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<Fragment ID="896541" Date="1 Jul 1984"> <Title> Slave Girl Convict [9] </Title> <Author> Dolcetta (dolcetta AT grim_williams.co.uk) </Author> <Author> Grim Williams (gw AT grim_williams.co.uk) </Author> <Name> Shannon Courtney </Name> <Location> CCTV Corporate Headquarters </Location> <Collator> Lisa O'Connor </Collator> <Text>
Which is better?
A live slave or a dead freeman?
Principle or compromise?
Life or death?
Right or wrong?
Shannon didn’t know.
Subconsciously these thoughts raced through her confused thinking. Subconsciously she may even have discovered answers to them.
But consciously she was torn in two. Consciously she was only aware that she didn’t want to die. Nobody wants to die. And so, instead, she was going to be a slave.
How could she agree to that?
Yet, how could she not?
Of course, he made her do it properly, with the formality of a gentleman proposing to a woman.
He made her take off her paper dress, get down on her knees and then crawl to him.
He made her crawl, naked, her thirty six inch boobies hanging beneath her, swinging as she moved, her teats touching the carpet because she must crawl on her elbows with her chin against the floor, her ass sticking high into the air.
“Crawl to me, my lovely,” he’d ordered. “Crawl to me and beg to be my slave, beg to serve me, to be my fuck toy. Convince me! Convince me that I shouldn’t hide your pretty face behind a mask and then let you hang, impaled upon a spit, naked and humiliated. I could make you a bit player on Public Justice, an unknown, anonymous villain. You wouldn't like that. So, convince me, my sweet one.”
Perhaps another day Shannon would have resisted. Perhaps another day she would have argued. Another day she would have told him where to get off, would have told him how to stuff his terms, she would have had her day in court.
Another day.
Maybe she would have hung for it, degraded and used, maybe she would become his Columbine, gracing his grisly mask, her neck circled with the collar of his noose. But at least she would have retained self-respect, a measure of self-worth.
But not today.
Today the strong woman was not so strong, the proud woman not so proud. How could she rise to such heights? Shannon had just seen the unthinkable; she had faced an abyss and had escaped it. She had seen a woman stapled to a wall, gutted and made to die, a woman ostensibly bearing her own name and identity.
It should have been her, hanging, twitching, cut open, watching her own guts sliding into a hole. It was her who should have endured the ignominy of having to put on a show, to act even in her death throes, so her family wouldn't have to endure the humiliation of feeding her body to the birds.
She should have died, not the other one.
Her.
Shannon Courtney.
And so she crawled.
She lifted up her dress, aware of him looking. She lifted it from the hem, lifted it over her naked hips and stomach, across her breasts and over her head.
She dropped it to the floor, hanging her head low, feeling the burning shame of his gaze.
He waited.
Oh Shit.
With a whimper she fell to her knees, and then to her hands. “Please master,” she mumbled, noticing the flecks in the carpet, the marks in its pile. “I’m yours. I'm nothing but your fuck toy. I’m yours to do with as you will.”
She lowered herself to her elbows, making her nipples touch the floor, feeling them scratching upon the stiff polyester bristles.
It wasn’t easy to crawl, not like that, neither physically nor emotionally. But she did it. She crawled to him. She crawled slowly, shamefully, a fire burning within her pussy, a fire she didn’t understand. How could she be getting aroused again? She couldn't! Not like this!
But it was deep inside, where she was still sore and smarting from the rape, and then it radiated up, up towards her pearl and her beauty lips.
Oh God. How was this possible?
One elbow in front of the other, first the left, then the right.
The only answer, the only one that she could accept, was that he wasn’t going to kill her. He’d said so. He had the authority to pardon her, to spare her life, and that’s what he was going to do. He wanted her as his slave. That must explain this embarrassing female reaction.
Surely.
Hope had begun to burn.
What other reason could there be?
