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From: Night Writer <night_writer99@hotmail.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} Surrendering Sarah {Night Writer} (nc, Fdom, humil) [15/?]
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Date: Mon, 22 Feb 2010 00:10:03 -0500
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                                      Surrendering Sarah

                                         by Night Writer

 
                                           Chapter 15


In Sport's world, the weeks that followed seemed like years. Ever 
increasing dosages of Shayla's drugs made his body twitch constantly 
and deepened his depression. Mindlessly submitting to Shayla at work 
all day followed by servicing Janey at night became his life. Sleep 
came to him in restless fits of unconsciousness, always plagued by 
nightmares of Sarah and Rock together with Shayla's commanding voice 
laughing in the background. He had even lost the ability to orgasm, 
thanks to the drugs, but that still didn't stop Janey from torturing 
him by fingering his erection as she verbally humiliated him. "What a 
shame," she'd tell him over and over as she stroked him. "Such a hard 
dick attached to such a useless excuse of a man." But by that time, 
Sport knew no humiliation. Janey's words settled in through layers of 
fatigue as an accepted truth. In fact, the final surrender was calming 
to Sport - once he let his resistance drift away, his frayed nerves 
nagged at him a little less, and a little less anxiety was a 
considerable level of relief. What remained was the relentless sexual 
frustration accompanied by an erection that constantly throbbed for 
relief, an itch that could never be scratched as long as Shayla's drugs 
saturated his frail body. 

It was a Monday morning like most other Mondays, except that his 
weekend with Janey had been particularly unpleasant. She had invited 
her friends over, two women in impeccable white tennis outfits who also 
wore predictably cruel smiles. Sport tried not to stare at their 
athletic figures, at the long, suntanned legs bared beneath short white 
pleated skirts. When they caught him looking, they giggled 
uncontrollably, pointing to his erection that bulged obscenely beneath 
his spandex shorts. Janey had ordered him to strip, and one of the 
women wanted to see him dance. Sport felt his erection bob in all 
directions as he tried his best, but he was no dancer, and his 
amateurish hopping and wiggling made the women laugh until tears 
streaked over their faces. Afterward, they each stroked and pulled at 
his cock in a contest to see who could make him cum. Janey stood by and 
gloated with the secret knowledge that it was a competition that could 
never be won. It was a new low, even in Sport's world. 

When he arrived at the office, he noticed Shannon wasn't there to greet 
him. Her unexpected absence was suddenly more than a passing curiosity. 
Although her fresh-faced smile and cheery, "Hi, Mr. B!" always lifted 
his spirits a bit as he passed by on his way to Shayla's office, he had 
never realized how it was the nudge that got him through Shayla's door 
each morning, and through the rest of day. He paused a second, felt the 
emptiness close in around him a bit more than most days, then went to 
Shayla's door and opened it. 

"Well, it's about time, pussy-boy. Come in and join the party." 

Rock stood a few feet in front of him, hands on his hips, grinning as 
though he was savoring in advance some obscene joke that Sport had yet 
to comprehend. As he stepped aside, Sport stared in horror at the scene 
before him. Behind Shayla's desk stood a gleaming chrome framework of 
steel and leather, an elaborate scaffold designed to accommodate the 
human form in an endless variety of positions. The body contained 
within it was one of bronzed perfection, the firm young thighs held in 
place by padded leather bands, the flat quivering belly stretched 
taught as the structure seemed to breathe in subtle movements that 
mimicked a living entity. Tiny sensors and motors guided agile 
appendages that clasped her arms and legs, moving in a bizarre dance 
that seemed only partly voluntary, a perverse ballet of flesh and 
machine. Shayla stood between her legs, staring at the flexible snake 
of silicone that weaved and probed within the light patch of golden 
pubic hair now wet with arousal. Shayla rested her hand on her belly, 
smiling at the immediate response, a returned loving gaze from within 
the machine. Slowly, the gaze moved to Sport, but changed from 
adoration to derision. As Shannon's blue eyes met his, her full lips 
curled into a warped smile that betrayed everything she had been to 
him. 

Shayla looked up at Sport and smiled a kinder smile. "Sport, you look 
like you've seen a ghost," she said. Her tone was almost genuine; 
enough so to reach the part of Sport that relied on her for security in 
times of doubt and confusion. "Oh my, you didn't think she saw you as 
anything but a weak and pathetic creature, did you? Really Sport, if 
you imagined she considered you anything slightly more than that, maybe 
you need more training." 

Shannon closed her eyes and moaned as the machine lifted her hips up 
into the jittering probe between her thighs. Shayla moved her hand 
upward over the fluttering stomach, finally cupping a large full breast 
in her palm. "Now Shannon, my Sweet, who do you live to please? Who 
makes your little cunt drip? Tell us, my Sweet. Tell us." But the only 
reply was a more drawn-out moan from the young girl, a confession of 
surrender to her master, but not one of her master's identity. 

