“You must repent!” The tall, handsome, young man, confronted Vicky in her neat, pine kitchen. He was very close, his proximity made Vicky feel short of breath.
“Pray with me Sister.” He took out a small, black prayer book from his jeans’ pocket, flicking through it, she assumed, to find the right prayer.
She swallowed. She wondered how big his cock was. Long and thick? She tried to banish the thought. Why did she always think inappropriate thoughts, at inconvenient moments? The image faded, then returned. Huge, hard, right down to the glistening, bulbous head.
He turned from her, in disgust, and sat, without being invited, at Vicky’s kitchen table.
Had he caught the end of her thought? Had he known what she was thinking?
His long, straight, dark hair, glimmered in the late autumn morning sunlight. It shone like a halo.
Was he right? Should she turn to Jesus? She was depraved, she knew it. She’d been told often enough. Strangely, by men, when they’d finished doing something depraved to her.
He tapped his fingers irritably against the scrubbed wooden surface of the table. One…two…three…four. And again. And again. The sound stretched out Vicky’s already over stretched nerves. She stood, hugging herself, her arms across her breasts, her hands beneath her armpits. She sneaked a glance at him. He wore a cross on a silver chain around his throat. She couldn’t helped but notice the irony between his emblem of faith, and her emblem of slavery. Hers was worn in the form of a heavy emerald and platinum slave collar, fixed tight around her throat and placed there by her Master.
She smiled. Both she, and this strange young man had devoted their lives to higher authorities. They couldn’t be more different.
Vicky could feel her fuck juices trickling between her thighs. It always happened in the presence of males. Her cunt was salivating to a conditioned response. Like Pavlov’s dogs.
“See how Satan makes the slut laugh at your authority, oh Jesus Lord. The stench of her foul juice, is the corrupt, rotten stink of the sewers, oh Lord.”
“Well, there’s no need to get personal,” Vicky remonstrated. “And I wasn’t laughing at the Lord…oh never mind…” Conversations about God, always wearied her.
The fragrance of fresh coffee pervaded the kitchen. She was nervous, despite telling herself that this was her own home, he was the intruder. She’d made the coffee and been glad of something to busy herself with. But he hadn’t wanted it, asking instead, for a glass of water. That had annoyed her. He had watched her make it. He could have told her not to bother. Bloody Christians. No sense of propriety. No manners. Full of their own smug self assurance.
Vicky turned towards the window. A squabble of blackbirds squawked in the garden, startling her, adding to her feeling of foreboding. She blinked back hot tears. He’d spoken Jesus’ name. Thoughts of sweet Jesus always made her cry. Gentle Jesus. Could He forgive her? She doubted it. She’d heard all this shit before, from her parents. Ironic, how all four of their daughters had turned into sluts.
She turned to face her tormentor.
His grey, steely eyes watched her from beneath heavy lids. The atmosphere was tense. Vicky knew why he was here. Apart from telling her that Jesus loved her, he’d come to tell her that her Master was dead. Vicky already knew. She’d known after the first weekend had gone by without a summons to his home. Not even a phone call to tell her that she wouldn’t be needed. She’d been sure after the second weekend. There’d been nothing. Vicky’s Master had never been out of touch, during the twelve years that he’d owned her. Even if he hadn’t time to summon her to his home, he’d call her with various orders, or a task he’d want her to fulfil.
“There is no hope for Jonathan. He died before he was able to repent. He is in hell now,” the young man said confidently. “Fortunately, I have been able to keep his sin from his beloved family. Sister, Jesus is but waiting to welcome you. Sister, you can still be saved.”
“I’m not your bloody sister,” Vicky said, irritably.
“We are all Brothers and Sisters in Christ,” he told her, smugly.
Her Master was very creative. Even if it were something as simple as going out and fucking a stranger, and whispering to him what she’d done afterwards. He’d want every detail. How big was the stranger’s cock? Had she orgasmed? Where had they done it? In a car, or in a dirty back alley? Had she sucked his cock? Had she swallowed his spunk? What did it taste like?
He’d call her and order her to masturbate, while he listened to her whimpers and cries on the phone. He’d sometimes refuse to let her orgasm, for weeks on end, then order her to come, while doing something utterly degrading with his friends.