No sane woman could become aroused otherwise, not like this, humiliating herself, degrading herself by crawling upon her belly, presenting herself to a man doggy style, unclothed, in order to beg for her life.
She was going to be his slave, his woman, serving him, being fucked by him.
Oh God!
She would.
She would do it too.
She would do whatever it took.
She knew she would.
When you have stared into death’s gory face and sensed it grinning right back, its dark greedy eye lusting for your shaking flesh, desiring to possess and corrupt it, when you have felt its finger tickling your belly, threatening to rip it apart: crawling to a man is trivial by comparison, agreeing to become his fuck toy almost a victory.
Yes, she crawled, her arms aching, lowering herself until she was nothing.
If she were good, if she did what she was told, then maybe, maybe it would be okay.
She dragged herself by the elbows and by the inside of her knees, dragged herself around the desk to where he was sitting.
And there… when she rounded his desk, she saw that his cock was out. It was erect and he was holding it firmly at the base, stroking it firmly but gently.
Oh God
He was going to cork her.
He was. Wasn’t it obvious?
Why else did he want her as a slave? She had to satisfy that thing.
She was his slave.
Whenever he got hard, whenever he got an urge. He would cry, “Slave… Come here! Suck me…. Bend over…. Spread your legs…” Something like that… one of those phrases… and she would be expected to make him happy.
Night and day she would be on call to obey his will. Front or behind, offering him her mouth, her pussy, her ass according to the whimsy of his demand.
Oh God.
She was so wet.
“Lie on the floor, with your legs apart, your arms away from your body.”
He had spoken to her.
God. She couldn’t.
She couldn’t.
But she did.
That was the way it was now.
She had to obey him.
She lay exactly as he asked, on her back, with her limbs extended.
Oh God. She was so wet. And she knew he would see, perhaps even smell the aroma of her arousal. How could she bear such anguish?
He was getting up from his chair, and… he was standing over her…
He slid the end of his shoe between her legs, letting it touch her secret crevice. She gasped, wanting, feeling the urge to clamp her thighs shut, but holding tight, resisting it. She was so wet, so aroused. She wanted him to fuck her, to stretch her pussy and fill it with his cock. She wanted to be his slave.
Oh God.
It was his right.
She bit her lip. She wanted to live. In and out it would go, deeper and deeper into her body.
“Beg me slave. Beg me for your life.”
She caught her breath. He was very deliberately moving the point of her shoe around between her thighs, gently working it back and forward. Shit. Instinctively her pelvis began to respond to his rhythm, moving with him, keeping pace.
Shit.
It was his cock that she wanted to beg for… his hard iron cock. She needed it inside her, corking her, being screwed, being penetrated…
“Please, master,” she shuddered hurriedly, her voice deepening at the words. “Please! I am your slave girl. Please let me serve you. Anything! I’ll always be sure to do whatever you ask, even before you ask it. If you want to fuck me… I'll spread my legs just like this. I'm yours. But please, please let me live.”
What was he thinking? How could he resist an invitation like that?
He was staring at her hard. His cock was out and he had it in his hand, pumping it slowly. “Tell me again. What will you do if I let you live?” he asked. There was no hardness or brutality in the question. Instead, it was almost innocently asked, as though he was oblivious of its terrible threat.
She gasped, arching her back. Her nipples were hardening. She knew he would see and despite her embarrassment, she was almost relieved that he could. She pushed herself down onto the end of his shoe, very deliberately allowing her pace to quicken. “If you want me to strip for you,” she said, returning his steady gaze. “Anytime you’re feeling a little horny, then I will. Anytime you desire. You’ll never forget my pretty striptease, I promise. If you want to keep me naked and in chains, that's your privilege. If you want my lips to suck your penis, I’ll love you for it. I’ll milk your member and be sure to swallow the very last drop. Please master. Give me to your friends, your enemies, anyone. Let me serve everyone you choose. Fuck me, beat my b… breasts with your b… be… belt, take me in the ass, c… ca… cane my pussy, torture me, anything, but please, d… de… dear master, allow this undeserving creature to live. Don’t snuff my life. Allow me to be your obedient slave.”
