Roaming evil 

Amantha and Sarah before the fire
 
Amantha was sipping chamomile tea that Sarah had made.
Amantha had been many names in her long and storied career,
including the mandatory "foxy roxy", Babs, Susie Cream
Cheese, and, after she drifted to dominatrix work, Sadie,
Mistress Sadistic, Ms. Pain2U, and other names. Now
happily retired with her modest investment hoard, she had
taken in Sarah, who had been in the business for boyfriends
and pimps. Bruised, recovered and discarded, Sarah would have
drifted into homelessness, but for Amantha -- who was not
really sure that was her birth name, it just sounded nice.

Sarah skipped in, happy as usual, sitting on the floor
before Amantha. Sarah was extremely grateful, which she tried
to show in submissive behavior, which bothered Amantha. "Sarah,
you don't have to do that any more," she said gently. "Sit up
here with me on the couch, gentle spirit. I've had enough
of dominating and sadism, we both have". Sarah looked
disappointed, at first, as if she were used to being verbally
lashed and battered, but then, as if awakening from a
nightmare, perked up and smiled broadly and openly, perching
on the edge of the couch, stretching her legs.  She was
getting the idea that she was *not* worthless, and did not
live only in the eyes of others opinions.

"I hope, dear Mandy, that you will let me continue
to serve you, brining you food and things, even if we
are equal, now?" she said plaintively. Amantha smiled,
reassuringly, "Yes, of course, Sarie, I enjoy it when
you serve me tea and things. I just can't bear to be
cruel to you, or see you subservient, after all that
happened to you." Both ladies smiled at each other,
enjoying the afternoon.

The cottage was isolated, far from the small village,
nestled in native trees. The two ladies would not permit
hunting, so the surrounding 100 acres that Amantha's
boodle had bought were a paradise for rabbits, songbirds,
herbs, spices and flowers of all sorts. Deer pranced
through, seeking refuge, and occasionally coyotes, foxes
and even wolves roamed through. But never hunters.

Sarah showed her age, her wrinkled face and bosom a
testiment to the ravages of male sexual excesses over
the years. And for naught, she often thought, she got
nothing out of it. Amantha reassured her that they were
"experience lines", and no one would judge her, now.
Sarah preferred to waltz around in cotton panties and
push-up bra, that did its best to restore her figure,
often cloaked in a cotton nightgown and slippers.

Amantha was in better shape, but much older. The ravages
of the sex trade had not intruded into her very soul, she
had let it pass over her harmlessly, milking the biz, as
it were, for the assets that now enabled her to live a
comfortable life. She enjoyed wearing tight, spandex shorts
with no underwear, lace panty hose or ankle stockings,
comfortable, sturdy shoes, and loose-fitting velvet blouse
over her somewhat small bosom. Her breasts had small,
strawberry-like nipples, they were the pomegranite type,
whereas Sarie was more the dark, thick auriole type.
Amantha was sort of proud of her sturdy legs, which she
indulged in regular karate exercises, keeping her kicks
strong and her knees healthy.

All in all, it was a happy culmination to a somewhat
compromised life "in the life", a side-step from the
usual societal presumptions of behavior and how to get
by in the world. And in just deserts. 
 
Runnin down the road

Greg was happy with his job, especially the "perks"
he generated for himself. As a telco repairman, he roamed
the county, dispatching service calls, fixing wires, gaining 
entry to homes as a trusted workman. Quite often, lonely, 
grateful housewives would find his sturdy, healthy body 
attractive, and court his attention for danger or pleasure 
or both.

Often, too, he would help himself to little trinkets, 
jewelry, cash, even their husband's clothes, knowing that 
they would never dare blow the whistle on him. Especially 
after they found out that his repair case had a spy camera 
peering out a tiny hole, filming the whole sordid episode. 
Usually, they would be happy to get rid of him under the 
promise that he would not come back.

Greg had been blighted with a limp dick, and only with 
difficulty could he get it hard. He would have to degrade 
the female, force her into submission, make her beg or 
show fear of him.

On a couple of occasions, he had gotten very rough indeed
with his victims, and had never looked back on their
hospital records. One had died, the case, he thought thankfully,
never solved.

Greg looked over the service slips for the day. None
interested him. Most were scattered field work with no chance
for preying on lonely, vulnerable females.

In this case, he decided, it was time to make up his own 
"repair" job. The truck rolled to a stop in front of Amantha's 
cottage, and he hopped out, bearing his official looking work 
case. Old ladies, he knew, but probably good for some antique 
jewelry, or maybe some loose cash. And probably forgetful 
enough never to be sure he had bagged their cash. Smiling, 
he banged boldly on the door, sweeping in past Sarah with 
scant explanation, casing the living room as he picked up 
the phone.

"Hmmm, seems to be working now. I wonder what the repair 
slip was all about...".

Sarah had looked at the official repair truck, and Amantha
had nodded permission to let the dope in. They both almost
drooled at the healthy, young body bulging out under the
tightly stretched uniform. "What muscles," Sarah had murmured.
"I wonder how much pain he can really take", Amantha mused,
slipping her .22 into the pocket of her house coat.

