Miss America - a BDSM Vampire Tale Page 5

  Again, “I see. You work for the New York office of a London-based publisher. You trade in celebrity biographies and you are paid in excess of $80,000 a year. Again, is this correct?”

  I was growing tired of agreeing with him. “Yes, Sir.” “No, Sir.” The voice hardened. “You work for a worthless pimp. You trade in your own flesh and you are paid in as much semen as you can cram into the disgusting space that you call your body. Tell me, Miss Bentley. How much do you think that is?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t know, Sir.” “She doesn’t know. She is so wealthy that she doesn’t even care to count her riches.” I heard a chair scrape back and, for a moment, the glare of the window lessened as a figure passed between it and me; rounded the table and then came to a halt behind me. “Rise.”

  I stood, and felt a hand on my buttock, gently at first, and then rougher, squeezing the cheeks as one might appraise a piece of fruit. A finger nudged at my anus. “You are not a virgin.”

  “No, Sir.” The probing finger became a flash of pain as he slapped my ass. “I did not ask. I spoke. You are not a virgin. You have taken men in this hole.” Again he jabbed my anus. “That is good. How many?”

  “Two, Sir.” One, the first time, because a boyfriend and I were curious; and again two weeks ago with Pedro.

  “Two. How charming. So promiscuous, yet so inured from the ways of the world. Your other lovers. They were all Americans?”

  “Yes, Sir.” I could have added four Brits, a couple of Canadians, and a New Zealander, but the fewer words I had to use, the less chance I had of saying the wrong thing. From the corner of my eye, I could still see the whip hanging menacingly, as though aching to taste my flesh again.

  “Again, how charming. And how like your own country. You happily take what you like from the rest of the world, but what do you give it in return?”

  “I don’t know, Sir.” “Of course you don’t know. I will tell you. Teasing gestures. Empty promises. Hollow smiles. Then, the moment it is time for you to deliver, you flee, to cower behind your own kind. But one day, you will understand that no matter how fast you run, you can never hide. How fast can you run, Miss Bentley?”

  “I don’t know, Sir.” “Could you outrun a forest fire? Could you outrun a charging elephant? Can you…” I felt him step away from me; sensed him gesture with one arm; and then collapsed to the floor, screaming once more, as he completed his sentence. “…outrun a whip?” I must have fainted, my body shutting down to black out the nightmare as slash after slash rained down upon me, and my yelps and cries dissolved into one endless, piercing scream. But, when I came to, the nightmare was still playing out. I was still in that same brightly lit room, still surrounded by figures that I could barely discern in the glare of the sun. My initial thought, however, that I had been placed upon a couch… or maybe even a hammock… was shattered as my mind groped back to reality.

  I was suspended from the ceiling, by chains that bit into my arms and my legs. My head hung backwards, my hair trailing on the ground. I could not see above me, to the point from which the chains hung, but I imagined a complex arrangement of pulleys and levers and, somewhere else in the building, a mighty capstan, around which sweating slaves lazed and lolled, awaiting their next command. But I quickly

  discovered that if I so much as moved, even to straighten my neck, the motion caused my entire body to swing wildly in the air, with my deadweight tugging painfully at the joints in my shoulders and thighs. Only if I willed myself to remain perfectly still did my cradle return to its rest, a cushioned pillar that brushed the small of my back just enough to support my weight.

  The first man again. “Miss Bentley. We have talked and you have answered many of our questions. We have studied your body and you have answered many more. And we have looked into your mind and you have completed the questionnaire. That, as academically inclined people might put it, completes the written portion of the examination. Now it is time to move on to the practical portion.” He paused. “Think of the life you used to live as your

  homework.” Around him, the sound echoing off the paneled walls, I heard his companions laugh.

  If I detached my mind from my

  predicament; if I could erase the fear, the horror and the pain; if I viewed what was happening to me through the dispassionate eyes of a mere observer, this entire situation was absurd. Or, not absurd, exactly, but unbelievable.