Her flesh was crawling from the words. She closed her eyes
What was she saying? What was she doing? She didn’t recognise this slut that groaned without shame and panted with arousal.
Her skin was covered with little goose bumps that pricked like hundreds of tiny needles. An itching caressed her skin like a lover’s hand, making her shiver in apprehension.
How could she be saying these things? Did these words really come from inside her mind? Or had she been possessed by another?
Suddenly the sp
She was so disappointed. Such waste! Why had he not done that into her pussy?
Instinctively, she lifted her breasts to welcome his seed, accepting his pleasure, grateful for his honey upon her body.
She gasped, biting her lips.
A drop of his nectar struck her chin. She tried to reach out and grab it with her tongue, but she couldn’t. She couldn’t quite reach it.
Oh God.
Still he was coming, deliberately coating her with his liquid, anointing her, baptising her as if it were some weird religious rite. His cum flew through the air, hanging above her as if deciding where to strike, before dive bombing unerringly onto her flesh.
He was claiming her, like a dog marking its territory, basting her skin. He was her master asserting his dominance.
And she was now his slave: his chosen one, owned by him.
Shit.
She watched his cock hungrily. It was so hard, erect; it was angry and bold, spurting its pleasure at her.
She screwed up her hands into fists. Her breasts were swollen, the skin stretched and painful. Her teats were aching, stuck up, little darts begging to be appeased, pleading for his wetness to quench their fire.
She would become used to that member she was sure. At least she hoped so. She would come to know it intimately, what it liked, what it hated, how to tease it, how to provoke it. How to make it hard.
How to make it spurt.
This would become her one and only joy.
“Rub it in,” he said, his orgasm finally beginning to a stall. There was one single drop of cum hanging from the end of his cock. This, he casually shook onto her bare stomach. “Rub it in,” he repeated. “Rub it into your skin. I want you to wear my cum as your bra and panties, to have your private parts prettified by it. It will be your underwear. Rub it into your breasts and into your pussy. Rub it in well, just as you would the sun lotion on the beach.”
Shannon sighed with disappointment, because he’d taken his shoe from her crotch, denying her its stimulation. It left her empty and with a terrible hunger, a cavernous frustration.
But there was nothing she could do about that.
Nothing.
She knew she mustn’t protest. She knew that automatically.
Slaves don’t protest.
Would he allow her masturbate in front of him?
Of course not. Not without his permission.
Slaves don’t go on strike. Slaves don’t have rights. Slaves can’t expect climaxes. They only give climaxes. That should be enough to satisfy a slave
She was a slave.
She would only masturbate for him with his permission.
That’s the way of a slave.
She was a slave.
She repeated the words sternly. Nothing but a slave. Nothing more. She must either accept that fact or ask for the alternative.
It was her choice.
And yet she hoped that it wasn’t true. Not always.
The bit about slaves not getting climaxes…
Perhaps he might watch her. Perhaps he might ask her to touch herself for his enjoyment. Why not? Isn’t it true that men love to see a beautiful and naked woman helpless under the weight of her own arousal? Caressing herself?
For the satisfaction of her master?
Isn’t that a universal male fantasy?
Carefully she rubbed his juice into the flesh of her breasts, feeling the interest with which he watched her. She began at the outside of each of her large mounds and worked towards the centre, rubbing with the flat of her hand, stealing a little pleasure along the way as she gently massaged.
A universal male fantasy…
He waited patiently, his shrinking cock seemingly uninterested now, but his eyes yet burning.
Her skin reddened and shivered under his fiery gaze. Oh God.
In that moment she knew, she sensed, she truly was his slave.
She would do whatever he asked.
Anything.
And still she rubbed her twins… a little quicker now… rubbing his honey into them, deep into her flesh.
