By Kinkabella
Archived Here With Her Kind Permission

Part 22 - Home?

"Come on, you lazy ass, get your ass in here," Mr. West said.

I trotted to catch up with him. The duffle bag I carried in my mouth bumped against my breasts each quick step of the way. The first thing I noticed about the inside of his house was how tidy it looked. And clean. The carpet was soft underfoot; the plush pile soothing on the soles of my bare feet. Mr. West opened the door to the first room went inside it. I could some young girls sitting on the floor, but I couldn't quite tell how many. At least two, maybe more. They appeared to be watching a television mounted on the wall, although I couldn't quite see it because the door into the room blocked my view. The background noises of whatever the girls were watching disturbed me.

"You aren't planning on having our nipples cut in half are you?" a girl with long, wavy red hair asked.

"No, I don't think so, why you ask?" Mr. West raised an eyebrow slightly.

"Well the guy you were with down town just did that to his slave, and we thought you might do it to us," the redhead continued.

"What? Give me the DVR remote!"

Mr. West aimed the remote control in the direction of the television.

"Ingrid, drop that on the couch and get in here," he called to me.

I did as instructed and then walked quickly back to the room and stepped inside it. It was unexpectedly large and looked so much more comfortable than the Spartan, concrete cell where I'd spent the past week being humiliated and tortured. The beds weren't antiquated relics from the past, but rather they were modern, king-sized single beds and there was four of them with plenty of room still to walk around. There was three girls in all -- two blonde and the one with the long red hair I'd already seen. They sat in beanbags chairs on the floor. It could have been a motel room, except it didn't appear to have any wardrobes. My brain was still a little addled from the days' adventures so it took me a disconnected moment to realize that, with the exception of Mr. West, who was impeccably dressed in casual designer wear, nobody else had any clothes to be stored.

"Look," Mr. West pointed my attention to the jumbo plasma screen on the wall. "You're on TV already ..."

I drew a short, deep breath at the sight of Grant's image frozen on the screen. My image was also clearly visible, although I at least mostly had my back to the camera. I was on my knees in front of him with my head, slightly tilted to one side and my hair slightly blurred, as if to suggest movement against his loins. The image suddenly came to life and for about the next half a minute, I could be seen clearly sucking Grant's cock -- my head bobbing quickly up and down while my hands masturbated him in an animated fashion. The view through the camera slowly moved to zoom in and capture more of me in profile. It was pornographic, the way I appeared to be so thoroughly enjoy what I was doing. My eyes were closed and my mouth stretched wide and deep on his cock shaft. The crystal clear image then clearly captured my nostrils flaring and my cheeks balloon -- muscles in my throat contracting while I gulped down his jism.

A voice over commentary mentioned my husband by name and announced he'd just received his slavers license in a tone reminiscent of the crassest of game show voiceovers. It went on to point out me -- "The slave who is servicing him (Grant) was, until she was sold into slavery for public drunk, his wife." There was one last fleeting shot of me as I pulled my face away from Grant's spent cock. It zoomed right in so the side of my face filled the entire screen -- a trickle of glistening cum dribbling from the corner of my mouth and my tongue, clearly coated in his cum, lashing out of my mouth to lick my lips. It cut quickly to a brief scene "après-cock" where I was now seen sitting contentedly between Mr. West's legs while he talked with an overweight business man beside him. The sight of my husband, cock freshly sucked and with a smug look of satisfaction still etched on his face as he led away a blonde slave girl, was all I could stand to watch. The scene cut to Grant and some kind of perverse game they were about to make him play with a hapless young redhead who had just been grabbed by two large men who then cuffed her wrists behind her back and held her still. I couldn't look at any more.

I could hear the freakish game being played -- a game in which Grant was supposed to invent a three-minute torture for the girl he selected and then perform it live for the cameras. A morbid curiosity caused me to glance briefly back at the screen just in time to see a digital counter graphic appear in the lower right hand corner of the screen. His challenge in torturing the girl was that he could only use implements he carried on his person. I quickly averted my eyes so as not to watch as my Grant removed a small Swiss army knife from his pocket, clearly with the intention of mutilating the screaming girl. It really was too much for me. I tilted my head back slightly so I could trace the line of the room where the wall joined the ceiling. A Manfred Mann song -- a happy, Doo Wah Diddy song -- sprang to mind and I started quietly humming it to mask the noise of the screaming on the television.

A loud buzzer signaled the end of Grant's time and, with a heavy, deliberate emphasis that only I could hear, mumbled "Thank. God." under my breath. The voice over man sounded like a machine gun with a mouth as he spoke rapidly and with a high-pitched sound of excitement. I secretly wished they put HIM through their mincing machine, or whatever it was these depraved people used to get off on. The sudden mental image I created for myself caused the blood to rush from my face.

"Oh, that was nice. I'm sure you will get high scores for that one. Stay tuned for another "At the Drop of A Hat" some time this hour, here on The Torture Channel." The voice over ended.

Mr. West looked at me and said "Twenty years you say?"

I had nothing to say in reply.