  We will leave aside the remotest possibility that, in the heart of a western European capital, early into the second decade of the 21st century, a kidnapped American could be suspended from chains by a gang… I estimated there to be at least eight people involved now, and perhaps as many as eleven… a gang of sadists.

  We will forget, too, that much the same plot line has propped up more works of erotic fiction than perhaps any other fantasy the human libido could concoct. From Pauline Réage to Anne Rice-writing-as-A.N. Roquelaure and onto however-many shades of grey it takes to persuade Walmart to start selling pornography, a certain breed of heroine has spent the best part of the last two hundred years hanging, dangling, screaming and bleeding, while cruel Captains and vicious Viscounts, lewd Lairds and perverted Princesses stuffed their cunts and fucked their mouths, and poked everything they could find up their asses.

  The most ridiculous factor of all…it was happening to me. To me - and, if you think about what the word “me” actually means, you will understand exactly what I was going through.

  This was not a regular kidnapping. There had been no mention of a ransom, no discussion of money, no demands

  whatsoever, beyond my blind obedience. Neither was it a terrorist action – release our political prisoners or we’ll sodomize the girl.

  And neither was it a purely sexual thing, some grotesquely-orchestrated means by which a bunch of perverts got their rocks off. Indeed, while I would never go so far as to say my tormentors didn’t enjoy their work, I could not help but believe that ‘work’ was all it was. Their work, a job, a 9 to 5 career that they clocked in and out of, and then home to the wife and kids…

  “Hello dear, did you have a nice day?” “It was okay, but I wish I wasn’t always on whip-the-bitch duty. Still, it could be worse….”

  Yes it could. You could be the one who has to give a terrified girl a rosewater enema. You could be the one who had to tongue her to orgasm, after three of your workmates have already spurted inside her. Or you could be the one who was fucking her mouth, when the cushioned pillar that supported her weight finally toppled over; her jaw snapped shut instinctively, and left you yelping on the floor, while the blood gushed out of your half-severed manhood, filling her mouth and clogging her throat before she could even think to spit.

  Or you could be the girl herself, who would receive another lashing after every man had finished with her, and twice as many for the tooth-marked scars that the last of the rapists would take to the grave.

  Before that, though, something happened. I bit, he screamed and he came and... I don’t know. I thought about this a lot later on, and I still don’t understand. I couldn’t taste his semen, the blood was too strong. But I felt it, the texture pumping thick within the flowing blood, and it was almost as though my body gulped it down, grateful for a familiar sensation amid the horror of everything else.

  I drank from his cock as he staggered away, reluctant to release him even as he fell back, and when I looked down at my blood spattered breasts, white streaks clumped amid the red. And then I smiled.

  The Doctor and the Weasel carried me back to my apartment, set me down gently on the bed. From a valise that had already been placed in there they produced an array of bottles, ointments and balms.

  They worked in silence, but with a gentle sensitivity that, frankly, astonished me. Once, when I whimpered as a hand brushed one welt, the Weasel even caught my eye with what looked like something

  approaching regret. It was only after he had left the room, however, that the Doctor finally spoke, taking my hand between his and alm
ost absent mindedly caressing my wrist.

  “How you doing?” It was the first time the Doctor had ever spoken. His accent so startled me that I forgot myself for a moment.

  “You’re an American…Sir,” I added hastily. “Oh, drop the act. Besides, you’re meant to call me Master. Right now, though, I just want to make sure you’re okay. Or as okay as you can be given what you’ve just been through.”

  I smiled through the tears that I’d been shedding for hours now. “I’ll survive. Look, can you tell me what’s going on?”

  He looked towards the door. “Quickly, yes. I am a member of an organization that, to put it bluntly, is dedicated to sexuality.”

  Oh God. Kidnappers, rapists, white slave traders. “That is, highly organized communities of generally very wealthy men and women who find they share very similar views about sex, and who wish to educate others in the nature of their passions, while exercising those passions as often as they wish. Yes, they could go to prostitutes, but the idea of paying somebody to play the part essentially defeats the object.