She caught her breath. She had cramps in her stomach. Her breasts were swollen from desire, luxuriating under the softness of her own caress.
If it would please him to see her on his show, on Public Justice, sitting upon a long steel spit that penetrated her ass, she would happily comply.
She yearned for his touch, to have something inside her, but she had only the caress of her fingers.
A universal male fantasy, to see a woman touching herself, getting hot, wanting to cum… Maybe… Just maybe…
Now for her pussy.
She bent her legs to get better access, opening her knees.
There were several globules of his cum to the side of her silky patch of hair. She scooped them up and then rubbed his juice into the hole, not bothering with her mound or her thighs. She went straight to the core, to where it mattered, straight to where she was still so very, very hot, rubbing the remainder of his precious honey along the inside of her sodden pussy lips.
They were like apricots now, so hard, so swollen. She rubbed it inside, right inside, onto her pearl.
She couldn’t breath. Oh she would die. She would die if this lasted much longer. She groaned with delight, her hips swaying from side to side, enjoying, delighting…
Oh God. This was magic.
A little more… just a little more… and…
She opened her eyes, barely even aware now. She was caught up in a dream, a mist of desire clouding her vision. But through it she caught something in his demeanour, his manner, something that caught her cold.
She had gone too far.
He was annoyed, irritated. Instantly the mist cleared and a grey rain-drenched bog was all that remained.
He was annoyed…
And she guessed the reason.
He hadn’t told her to play with herself. She was a slave. He had asked her something quite different.
She was a slave now.
Universal male fantasy or not, she hadn’t asked his permission.
Reluctantly, she pulled her fingers from her shaking lovetube, hearing its great cry of protest, wanting to satisfy it, but knowing that she couldn’t.
That she daren’t.
Not now.
Her arms were heavy.
“Get up,” he ordered, pulling a chunky bunch of keys from somewhere about his waist. “It’s time to dress you.”
He unfastened the heavy shackles
buckling her ankles and threw them away. They made a horrible noise as they c
He moved quickly with fast rapid movements.
Shannon waited.
Naked.
Her body perfumed with his cum.
From somewhere he had clothes, not paper this time.
Proper clothes.
She stood and waited. Aroused. Clasping her thighs tight.
No.
Not proper clothes.
But neither were they paper.
Her breasts were heavy with desire, pleading for a man’s touch, any touch.
Slave’s clothes…
She was confused, unsure why she'd responded the way that she had. She had been raped. Surely that should alienate her from sex. It would make her frigid and cold. But now…
How could she now be so… brazen?
He had stockings, fine denier, red in colour. He rolled them up, and bid her point her toes.
Shit.
He was going to dress her. This was… was…
God.
She was confused, blushing as he knelt down in front of her and placed her left foot onto his thigh. His face was inches from her pussy. He would be able to smell… smell her arousal and desire.
Her aroma mixed with that of his cum.
This was stupid… foolish. She was a raped woman. Dirty. Covered in cum.
But obediently she pointed her toe and childishly allowed him to roll the stocking onto her foot and over her ankle.
Oh shit. She was so wet there… Please don’t let her juices leak out.
If he should see that! Running down her leg!
How could it be? She had been raped! How could she be so excited so soon? The only logical explanation was that, terrible as it had been, she had experienced the stimulant of adrenaline in rape, lifting her to hitherto unknown levels of heightened fear and tension, and it had become an aphrodisiac to her.
In its very awfulness there had been something far closer to the ultimate fuck than ever she had obtained before in sex.
They are so close, she pondered, pain and pleasure. Like and dislike.
Agony and ecstasy.
Fear and excitement.
Rape and fulfilment.
Why do we love to be frightened at theme parks, in movies, on TV?
Adam rolled the stocking over her knee, his hands touching her, gently caressing her calves, her knees, her thighs. Slowing he smoothed the stocking into her flesh, onto the sensitiveness of her thigh.