Did they believe he was a crook? Or were they just having
fun? Perhaps they did not even know, for sure. But Sarah
did not like the way his eyes roamed around the living room,
finding Amantha's wallet, stopping at loose cash and
wrist watches.

"I better check the phone in the bedroom, too", Greg said
with apparent concern. "Might be a problem there".

Amantha looked steadily at him, hands unobtrusively in her
housecoat pockets. Sarah said, weakly and wobbly, "...the
bedroom is downstairs, sir, can I show you?". Confidently,
he preceeded her down the padded staircase into the
basement. "Not many houses out here have basements,"
he said, as he entered the darkened hallway at the bottom
of the stairs.

Pressing a button, Amantha smiled as the special steel door 
swiftly closed behind the "repairman", securely locking him 
in darkness and solitude. Sarah cringed back, never liking 
the fire door, but skipped happily back up the stairs, 
ignoring some sounds that came through the heavy door. 
 
Chapter 3: Repair man's racket exposed -- making him fair game

After dissecting the "tool box", extracting handcuffs, gags,
compromising sexual pictures of some ladies that looked rather
familiar, and spotting the hidden camera, the two ladies
knew that the "repairman" was grist for their fantasies.

"Oh boy", said Sarah, "I can just taste those strong muscles,
I so love to bite and scratch a good lover like him!". Using
gloves, Amantha took the keys from the toolbox, and drove
Greg's truck to the other end of the county. Sarah, not as
wobbly as she sometimes made out, picked her up, and the
two ladies, chuckling, grinning and chortling over the fun
and pleasure they were anticipating, shared a rare treat,
dinner out in town.  It was vegetarian, of course, but they
splurged on Chamomile tea and crumbly pastries at a nearby
pie shop, splurging for once.  It was a very calming
excursion, and the two women, holding hands, window-shopped
down the main street.  Sarah started to skip, like a young
girl, happy and free, and Amantha was induced to join in.

After returning to their house, they took a long walk around
their property. "No sign of any tire tracks", said Amantha.
Sarah grinned viciously. "Nope, there is a certain prize
that is all ready for us, I think".

Amantha ruminated on what to do with it. There were some
tasks that they would like done, but mainly, just running
their withered fingers over his young flesh, feeling his
frantic tongue explore their most private cavities, forcing
him to enthusiastic words of enticement and endearment,
enforcing pain, penalties and markings on his body, would
be a wide range of expectation and discussion.

Amantha had not tortured a male "slave" for decades, it
seemed, and her fingers itched to get started.

The two ladies planned to discuss it with him, too,
making sure that he would know how much he was going to
pay back for his evil activities and transgressions of the 
past, that now, no one could ever trace him to their
basement lair.

They were out until midnight, somehow, feeling like years, 
maybe decades, had been lifted from their age.

Greg heard them come in, felt, too, the beginnings of the 
fear and trembling that always seized him when those he 
picked on tried to fight back. He felt his fear rise to 
unbearable levels, as his own urine ran down his leg, and 
the smell of awful dread rose around him. 
 
Chapter 4: Gloating o'er the prey

The two ladies retired for the evening without speaking 
to Greg. There was a glass panel in the floor of their 
bedroom from which they could peer down into Greg's prison. 
It was double pane bullet and sound proof glass, about 
3 feet by 5 feet, but there was a small trap door about 
8 by 10 inches next to it that could be opened if the 
ladies so chose.

They did peer down at him, trying to make out the words 
he shouted at them, smiling gently at his gestures and 
vain attempts to climb the walls.

The prison was a former bomb shelter. The narrow hallway 
led into a corner, so they could see the entire room and 
the hallway leading into it.

The room itself was about 10 by 12, and the walls were 
12 feet. So their viewpoint was quite inaccessible to 
Greg, even if the glass had not screened him out. 
There was a cot, bolted securely into the cement floor, 
and a central drain allowing the entire room to be 
flushed with water to clean it out. There were bolts 
embedded in the concrete of the walls, about 4 feet 
apart and 8 feet off the floor, which sloped slightly 
to the central drain. There were bolts also in the floor.

Greg surmised that he was expected to eliminate through 
the central drain. There was a hose, but the controls
were not in Greg's prison. He was thirsty and hungry
after his long ordeal, but there was nothing for it but
to collapse on the cot when the ladies faces disappeared
from the window in the ceiling and the lights went out.
There was one rough blanket, and no pillow, but he managed
to fall asleep. 
 
Chapter 5: Sarah wakes early

"Wake up", Sarah whispered fiercely through the open trap
door. Greg woke up, leaped up, and in an amazing feat,
came only a foot short of grasping the tiny opening with
desperate fingers. Sarah laughed.

"Take off your clothes", she said coldly. "I can't wait
to see what you look like". He sneered, arms crossed, as
she closed the trap door in disgust.

He was thirsty, hungry, and upset. Time passed. He could
see shadows move through the glass pane, and tried not to
be seen to look. But no one paid any attention to him.
Hour after hour, he suffered in silence. Finally, after
what seemed like days, he started moaning, then wailing,
threatening, then pleading and finally, begging.