Sport watched in stunned disbelief as Shannon tensed her stomach and 
tilted her hips forward and up, straining to suck the thin, agile 
phallus inside her. As though sensing her intent, the machine 
exaggerated her movements, guiding her hips upward in a quick, almost 
violent succession of thrusts while the rubbery probe teased her with a 
series of shallow penetrations calculated to excite, but not to 
satisfy. Beads of sweat formed over her breasts and belly, finally 
wetting the leather pads that supported her. She seemed to be a living 
part of the machine, her damp, smooth skin so like the slick, shiny 
leather - her lean, tanned arms and legs the warm blood and nerves that 
gave life to the slender steel rods and purring motors. 

Shayla stood beside her, gently scraping the long, manicured nail of 
her index finger over Shannon's turgid nipple. "You mustn't be shy, my 
Sweet. Tell me what you want." Shayla's voice was velvety and soothing, 
more of a purr than a command. "Do you want someone to finish you? Do 
you want to cum, my Sweet?" 

"Yesssss...," Shannon hissed, her eyes still closed, concentrating, as 
though she might try to trigger her orgasm by sheer will alone. 

"Who do you want, my Sweet? Who makes you cum harder than anyone ever 
has? Who do you live to please?"

Shannon's eyes drifted open, then scanned the room slowly.

"Him," she answered, almost in a whisper. "I want him."

A familiar, sick revulsion settled in Sport's gut as he watched the 
scene before him. Shannon's eyes were fixed on Rock, her full lips 
moist and parted. Her body, her face, her words - all had become a 
betrayal to Sport. The innocence and empathy Sport had come to love in 
her was gone, replaced by twisted sexual obsession for the same 
grinning biker who had so easily taken Sarah from him, the very same 
animal that had spawned Sarah's unquenchable addiction for satisfaction 
from "bigger", "better" men. "She's not Sarah," a distant, feeble voice 
within him warned. "She's not Sarah". But the  fragile, unraveling 
thread to reality was a droplet of reason in an ocean of delusion and 
defeat. It was overwhelmed and silenced in an instant.

Shannon babbled wildly as Rock approached her. Tears flowed down her 
cheeks as she whimpered and thrashed against the machine. Rock moved 
between her outstretched legs, lowered his jeans, and leaned over her, 
balancing his weight on the polished chrome supports. 

Shannon was crying openly, begging him to enter her, begging him to use 
her, begging for things Sport had never imagined coming from her 
perfect, pink lips. As the head of his cock inched inside her, two 
slippery, spaghetti-like appendages caressed her lower belly, then slid 
maddeningly lower, nestling along each side of her swollen clitoris 
where they writhed like miniature snakes. As Rock forced his cock into 
her, the life-like machine-tentacles read her response to their touch 
and refined their dance, coaxing and lifting the pink bud of flesh 
until the two slithering fingers held the rubbery meat of her clit in a 
swirling, throbbing embrace. 

Shannon came within seconds. Her arms and legs shuddered within the 
confines of the machine as her climax approached. The sudden onset of 
spasms that rippled through her body overwhelmed the machine's ability 
to interpret them and respond, wrenching her lithe arms and legs in a 
rapid succession of halting, random excursions that delivered brief 
twinges of pain to straining tendons and ligaments within her fragile 
body.  The confused tendrils that encircled her clitoris collided and 
retreated, slashing and stabbing between moments of their maddening 
feather touch. 

Sport watched with an odd mix of desire and disgust. Shannon's tanned 
body convulsed in orgasm before his eyes. Exquisitely toned muscles 
flexed and stretched beneath the velvet golden skin of her legs and 
belly. Silken hair covered much of her face, revealing only her full, 
wide mouth. Her moist lips were parted, but far from the way he 
remembered them when she greeted him at work each day. Now she had 
become this unimaginable sexual creature of tantalizing flesh and 
gleaming steel, lost in a bizarre, frenzied dance of lust that she 
craved but could no longer control. 

Rock stood over her wearing an amused grin as the machine-girl thrashed 
and moaned. Her sex swallowed him so perfectly while in the embrace of 
the machine that he simply stood between her legs and let her do all 
the work. Her hips were guided forward and upward in a precise arc, 
measured and refined to the shape and size of his rigid cock. When he 
saw her wince in pain as the machine tried to amplify her orgasm, his 
grin widened, and he fought the urge to come in her on the spot.

It was only after her orgasm subsided that Rock began his slow, even 
strokes, merely grinning down at her as she lay recovering in the 
still-pulsating network of rods and beams. When she didn't respond, he 
began to batter her with his cock, shaking the machine as he plowed 
into her limp, twitching body. 