“Now the other one,” he ordered, waiting for her to adjust her posture.
“I can do that…” she said from embarrassment, like a statue as he rolled the second stocking like a condom. “There's really no need.”
She lowered her newly stockinged foot to the floor.
He warned her not to continue her protest and then pointed to her right foot. She gave way, she was a slave, offering him her other leg.
She had never had a man dress her in her stockings before.
Why was he doing this? Why?
She was the slave.
Doesn’t the slave serve the master?
So why was he now dressing her?
He rolled the stocking up her leg, taking a generous amount of time, touching her, continually caressing the sensitive plain of her upper thigh, lingering there, exploring, now straightening the band at the top, pulling it taut. It was almost a lover's caress, so sweet and tender.
He then stood and reached for the dress.
Not a simple dress this time. Not disposable. Not paper. This one was made of satin, red with embroidered gold thread.
“Give me your arms,” he said kindly, approaching from behind. He was holding the dress like a valet would hold a coat or a jacket, ready to guide her arms into each of the sleeves.
Unthinkingly she accepted his invitation, allowing him to slip it onto her shoulders and her arms into the arm holes. The fabric was velvety and soft upon her skin. The sleeves were long, with small red buttons at the cuffs.
These he fastened, sliding each of the soft fabric studs through its hole, then straightening the padded shoulders. “Thank you,” she muttered shyly.
How could she not be grateful to a man who paid her such kind attention?
The dress was pretty, graceful, dropping well below her knees, cut to her waist but with a full flowing skirt. It was red without being sluttish: the colour of a whore but the garment of a radiant Indian bride.
She looked down for its buttons, waiting for him to fasten them. The buttons at the front.
Confusion.
For they weren't there.
Why not?
Panic.
Perhaps there was a belt or a zip…
No. There wasn’t.
Not anything. No fastening at all.
And suddenly she understood, blushing.
This was the garb of a slave. Here was the proof of her position.
This was the way he wanted her to dress.
In a beautiful unbuttoned dress that didn’t even meet in the middle, that was cut away at the waist so that she was always on show.
Her body always available.
Always.
Her bare breasts and her pussy on display.
Whether she liked it or not.
It was ridiculous. How could she dress like this?
“You look very pretty,” he said, crossing once again to his desk and opening a drawer.
Shannon watched him with more than a little trepidation, the compliment making her blush. “Thank you,” she replied automatically, feeling like a young girl.
What now?
Handcuffs? A collar?
He took out a box: too small for handcuffs, too small for a collar.
Okay. Then what?
It was still sealed. She tried to examine it for clues, to see what it might contain. It looked like the kind of box that would come from a jeweller.
Perhaps...
Shannon’s mind was racing again.
A piercing.
What else could it be?
Oh shit.
He was walking behind her…
She didn’t dare look, didn’t dare look round.
She could hear him opening the little box, the gentle click of the clasp. Maybe it was nipple rings… surely it wasn’t….
No! A frightening thought…
Surely not a ring for her pearl!
But the more that she thought, the more certain she became.
A piercing!
He was going to pierce her there…to receive his ring.
Of course… how appropriate for her new role as a slave.
His hands were upon her shoulders, gently lifting her hair. She closed her eyes. Whatever it was, she hoped it wouldn’t be too painful.
Please let it not hurt too much!
He touched her skin. But there was no pain.
None at all.
She opened her eyes. What? What was happening? What was he doing?
She looked down. He had placed a necklace around her neck. A necklace! It wasn’t a piercing at all.
A necklace: a beautiful gold chain upon which hung a beautiful cross. She recognised it. It was what the Catholics used to wear before the nuns sent to the slave camps.
“Do you know the meaning of the cross?” he asked, fastening the clasp at the back of her neck, releasing her hair and fluffing it out.
She shook her head, not really trusting herself to speak.
