By Kinkabella
Archived Here With Her Kind Permission

Part 40 - Stupid Is, As Stupid Does

It was extremely difficult to concentrate on anything for a long while after Mr. West left the house. At first, I had my left hand pressed lightly against my pussy more to soothe its soreness than anything else, but the heat that radiated into the palm of my hand; the moisture that continued to seep onto my fingers; I soon found myself unable to resist the lure of pleasuring myself.

My thoughts drifted back to the other day, when Mr. West had whipped my breasts and then bent me over a footstool so he could fuck my pussy. The memory became clear and fresh in my mind until I could almost physically feel the heat of his body on my back and the stimulating feeling of his cock, large and rigid, pounding into me. It was such an impersonal fuck with Mr. West just using me, like a fuck-toy for his own sexual gratification. I remembered the way I remained passive for him too, except for my pelvic floor muscles that tensed and tightened and massaged his cock as it penetrated me. I had so wanted him to cum inside me; to fill me with his hot, thick cum, but instead he had fed Tracey with it. The memory pinged a nerve that made it feel raw with a kind of jealousy.

I was in the midst of a most dreamy reverie and reveling in the sensations of my fingers, slick with my own juices, pinching and twisting my swollen clitoris. It felt so good, especially the combination of this and the awareness of the large plug in my ass that bumped like a doorknocker in my ass if I bounced and wriggled in my seat. My daydream thoughts began to swirl as I imagined myself Mr. West's lying naked on the floor; me sitting on his cock and sensuously fucking him while he teased and tormented my clit until it was fully exposed and vulnerable to his touch.

Or maybe it was my old boyfriend Bernard Turner, naked on his back? The blurred images in my mind's eye quickly shifted from one to the other and back again. I could see Mr. West's figure on the periphery of my thoughts; the visitor who approaches without warning when I'm feeling my weakest and most defenseless. I collapse forward on Bernard's chest and hug him tightly; his mouth close to my ear and his voice hot and wet as he calls to the visitor to fuck my ass while his cock bucks up into my pussy. I am curled up on his prostrate body with my knees hugging his hips and my arms around his neck. From the corner of my eye I see Mr. West approach and move behind my upturned ass. I'm sandwiched between their cocks, whimpering as they fuck my ass and pussy with irregular, painful thrusts. It's a torture, but the pleasure I feel radiating from my clitoris seems to override all else. Mr. West's body envelops my back and is like a blanket of orgasmic mist that saturates my senses. I can feel the climax, so close...

The interruption of the doorbell shatters my deliriously wonderful moment.

It's a young girl with long, straight blonde hair in jeans and a sweater. She has one of those awful voices, grating and high-pitched and with a rising tone at the end of every thing she says that makes her sound like every statement she makes is a question.

"This is the slaver's residence? Where girls volunteer to be slaves? I want to be a slave? I'm here to volunteer?"

"Gah!" I silently curse he imbecilic interruption to my afternoon delight.

"Yes, that's right," I manage to say in a flat, business-like tone of voice.

She's able to pass through the invisible fence and enter the house.

I take her out to the study, ignoring her idiotic ramblings about how 'nice' everything in Mr. West's house is.

"Oh, that's a nice television? That's a nice vase? That's a nice..."

I wanted to throttle her with my own hands.

"You'll need to fill out this," I said, pushing the paperwork across the office desk to her.

"I'm Sandy?" she prattled, pushing her hand across the table as if she expected me to shake it.

"Ladies don't shake hands," I said, totally ignoring her extended arm. She gave me a strange kind of look like I'd suddenly grown a second head, and her hand remained hanging in the space between un until she realized I had no intention of shaking it.

"I fill this out?"

"Yes." I rolled my eyes to myself.

"It's a very long form? Do I have to read it all!"

I should have been impressed that she could say 'something' without making it sound like a question, except it really was a question she asked.

"Just sign your name at the bottom," I said. "You can write, can't you, or should I get an ink pad so you can just stamp it with your thumbprint?"

The girl's face was totally blank and expressionless, like a puppet waiting to be animated by a hand up the back of its shirt. And then she started giggling and cackling as if it was the funniest thing she'd heard in her life. I couldn't wait to get her out of the office and into the darkened room where Sonya had been taken when she first arrived.

"You'll need to be chained," I said to her, directing her to a corner where shackles lay on the floor.

"Ok!" she bubbled.

"That's not too tight, is it?" I asked as I shut an iron manacle around her left ankle.

"A little," she replied.

I discreetly tightened it one more notch and locked it in place.

"There," I said. You're all ready to meet Mr. West.

"Mr. West?" she asked, clearly unfamiliar with his name. I ignored her question.

"You might like to watch a little television while you wait," I said. I aimed a remote at the screen on the wall and it flashed to life with images from The Torture Channel. Sandy, or whatever her name was, continued to bombard me with inane questions, which I studiously ignored.

"Do you ever shut up?" a voice in my head asked the girl silently; rhetorically.

"You might enjoy this other channel," I said, speaking out loud now. And with that, I zapped the screen with the remote and switched the television over to The Snuff Network. Sandy, thankfully, fell instantly silent, and I couldn't help giving a little smirk to myself as I left her alone in the darkened room with the gruesome images of stupid, young air heads like her being dispatched and shuffled off this mortal coil.

Once back in the office, I felt kind of flat and worn out, although the dull ache of the butt plug still in my ass at least provided some distraction while I made myself busy with the office work. I looked at the clock on the wall: 3:30pm. Plenty of time, I thought, to get a large number of the files in front of me sorted and in order.