensive patent leather
shoes and the hems of their trousers as I sit upon my folded
calves, contemplating what I must do.

It’s the only way I can sit comfortably with
my tail. The tablecloth is tented with their knees, and I’m
reminded of the time when I was seven years old and scurrying under
the table at a wedding with Karyn. That was back when both of us
were innocent and playful in the way only children can be.

Russian guy taps his feet a lot, while
English gentleman keeps very, very still, so that I have to keep
checking if he’s still alive.

I have also been given a cue.

Russell Devlin says in his
characteristically gregarious manner, “And now, to cap our
agreement off, I’ve arranged a little surprise.”

There comes the sound of a door opening.
Footsteps pad into the boardroom, and I can see the shiny black
shoes of the waiter in the narrow space afforded between the
tablecloth’s tasseled fringe and the plush carpet with Arabian
motifs.

There are murmurs of appreciation.

“Dom Perignon, Russell?” says the
Russian.

“1945. A very good year. No, please sit.
Brady will come around to pour.”

Brady’s feet move from client to client –
pausing beside each pair of shoes.

This is my cue.

I crawl on my hands and knees to the
Russian. Raising the tablecloth so that his knees and lap are
uncovered, I kneel before him. As soon as I place my fingers upon
his fly, he jumps and almost falls out of his chair.

“Relax, Nikolai,” Russell drawls. “Just sit
back and enjoy the entertainment.”

The Russian pauses for a minute, and then
begins to laugh. He has a loud booming laugh, which is so
infectious that the rest of the room begins to laugh right along
with him. My fingers and thumbs are shaking as I pull down his
zipper. At least he keeps still enough for me to do this. Behind
me, the tablecloth is being raised. I assume that Russell’s other
clients would like to see what the ‘entertainment’ is all
about.

Light seeps in all around me. There is an
audible gasp from the Southerner.

“What has she got back there?”

“Crawl in and find out for yourself,” the
Englishman rasps.

“Awww, why don’t you come out, sugar?”

“All in good time,” Russell promises.
“There’s plenty to go around, trust me.”

The Russian is wearing green silk boxers,
and as I pull down its waistband from the front, he lifts the
tablecloth and folds it back upon the table’s surface so that his
crotch and my face are revealed. My heart skips several beats as
his bright blue eyes stare down at me. I find myself staring back.
The blood thrums in my ears.

What if he doesn’t want me?

We lock gazes for what seems like an
eternity. Then the Russian’s wide mouth curls in a lopsided
grin.

“Go on,” he tells me.

I lower my eyes to his semi-erect cock in
front of my face. It is medium-sized but thick, something I can
easily take into my mouth. I slide my lips around its shaft,
flicking my tongue around its large triangular head. The cock grows
turgid inside my mouth, and I squeeze my cheek muscles around its
length.

The Russian begins to breathe harder. He
doesn’t take his eyes off me.

“I’m gonna have to watch this,” says the
Southern man.

There are scrapes of chairs being pushed
back. I can sense the press of bodies gathering around the Russian
although I keep my eyes firmly trained on his pubic hair. The
temperature in the boardroom soars. I suck and lick with all my
strength in my cheeks. I am quite the expert by now at sucking
cock, and so I take his rod fully into my mouth, swallowing the tip
of it down my throat.

“Marvelous,” The Englishman breathes.

They are right beside me. From the periphery
of my restricted vision, I can see their dark woolen pants and
jackets and feel their radiated body warmth.

“Haven’t seen any girl who can do that yet,”
says the Southerner.

“Then you haven’t been watching enough
porno, Timmy.”

I suppress my gag reflex as I start to pump
his cock in and out of my throat. I fashion my mouth into a fleshy
tunnel so that Nikolai can get maximal friction out of my fellatio.
I bob my head – vivid back and forth movements that allow my lips
to polish the full length of his shaft. In goes his head to the
back of my tonsils, and then out again up till the ridge that
circles his crown.

In the midst of it all, I let my tongue roam
all over his meat. I make circular, butterfly and zigzagging
movements. I’m gratified to hear Nikolai groan.

“You can see how good she is at this,” the
Englishman says. “Where did you find her, Russell?”

“She’s a contracted slave.”

There are surprised murmurs. I pay them no
heed as I continue to suckle Nikolai’s hard cock. Some part of me
glows with the praise. I like being told I’m good at something.

“A slave? Are you serious?”

“Yes, very. She’s yours to use as you
please.”

“ No shit.”

From Nikolai’s increasingly labored
breathing, I can tell that he’s close to coming. He lays his hands
on my head now, and his fingers dig into my thick mahogany
hair.

“Can I fuck her?”

“Of course.”