  “Instead, they make it known that they are available to avenge any slight that other men and women – again, very wealthy ones – might believe they have suffered. A sum of money will change hands, the victim will be procured, and the members of the

  organization are then free to do whatever they like to her… or him… for as long as they care to.”

  “And then?” I asked.

  “Sometimes they remain with one

  community for life. Sometimes they’re sold on to another organization of similar interests, and on and on and round and round until the subject either dies, or becomes so worn out that they can play no further active role in everyday life.”

  The Magician’s words came back to me. Used up or useless. So he had been telling me the truth. “What about my…” I struggled for the correct word. “The accuser? What does he get out of this? I would imagine it costs an awful lot of money.”

  “Yes it does. But what does he get? The satisfaction of a job well done, of knowing that his tormentor will never place another man in the same position that he was forced to endure when his advances were rejected. And the belief that there will come a day when she will beg him to be permitted to perform every act that he was once

  forbidden, not because she seeks his forgiveness, but because it is her only purpose in life.”

  He patted my hand firmly, and rose. I had more questions, squeezing them out through my disgust and horror, but he simply smiled. “You should rest. Your meal will be here shortly, and then I want you to sleep.”

  “I’m not getting out of this, am I?” I asked.

  He shook his head sadly. “No, I’m afraid you aren’t.” CHAPTER FIVE

  They came for me later in the day than usual, or so it seemed to me. Or perhaps it was simply the unaccustomed luxury of sleeping in a real bed for the first time, rather than on the stone, hard floor of the dungeon. Either way, I awoke before I was called, and did so feeling more refreshed than I could remember.

  My body remained a snake pit of aches and pains. Tentatively, I reached behind myself, and ran a hand down my back, wincing as it brushed the welts that stood so angrily out from the flesh. My jaw hurt, my ass ached and, when I first saw the dark blood oozing from my pussy, I almost screamed, until I realized that my menses were upon me, and the pains in my abdomen, that I had blamed upon my beating, were as likely to be caused by stomach cramps.

  I walked into the bathroom, turned on the shower and looked around. A box of tampons, unopened, sat beside the sink. I bathed, peed, and then inserted one. Clearly, I had already received one visitor while I slept, yet the idea that a total stranger had noted my predicament before I was aware of it did not disturb me as much as it might have. Just as I’d been told on so many occasions, there was an order to this establishment, a routine. And, if – as the Doctor had suggested – they were in the habit of receiving fresh victims on a regular basis, mine was hardly likely to be the first period they had ever seen. Of course they would make provision for it.

  I sat at the desk and, for a moment, stared into space. I had been told yesterday that the written portion of my examination was over. But was that simply a figure of speech? Or a statement of fact? I had not been told to stop writing my daily memoirs, therefore I would not stop. Picking up the pen, I began to write.

  “When I grow up,” I once told my journal, “I want to be a hooker.” Looking back, I hadn’t really thought it through. How much would I charge? How would I find clients? And how would I weed out the icky guys, so that all my clients were the same handsome studs that gyrated through my imaginings? I didn’t know, so I didn’t worry about it. All that mattered to me was what happened once all that was taken care of…. And it went something like this.

  He was usually tall, blonde and occasionally English. A businessman in town for a few days, and he’d got my name from a friend. We’d meet in the lobby of his hotel, a swish joint in Abilene, and he’d wine and dine me at the best restaurant in town. Then a cab back to the hotel, an elevator up to his suite, and that’s where it would start, with me dropping to my knees before him, and resting my cheek against the erection that our earlier

  conversation… as I outlined everything he would get for his money… would have set in motion.

  He’d be torn between desire and embarrassment – what if the lift should stop, and someone should come in? “Well,” I’d reply, as I unzipped his pants, “they’d see what a handsome prick you have.” And it would be handsome, well-shaped and uncut, long and thick but not so far that I wouldn’t be able to fit it in my mouth. I remembered watching a porn film once, where the guy was so huge that the girl could barely get the tip in her mouth without dislocating her jaw. I wanted to suck the whole thing.

  “Not here,” he’d gasp.