The trap door finally opened. It was the other old bat,
the one called Mandy something, he thought. "You don't
listen well, young man," she said in an exaggeratedly
wavering voice. "Please, water", he said. "Take off your
clothes, as Sarah ordered. Then you may, should I see
fit, receive some water."

Desperately, swiftly, he took off his shoes, shirt,
finally, the stained pants. Both ladies were watching
carefully. When he was finally naked, they ordered him
to pose. It was painful, but he had to posture and bend,
showing off his muscles and strength, to suit the old
ladies. After being convinced of his humbling, Amantha
opened the tap for an instant, allowing about a gallon
of water to pour into the hose. Gratefully, he gulped
down as much as he could.

Amantha and Sarah were pleased. Already, he was showing
signs of obedience, of behaving as ordered. They intended
to push him to the limit.

"Put your clothes in this bag," Sarah said, lowering
a rope terminating in a canvas bag. After disposing of
his belongings, the ladies returned to the glass, now
studying his exposed body and his anxious, worried expression.

To get food, he was required to lock a set of heavy leg
irons on his ankles. They allowed him about an 8 inch 
tread, and hobbled him to one spot. Now, he could not 
jump. For this good behavior, Amantha dropped a slice of 
bread down the trap door, landing on the floor. Greedily, 
he scooped it up, then looking in disgust at the grains of 
dirt stuck to it. After cursory brushing, he wolfed it 
down, and was rewarded with another slug of water.

The hatch, now so far above him, closed, and he was 
once again left alone. The agony of restriction by 
the chain bore down on his mind. He was no longer 
free, now transfixed in this situation. And his clothes, 
truck, toolbox...he shuddered...were in the grasp of the 
old biddies. Time went on, and his hunger and thirst 
overcame the shame of his being locked up with the 
heavy chains.

For hours, it seemed, the two sets of eyes peered 
greedily at him, following his every move through the 
glass or the open trap door. No hope, now, of his
getting out without their assistance.

Just as he was about to start begging again, Amantha's 
head appeared at the trap door, and she gave him his 
initial orders. Sarah giggled and twittered as the 
shameful demands registered, and he knew he would 
comply, submit, agree unconditionally. 
 
Chapter 6: Months later before the fire
 
Amantha stretched her long, shapely aged legs, enjoying
the heat from the fireplace. She had trained their servitor 
well, and, as her toes reached out, he put down his knitting 
and began stroking her toes just the way she liked, working 
slowly up to her ankles, then back down to each toe, working 
the spaces between and pulling each one gently as he worked 
the pad.

Sarah was rocking gently, paying attention to her own 
ghosts as they raced through what Amanda sometimes considered 
her silly head. She was in flesh-colored underwear, which, 
despite her age, clung nicely to what remained of her 
curves. Amantha loved looking at women, no matter their 
age, and made sure that their servant -- slave really -- 
showed the same avid interest.

It had been satisfying, training him to dote on their body 
parts, secretions, secret spots, making him painfully aware 
that any failure to perform was not to be tolerated. Now, 
he was restrained only by leg irons that held his ankles 
at right angles, splaying his knees apart. This ensured 
that he would never be able to stand, and would dwell 
on the floor.

Amantha and Sarah made strict rules for him, and enjoyed 
laughing at his earnest and sometimes desperate attempts 
to avoid punishment for his many transgressions. Now, he 
readily ate his food from the floor without question, 
knowing that even using his hands was not to be tolerated. 
And the two ladies made sure that he only got appropriate 
scraps from the table. This was a big incentive for him 
to keep the floor, and their shoes, very clean.

The two towered over him, as he was restricted forever 
to an awkward, crab-like shuffle on the floor, dragging 
his pinioned legs after him. It was a struggle to do the
dishes, he had to hoist himself up to a chair, then
balance precariously and painfully on his knees to reach
the sink. Cleaning the toilets was much easier, he
thought.

Amazingly enough, he had conquered the one defect that
had blighted his life the most: finding himself the abject,
defeated slave of the harsh Amantha had rendered him erect
at almost all times. It was a revelation to him, that even
a nasty command from her, and the idea that if he did not
scurry to obey that she would reach for the riding crop or
flogger, would make his private parts tingle, his stomach
fall away in flutters, and his erection rise magnificently.

This excitement at their domination and complete conquest
of him, as their slave and worse, stayed with him.
Fortunately, the ladies thought this quite amusing, and
Sarah, for one, often availed herself of using him in very
sexy ways. It was amazing how her greedy vagina could
manuever around his shackled and floor-bound postion.
Sometimes, too, the ladies would just look at his excited
condition, Amantha loved to nostalically engage in limited
forms of what she used to call "cock and ball torture" when
slaves used to pay her for her cruelty.

Now, she thought lazily, she could afford to do it for fun,
and it could be as real as she wished. She and Sarah, of 
course, she smiled wickedly as she surveyed the slave, 
already hard from worshipping her toes.

Where were those needles, anyway? 