Nikolai grunts as his fingers rake my scalp.
I pull with all my might with my cheek muscles, and he cries out as
he releases his hot semen into my mouth. The spurts catch me on my
hard palate, and I quickly withdraw my mouth halfway so that I can
taste his load on my tongue. His sperm tastes of bitter almonds and
sour cream and everything a man’s sperm should taste like.

“My God,” Timmy, the Southern gentleman,
says breathlessly, “she swallows too.”

“Let’s have a look at her.”

Hands pull me up, and Nikolai’s now limp and
very wet cock slips out of my mouth. I find myself staring into the
eager and flushed faces of three other middle-aged men, all of whom
are beyond forty-five. Their crotches wear obvious bulges.

“Stand up straight and let these gentlemen
have a look at you, Gina,” Russell orders.

I raise my palms to the back of my neck as
Russell taught me. It’s the best position to display myself,
especially as I place my feet moderately apart so that they can see
and touch my pussy better.

“My word.” The Englishman toggles the dog
tail in my ass.

Timmy tugs at my nipple clamps.

“Beautiful,” he breathes. “I want to fuck
her here, right now.”

His hand reaches down for my labial clamps.
He pulls at the shivering chains adjoining my nipples to my pussy
lips, and I shudder as two of his fingers dip into the furrows
around my clit. A trickle of pussy juice leaks out from my
vulva.

He massages my clit as he parts my outer
pussy lips.

“Ohhhh,” I moan.

“You’re a right sensual creature,” he says
to me in a low voice.

As he continues to erotically stroke my
pussy, the Englishman behind me gropes my buttocks. His fingers
probe around my anal ring, feeling the way the plug fits within my
tight sphincter. He tries to prize the tip of his index finger in
between the hard plug and my tender flesh, but there’s barely room
to maneuver.

I spread my legs wider to accommodate both
men. Russell gives me a nod of approval. Somehow, this sends a
course of satisfaction flooding through me. I’m becoming such a
docile sex slave. I have only one mission in this room – to serve
Russell, my ultimate master, and do whatever it is he tells me.

Timmy withdraws his fingers, sticky with my
creams, and puts them on my lips. I eagerly open my mouth to suck
them. I must admit to becoming excited by all this attention. The
adulation and desire for my body is evident in the room. Nikolai
gets up from his chair, and instead of pulling up his boxers, slips
them wholly off instead.

Russell clears a space on the boardroom
table, which is cluttered with documents, folders and pens.

“Just push her down and take her there.”

The men in the boardroom have begun to
undress. Yes, even Russell. Ties are eased off. Jackets and shirts
shrugged off. Shoes and socks unlaced and abandoned. To help them,
I sit upon the table in an attempt to lie back. It’s a fairly
difficult task since the tail is a bouncy distraction.

“Come, let me help you.”

Russell supports my shoulder and waist as he
presses my back and head down against the hard wooden surface. The
tail juts uncomfortably out of my ass, raising my entire groin, and
my clamps pull hard on my nipples and labia. It feels like sitting
on a doorknob. My legs trail down and I have to clamber at the
table for purchase.

I don’t have to let them trail for long,
however. Timmy, now fully naked, comes to me and grasps both my
knees. He’s fairly nice-looking, even if his face is weather-beaten
and the corners of his eyes are crinkled. He reminds me a little of
Bill Clinton, actually, with his whitish hair and big smile.

“You’re a pretty little thing, sugar,” he
says as he raises my thighs. His naked body has become between the
wide arc created by my legs.

I hold his gaze as his cock rubs against my
vulva. His irises are a clear brown, and he appears amused as he
pushes his tubular rod into me. I am being double penetrated, with
the tail in my asshole and his nicely proportioned shaft sliding
soundlessly inside my pussy, and it feels just right – the way it’s
meant to be. The way
I’m
meant to be.

“How old are you, sugar?”

He spears me all the way to my cervix so
that his hairy pubis slams against my clit and the tight clamps
that squeeze my labia so exquisitely. My taut nipple and labial
chains shiver. From my view, my body is a beautiful latticework of
silver.

I gasp at his intrusion.

“Old enough,” Russell Devlin replies with a
grin.

The Englishman holds his erect cock in one
hand and begins to pump it vigorously. With his other hand, he
strokes my right breast, tweaking the naughty clamp that clenches
my reddened nipple so snugly.

Timmy begins to rock against my hips as
well. He is rough and discordant, grunting with every thrust. His
cock spreads my vagina and pulses with every jerk. His thick head
pummels my thin vaginal walls – here, there, everywhere. The plug
in my ass jostles with the rigor my groin is subjected to. It’s
good, rough sex. Maybe even cowboy sex, I would like to think –
though I have never really made out with a cowboy.

The door opens. I turn my head. My eyes
flutter wide in surprise as I see Greg – naked, a dog chain around
his neck. He’s nervous, and he immediately notes my encumbered
position and the state of general nudity in the room.