“It’s an ancient symbol, used by in many different religions. It is a special sign… firstly a symbol of execution… Isn’t it strange that people would wear such a symbol around their neck? A device that claimed the one they love?”
She didn’t answer.
“But it also has another meaning… a subconscious one… a much deeper one… Don’t you find it curious that women especially… so many women… should have worn such an obscene ornament? Doesn’t it remind you of anything?”
Still she said nothing.
He stopped and sighed. She waited for him to continue.
What? What was he saying?
She wanted to understand but she couldn't.
He coughed, exhaling deeply, changing his mind about what he was going to say, changing the subject. “The fact… the fact that a woman is a slave doesn’t mean that her master doesn’t care about her well-being. He cares for her even more than if she were free, because she’s his property. Don't we take a special interest in what is our own?”
Shannon's heart was beating fast. What did he mean? She was too confused to know what to say. When she still didn’t answer, he pointed to the monitors. “You see. I care.”
The monitors had been alive and switched on the whole time she had been in the room, but Shannon hadn’t been paying attention.
But now she followed the line of his finger.
There was a debate on one, the channel that had carried the Public Justice show. It was about the rights and wrongs of testing cosmetics on animals. A few people had become irate and were now shouting abuse at the presenter.
But it wasn’t this monitor that Adam was indicating that Shannon look at. It was the one to its left.
Shannon paled.
She saw Granite and the Weasel. They were naked and in an empty studio. They were being choked upon a noose, the tips of their toes just touching the seat of a wooden chair.
Oh God.
The air rushed from Shannon’s lungs with a sigh.
Such mixed emotions.
A moment ago she’d have sworn that she wanted those men dead. She’d have said she hated them, that they deserved to be executed. Her pussy was still sore from their attack, her spirit crushed, her memory savaged by their violation of her person.
But this… this…
She couldn’t look away. Strangely their cocks were hard, erect.
“They always do that,” Adam whispered, reading her mind. “It’s a physical reaction, no more, no different to the way you juiced up and became wet when they plugged you.”
Shannon blushed, twisting her gaze from the screen to look at him.
What?
Oh Shit.
He was staring at the monitor… staring…. and… such a strange expression… what emotion was that she saw?
So difficult to tell.
So difficult to know.
But…
A warning bell sounded in her head. Beware, it said.
Be careful, it said.
How did he know she had become wet?
How could he have known?
How?
He hadn't been there.
But she didn’t dare ask him the question.
Beware, she thought. This man is deeper than he seems.
She looked towards the screen. There they were: faces purple, eyes bulging, feet unsteady, her attackers had become the victims.
It was their turn to be used, their turn to feel humiliation, their turn to know the sensation of approaching death…
“Would you like to see them?” Adam asked softly. “Would you like to squeeze their balls, to dig your nails into their dicks? Would you like to laugh in their faces and curse their parentage? You can. I let you. I allow it. No one touches my slaves. You see? I care.”
The bell started ringing again, the warning bell in her head.
My slaves, he had said.
My slaves.
That meant there were others. Others like her. Other women he kept for the purpose of serving his needs.
Who?
Where?
Did he keep them at home? A menagerie of women, trained to cater for his every whim?
Or what?
Slaves.
She had competition.
She nodded without emotion. Yes, she would like to see them.
There was a bitter resentment she harboured towards those men. They represented all she had endured. She would very much like to see them now the tables were turned.
</Text> </Fragment>
<Reference ID="142709" Date="24 Apr 1984"> <Publication> News Online </Publication> <ByLine> Tom Shipman </ByLine> <Name> Flunitrazepam abuse targeted </Name> <Text>
</Text> </Reference>
<Fragment ID="897243" Date="1 Jul 1984"> <Name> Shannon Courtney </Name> <Location> CCTV Corporate Headquarters </Location> <Collator> Lisa O'Connor </Collator> <Text>
Tomlins took her down there himself. Of course, there was an escort, but she was a woman, a matronly dear of about fifty in a dark grey uniform, functional black shoes and thick black stockings.