"How 'bout that, you little bitch? That what you want? All of it at 
once, like - THAT! Aw fuck yeah, I'm gonna do you till you're raw, 
bitch. How d'ya like it NOW - like THAT! C'mon you little pig, squeal 
for it! Beg for it! THAT's how you like it, right?" 

Rock pounded her with his hips, his cock pistoning into her with sudden 
violent thrusts. Shannon lay in the machine, unmoving, her head fallen 
to one side as she stared blankly into space. Her body was now like a 
marionette with half the strings severed. Nervous reflexes from Rock's 
assault were amplified by the machine, causing her body to move in a 
combination of erratic random jerks and unpredictable spasms. 

Sport looked on helplessly as Rock's body tensed, his pace slowed, and 
his groan filled the office. Seconds seemed like minutes to Sport, 
minutes like hours. Finally, Rock pulled his cock from the broken doll 
of a girl strapped to the machine before him. Shannon lay quivering 
within the machine, dazed and barely breathing. Sport's hatred of Rock 
began to boil within him, just as his sympathy for Shannon became 
overwhelming. Then, when a wide, satisfied smile grew across Shannon's 
face, he began to sob uncontrollably. 

Rock wheeled to face Sport. In seconds, his look of disbelief turned to 
one of disgust. Seething with anger, Rock headed straight for Sport, 
his jaw set, his fist clenched into a tight ball of muscle and bone. 
Sport stepped backward, his face a picture of pure horror.  Just as 
Sport's eyes met Shayla's in a last-minute plea for help, Rock's fist 
slammed into his stomach with a sickening thud. He fell to his knees, 
eyes bulging, his stomach a cauldron of nausea that threatened to erupt 
at any second. 

"Awww, look at that," Rock said, his all-to-familiar sneer locked on 
Sport. "Gonna be her hero, big guy? Think she would ever want a wimp 
like you? Tell ya what - I'll fight you for her - well, what's left of 
her. You gotta remember how I ruined your sweet little wife the first 
time I fucked her, right? This one's no different. She's the same kind 
of whore, all fresh and pretty on the outside..." Rock reached out and 
grabbed a fist-full of Sport's hair, his wild-eyed stare inches from 
Sport's face. "...all stupid, cock-hungry cunt on the inside. I thought 
I taught you that once. Now I gotta show your sorry ass all over 
again."

Sport's stomach caved inward as Rock's second blow knocked him to the 
floor. He began to vomit as his head hit the floor with a sharp crack. 
Sick and disoriented, his head pounding with a dull, distant pain, 
Sport remained conscious of only one thing - his hatred of Rock, 
amplified by the biker's revolting laughter that rang through the room. 
Slowly, using every once of energy he could rally, Sport pushed himself 
to his knees. He struggled to keep his balance, his body shaking 
violently, his hands clenched into fists at his side. He glared up at 
Rock, up at the laughing giant who had destroyed his life. 

"S-she never l-loved y-you," Sport uttered haltingly as he strained to 
stay upright on his knees. "S-she never..."

Rock's boot carried all the power his massive leg could deliver. When 
it landed between Sport's legs, he collapsed backward onto the floor, 
groaning, then whimpering, tears of defeat streaming over his face. Now 
Sport's world was one of pain and loss, nothing else. Minutes ago a 
spark of resistance had still existed, a tiny flame that had become his 
only remaining connection to Sarah, the Sarah that he knew, Sarah, his 
wife. As dim as it had become, it was still there, almost unreachable, 
but there just the same. As skilled and relentless as Shayla's attempts 
to extinguish it had become, they merely pushed it farther into the 
distance. Lying there in his own vomit, in his own well of certain 
destruction, Sport felt it vanish as suddenly as if Rock had snuffed 
the flame between his thumb and finger. At that instant, he began to 
sob. 

Rock stood over him, his laughter turned to a disgusted smirk. 

"Faggot's no fun anymore. He just lays there. I say, kill him." 

Shayla's footsteps came closer, the click, click, click of her black 
stilettos a familiar, welcome sound to Sport. 

"Sorry, but it's not our call. I've found another plaything for you. 
See if she has a boyfriend. We can use some fresh meat."

Shayla's voice was now cold and calculating, no longer the refuge that 
Sport knew so well. Click, click, click - she was coming closer, so 
close to him now. Sport opened his eyes in time to see her kneeling 
beside him. Her blouse opened to reveal large, chocolate breasts as she 
leaned over him. So perfect, he thought. He had never been allowed to 
touch them. He saw the syringe in her hand, bright and glittering under 
the fluorescent lights of his former office. 

"Ugh...he stinks," she complained as she lowered the syringe to the 
side of his neck. "I think he shit himself."

She looked into his eyes briefly, then looked away.