  “Well, where?” I’d reply, as I licked his shaft from balls to bell end, then ran my tongue around the crest.

  “We’re almost at my floor.” “I’m almost at the top,” I’d say, and I’d give his helmet a long, deep kiss. But he was right, we were almost at his floor, so I’d zip him back up and then patiently wait while he found his door key and let us into his suite. Candlelit, with champagne already on ice – you see, I told you I hadn’t thought any of this through properly. But it was my dream, so there it was, champagne and candles and a pair of pants that vanished the moment we got into the bedroom, and now there was nothing to stop me.

  I push him back on the bed, his legs hanging over the edge for me to kneel between, my elbows resting on his thighs as his cock rises unaided towards me. I clutch it with two fingers, gently move it towards my mouth, and then I begin to suck.

  And suck and suck and suck, until he is so close to coming that his entire body is in ecstatic spasm. Then I pause and wait for the moment to pass, allow him to gain control once again. And then I start once more.

  I rarely wore a wrist watch, and there was no clock that I could see. So I don’t know how long it lasts for. But whatever he paid me, he’d get a minute for each dollar, and believe me, I wasn’t cheap. A two hour blowjob? Three hours? Four? I didn’t mind, and neither would he and when, at the end, I finally did let him come, it was like placing my mouth over the end of a hosepipe and then turning the water faucet on full. Except it wouldn’t be water, it was honey and liquor and candy and joy, and every drop tasted better than the one before.

  And he’s paying me? Unbelievable! I’d stay the night, or what was left of it regardless, and maybe we’d fuck or he’d eat me or whatever. But I’d have got what I came for, and the rest was just a bonus. Fuck, the cash was just a bonus. But I’d never heard of hookers who gave it out for free, so I didn’t let it bother me. Plus, it was better than working.

  The door opened, and the Doctor poked his head round.

  “Are we decent?” He sounded so casual, so normal, that I forgot, for a moment, where I was.

  “Hang on a sec, let me just finish…” A blow to the sid
e of my head knocked me halfway across the room, the chair clattering to the round beside me.

  “We issue the commands. You obey.” The Doctor stood above me now, his eyes flashing fire. I began to pick myself up, but a suedeshoed foot to the chest pressed me back again.

  “You have not eaten.”

  I remained silent. “You will eat me.” He drew the folds of his white coat aside. “I believe you know how to prepare your meal?”

  I drew myself to my knees, shuffled the few paces towards him, and then reached up to unbuckle him. His cock was already erect, I could feel it through the fabric as I lowered the zipper and began tugging his trousers and underpants down; freed, it twitched – or bounced – before my face, before I placed a light finger on the rim of his helmet, and lowered it to my lips.

  It was a lot smaller than I expected, and lot thinner, too. Not dental floss thin, but damned close. The Doctor was a tall man, broad in the chest, muscular. I had expected a cock to match. Instead, I was close to puckering my lips around him and, as my chin met his balls, there was barely a tickle close to my tonsils. I tried not to imagine him in regular life, in the locker-room at school, for example, surrounded by more average specimens, but it was difficult. No wonder he turned to kidnapping and rape. It was probably the only time a girl didn’t laugh at him.

  He reached down, picked up my journal, and began reading aloud. “I picked up my pace again, sliding up and down that long greasy pole; then, feeling my jaw tire, I slowed and concentrated back at the head, in – out; in – out; in….”

  I could feel his leg muscles tense as he read; I withdrew my head a little, until just the glans remained clasped between my lips… but nothing happened. He was still reading, but he had skipped back a few pages, to another portion entirely.

  “It was incredible, it was unstoppable; surely nobody has ever pumped out that much cream in one go? I felt it drying crusty on my face, I tasted it sweet and sticky on my tongue; and, though I sucked hard…”

  Ah, the airline pilot. Now there was a lover, there was a cock – and plop. There was the Doctor’s ejaculation, a dribble that I might have mistaken for saliva if he hadn’t cried out with such abandon, then staggered back across the floor, to sit on the edge of the bed, breathing hard.