It was an easier journey without the shackles about her feet.
“That’ll be all, Macdonald,” Adam told her when they got to the studio. Shannon peered through the open door into the studio itself. She couldn’t see either of the sound stages, only the auditorium, row upon row of plush seating, empty now and in semi-darkness.
Adam was calling to her. “Come, Shannon, this way.”
He took her inside.
Oh Shit.
If she thought she was prepared for what she would see, prepared by the television pictures and by her own imagination, then she was wrong. Her heart missed a full beat at the horror of the spectacle she saw.
Adam took her by the arm and led her forward.
“It’s okay,” he whispered. “They deserve it. They knew what they were doing was wrong. They knew…”
Even so, it was a tough sight to behold.
They were naked, of course, both of them. Granite was a shorter, stouter man. The Weasel was lean and lanky.
Oh God. They were suffering, in pain.
They stood on tiptoe on little stools, facing each other, their hands fastened somehow behind their backs. The nooses bit into their necks, extending and lifting them up. Both were in distress, choking, forced to stand on their toes to be able to breathe at all.
Adam placed his palm into the small of Shannon’s back and guided her forward, toward her former tormentors.
“Remember what they did,” he whispered. “Remember how they abused you, how they rammed their cocks into your pussy. Remember how that felt…”
She did, and it helped. But even so…
Their massive cocks were thick, swollen and erect, cocks that had filled her full, deadly and unwanted. “They always do that,” Adam had said. “They always do that. It’s a physical reaction.”
“Good evening gentlemen,” Adam said dispassionately, climbing onto the stage and approaching the two tormented beings. His voice echoed in the large, empty studio.
There was a coldness about the way he spoke, in the way he moved. It made Shannon shiver. “I hope you’re ready for the climax to your punishment.”
The men were in no state either to argue or to answer. What could they do with the rope biting their throats, suffocating and strangling them? They simply gasped for air.
Tomlins continued on. “I’m wondering whether either of you is reformable,” he said. “Or whether I’m just going to let you take the final drop.” Shannon shuddered. She was glad that Tomlins wasn’t speaking to her. What kind of person was this? So sweet upstairs, so harsh down here. God help her if she ever got on the wrong side of him.
She carefully listened to what he was saying. “It seems that neither of you mother fuckers can control his dick. What are you? Men? Or walking dickheads? How can I trust you? How? You’re just fucking wankers, both of you. God.”
The corners of his lips turned into a wicked smile. Shannon went cold. She knew that something awful was coming, something very terrible. And she wasn’t mistaken.
“I’m going to give you one last chance to prove to me that you can control your male hormones. One final opportunity to redeem yourselves. I’m going to let my slave here,“ he pointed to Shannon, “I’m going to let her try to pleasure you to a climax. How about that? If she succeeds, then she gets to kick the chair from under you. Understand, gentlemen? If she succeeds, then you die. But if she fails, then you live. I’ll let you not only keep your jobs, but I’ll also let you each play with Shannon here in my toy room. Think about that. That should put a light under her engine.”
Their eyes moved a little, following Tomlins as he moved, but otherwise they showed no sign of having understood what Adam had told them.
He turned, offering Shannon an encouraging glance. “Don’t worry,” he murmured softly. “It’s no big deal. There’s no way that they’ll be able to resist. Not these bozos”
For a moment, Shannon wasn’t too sure what he expected her to do, but then she had it. He was offering her a chance of revenge. If she made them cum, then she would finish them off.
But if not…
She tried to forget the “if not”. Instead she concentrated on Adam’s encouragement.
She was a woman.
She had weapons these bozos would find a challenge to resist.
Bozos.
Hmmm.
In front of her, one to the left and one to the right were two purple cocks, swollen, the knobs thrust out from inside the foreskins. They were rigid and twitching.
It shouldn’t be too hard to make these things cum…
</Text> </Fragment>
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