"Disgusting..." she whispered. Shayla stabbed the needle into his neck, 
pushed the plunger to the bottom of the barrel, and Sport's world went 
black.



                                                         ***



The old warehouse was deserted at 2:00 AM. On the loading dock, shallow 
puddles reflected stray light from a single bulb mounted on a rusting 
sheet metal wall. Rain fell in a light mist, coating concrete and steel 
in a fever sweat of things sick and dying. Two burly men stood just 
inside the wide roll-up door. They stared impatiently into the foggy 
night. 

"Gotta wonder where these sick fucks send this stuff," the fatter of 
the two men said, as though he might be talking to himself. His stained 
t-shirt barely covered the mound of gut that hung over the top of his 
jeans. 

"None of yer damn business," the second man answered. "Like always, I 
take the money and git the hell outta here. If you ain't up to it, go 
ahead and leave - I'll take your share." He looked over at his 
accomplice and grinned. 

"Fuck you," the fatter man answered, and went back to staring into the 
night.

Outside, at the edge of the dock, two large wire cages sat in the 
chilly rain. As usual, each cage held a naked, unconscious body, one 
male, one female. Both were placed inside crouching on hands and knees, 
their ankles and wrists tied to the wire, although the cages were too 
small to allow much if any movement. They appeared to be sleeping, 
their heads resting on the thick leather pads beneath them, their 
breathing slow and shallow. 

"Did you get a good look at her?" the fatter man asked. "Mm, mm, mm, 
she's really somethin'." 

"Yeah, yeah," the second man growled. "Whatta you gonna do, ask her for 
a date?" 

"Heh, well, maybe you like the other one better."

"Right. Fuck you."

Sport shivered, partially rousing from his drug-induced sleep. His legs 
and back ached, his vision blurred. He was cold and wet, and the 
plastic ties holding his arms and legs to the wire cage cut into his 
flesh painfully. Somewhere in the distance someone was talking - who? 
It was so cold. So wet and clammy. Where was he? 

His vision began to clear, only to fade to a blur again within seconds. 
In, then out. Clear, then a blur. Eventually, when he could see for 
longer periods, Sarah's cage became recognizable.  She was naked, on 
her knees, but it was unmistakably her. Sarah's pale skin glowed in the 
darkness, her slim legs folded under her, her supple torso and full 
breasts an angelic vision to Sport. He could see her closed eyes and 
inviting mouth through parted strands of golden hair that spilled over 
her face and creamy bare shoulders. If her eyes would open, she would 
be looking right at him. But she slept, peacefully, beautifully - a 
rare, delicious treasure, caged and trussed as though she would be sold 
like meat, by the pound. Then, just as the vision took form, he blacked 
out again, losing her to Shayla's drugs. 

Sport woke a second time to sounds and movement much closer to his 
cage. The door to Sarah's cage stood open. A very large man leaned over 
it, panting and thrusting, his cock buried between Sarah's legs. Sport 
watched helplessly, as if dreaming. Unconscious, trapped within the 
confines of her cage, Sarah showed no sign that she objected to the 
violation. In fact, as the fat man's flabby gut hammered the cage, 
Sarah seemed to raise her ass to accept him, arching her back a little 
like an animal in heat. Sarah's mouth opened slightly, then formed a 
wide, satisfied smile across her angelic face. Sport closed his eyes, 
and again, as another of his dreams became a nightmare, he prayed for 
his escape. His prayer was answered as the drugs brought sleep once 
again. 

It was 3:00 AM when approaching lights in the distance signaled the men 
to ready the cargo. The rear door of the brown step-van was three feet 
below the dock, which meant the cages had to be lowered over the edge, 
then lifted into the truck. The two burly men accomplished it easily, 
each pausing to stare into Sarah's cage as they hoisted it into the 
back of the van. The driver handed them envelopes thick with cash, and 
the truck disappeared into the fog. 

"What the hell were you up to while I was takin' a shit?"

The fatter man grinned. "Just askin' her for a date, like you said."

"And what do you think they'll do when your "date" is delivered with 
cum leaking out of her?"

"Hell, I dunno - maybe they won't notice."

"Well, I noticed. Christ man, she was soaked."

The two men walked quietly back through the warehouse, then across a 
railroad siding to their cars. Neither knew who "they" were, or what 
trouble the fatter man might have created. But for the time being, the 
weight of the money in their pockets was comfort enough. 

When they reached their cars, the fatter man glanced over his shoulder.

"What the fuck. She was probably just some stupid slut anyway."

The other man closed his car door without answering.

"Right. Probably just some stupid slut," he muttered to himself as he 
drove hastily into the night. 






Previous chapters of Surrendering Sarah, along with other works by 
Night Writer can be found at http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Night_Writer/www/

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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