something like a chess game. Then we might contend with gusto.”
It occurred to her that she might not have attained to that insight unless she had been hurled into this extraordinary situation, and inwardly smiled at the irony by which slavery became the fulcrum for elevating freedom.
“Unfortunately, it’s a message I won’t survive to deliver,” she thought, “and if I did there would be no way to communicate it. What would I say, ‘I attained my enlightenment while being fist-fucked in a slave parlor’?”
Her ruminations were cut short by an abrupt reversal of posture. She was pulled down from the bar, flung on the table, and tied once more. It was time for the oversized dildoes and the finale. It was impossible for her to tell how big the shafts were that were shoved inside her, but they felt at least the width of fists. Again, it was the old one-two, into the cunt and into the asshole. She was already learning how to make certain inner adjustments in order to accommodate an act, which, she was certain, had archetypal roots.
Spread-legged, nipples pinched, orifices stuffed, helpless, she felt fingers pry her mouth open and rubber bafflers stuck in place between her teeth. With her boots and gloves and hood, she offered the classic picture of bondage.
The warm spicy liquid came next, splashing on her belly, on her breasts, on her pubic hair, and then trailing up her torso, like a tubular waterfall on her chin, and finally into her open mouth, spraying her tongue and collecting in a pool at the back of her throat. He pissed until it seemed there could be no more, and still it kept coming. Then she realized that it was splashing in several places at once, and that there must be four or five men standing over her, pissing on her. There came a moment when she could no longer keep from swallowing, and, as much as the blocks between her teeth allowed, she gulped, the briny fluid slushing down her throat.
“She swallowed it!” one of the men shouted.
“Hooray!” the others shouted.
And amidst their cheers and applause, she lay in perfect shame until they had finished turning her into a living urinal. True to his word, the one who had bought her then straddled her head, and masturbated gleefully until he had spat his sperm also into her mouth. Then he quickly slipped the bafflers out, forced her mouth closed, and held her chin until she had gulped and swallowed his spunk.
“Whew!” she heard him say.
She was untied, lifted up, put back into the wheelchair, and whisked into an anteroom. There, a man she had not seen before took off her mask, and other apparatus, picked her up, dropped her in a tub of hot water. Two women appeared who then washed her down. She was rinsed, dried, and combed. She was given a mouthwash and told to brush her teeth. Someone handed her a glass of warm milk with honey. She drank it and felt her strength returning. The drug was wearing off but she was still surrealized by its aftereffects and by the impact of what she had just been through. She was pushed into a chair, and one of the women stood in front of her and carefully applied lipstick to her mouth. Then she was slipped into a pure white, transparent negligee. The man came over and before she could react, slipped a hypodermic into her arm.
“Not to worry,” he said, “it will only paralyze your vocal cords and jaw muscles. Henry gets embarrassed if the woman speaks to him at all.”
“Why not use a gag?” she said even as she felt her throat beginning to constrict.
“Then he wouldn’t be able to kiss you,” the attendant said. And smiling, added, “You’ll see.”
Henry was a massively wealthy man whose weight kept stride with his bank account. Well over three hundred pounds, he presented that perfectly bland and benign facade behind which fat people hide. He had the desperately reassuring manner of a nervous dentist.
He had rented a private room off the Parlor, and Constance was led in and tied to a rather
It occurred to her that she might not have attained to that insight unless she had been hurled into this extraordinary situation, and inwardly smiled at the irony by which slavery became the fulcrum for elevating freedom.
“Unfortunately, it’s a message I won’t survive to deliver,” she thought, “and if I did there would be no way to communicate it. What would I say, ‘I attained my enlightenment while being fist-fucked in a slave parlor’?”
Her ruminations were cut short by an abrupt reversal of posture. She was pulled down from the bar, flung on the table, and tied once more. It was time for the oversized dildoes and the finale. It was impossible for her to tell how big the shafts were that were shoved inside her, but they felt at least the width of fists. Again, it was the old one-two, into the cunt and into the asshole. She was already learning how to make certain inner adjustments in order to accommodate an act, which, she was certain, had archetypal roots.
Spread-legged, nipples pinched, orifices stuffed, helpless, she felt fingers pry her mouth open and rubber bafflers stuck in place between her teeth. With her boots and gloves and hood, she offered the classic picture of bondage.
The warm spicy liquid came next, splashing on her belly, on her breasts, on her pubic hair, and then trailing up her torso, like a tubular waterfall on her chin, and finally into her open mouth, spraying her tongue and collecting in a pool at the back of her throat. He pissed until it seemed there could be no more, and still it kept coming. Then she realized that it was splashing in several places at once, and that there must be four or five men standing over her, pissing on her. There came a moment when she could no longer keep from swallowing, and, as much as the blocks between her teeth allowed, she gulped, the briny fluid slushing down her throat.
“She swallowed it!” one of the men shouted.
“Hooray!” the others shouted.
And amidst their cheers and applause, she lay in perfect shame until they had finished turning her into a living urinal. True to his word, the one who had bought her then straddled her head, and masturbated gleefully until he had spat his sperm also into her mouth. Then he quickly slipped the bafflers out, forced her mouth closed, and held her chin until she had gulped and swallowed his spunk.
“Whew!” she heard him say.
She was untied, lifted up, put back into the wheelchair, and whisked into an anteroom. There, a man she had not seen before took off her mask, and other apparatus, picked her up, dropped her in a tub of hot water. Two women appeared who then washed her down. She was rinsed, dried, and combed. She was given a mouthwash and told to brush her teeth. Someone handed her a glass of warm milk with honey. She drank it and felt her strength returning. The drug was wearing off but she was still surrealized by its aftereffects and by the impact of what she had just been through. She was pushed into a chair, and one of the women stood in front of her and carefully applied lipstick to her mouth. Then she was slipped into a pure white, transparent negligee. The man came over and before she could react, slipped a hypodermic into her arm.
“Not to worry,” he said, “it will only paralyze your vocal cords and jaw muscles. Henry gets embarrassed if the woman speaks to him at all.”
“Why not use a gag?” she said even as she felt her throat beginning to constrict.
“Then he wouldn’t be able to kiss you,” the attendant said. And smiling, added, “You’ll see.”
Henry was a massively wealthy man whose weight kept stride with his bank account. Well over three hundred pounds, he presented that perfectly bland and benign facade behind which fat people hide. He had the desperately reassuring manner of a nervous dentist.
He had rented a private room off the Parlor, and Constance was led in and tied to a rather
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