She recalled a guy fisting her cunt, while she sucked a series of guys’ cocks. Her Master had ordered her to masturbate her clit.
A sweet soprano voice had sung Pie Jesu, on a cd, as she’d orgasmed. The blast of sensory overload had made her piss herself .
Her Master had posted that on his web site. People paid a fortune to download her latest degradation.
The young man started to hum; “Stand up, stand up for Jesus, ye soldiers of the cross,” under his breath. Vicky recognised the rousing hymn from long, dull Sundays with her parents, at church.
Her Master was a respected lawyer. There was no reason why anyone should, or could have let her know. No one really knew about her. Vicky was simply a slave. She had no rights at all. She was forbidden to call her Master, except in dire emergency. Even then, she had her own special number to call. One that couldn’t be traced. She was her Master’s secret. His family never knew of her existence. No one knew of the perversions he’d demanded of her, perversions that she’d willingly embraced. The depravity that she’d come to relish. No one but the men involved. And the men filming her. Her Master liked to show his pretty slave off, and his tastes were unusual.
So who was this young man and how had he found her? And why did he persist in telling her about Jesus?
He’d called her on the telephone earlier that morning, introducing himself as Leon St Clair. His name had meant nothing to Vicky and she’d almost refused the appointment. Then he’d mentioned her Master’s name, Jonathan Eagleton. He needed to talk to her about the late Jonathan Eagleton. The phrase sent chills throughout her body. Her fears were confirmed. Her beloved Master had passed away. From now on, he would be spoken of in the past tense.
“Will you sit down,” he said in a deep, even voice.
It wasn’t an invitation, it was an order, and despite feeling annoyed that Leon St Clair should think he had a right to give her orders in her own home, Vicky frowned, but obeyed. She was used to obeying orders from men. The heavy, wooden chair shrieked as she dragged it across the flagstone floor. She noticed him grimace at the noise.
He could grimace, she thought to herself. At least the noise had made him shut up his damn holy humming. The sooner he told her what she needed to know about her Master, the better. Then he could go, he could leave her in peace. Now that she had confirmation that her Master was dead, she wanted to be alone with her thoughts.
At last he broke the silence. “You knew my uncle.”
Vicky was seated opposite him. The table was between them. She still couldn’t meet his slate grey gaze. She closed her eyes. She could smell his cologne. It was deliciously male. A hint of citrus and sandalwood and sexy male pheromones. She thought again about the size of his cock and felt a gush of sex juices between her thighs. She blushed again. She wasn’t wearing any panties. Another of her Master’s orders. She knew there’d be a wet patch on her denim mini skirt when she stood up.
“Yes,” she said. “I knew your uncle.”
“You were close.”
“Close being the operative word.”
All statements, not questions. He already knew about her. A hint of sarcasm in his tone.
“We were lovers,” she said, defensively.
“I think not,” he retorted. “You see, my dear, the pictures and the films I’ve seen of you, have little to do with making love and everything to do with a whore, a nymphomaniac, being unable to satiate her filthy, base appetites. My uncle was a devout, God fearing man. You, whore, you corrupted him. ”
She felt herself blushing scarlet. He must have been to the house. Been down into the dungeon. She knew that her Master destroyed nothing. He was cataloguing the photographs and the films for his old age, he’d told her. And for when she was past her best. When men wouldn’t want to look at her anymore and all she’d be fit for was sucking cock through a hole in the wall. He’d have it all there, to remind him of his sexual prowess.
Leon St. Clair lifted the silver cross around his neck to his lips, and kissed it, as if to remind himself of his Christian status. She wondered what he’d do if she reached under her skirt and unfastened the weighted clit ring. The ring that pierced and stretched her genitals. She could kiss that, it symbolised her way of life as much as the silver cross did his.
“You must repent,” he told her. “You can be forgiven you know. Jesus is weeping, begging you to come to him and pray.”
“Surely you can see your life for what it is?”
Yes, she could and she quite liked it. All she needed to do, was find a new Master. There’d be plenty of takers.
She’d been with her Master for twelve years. He’d bought her at the slave auction and taken her straight to his home. At the time, she remembered being proud that he’d paid the highest price of the night for her. She’d felt relief that her owner was an older man. She’d felt safe. She’d knelt, on the dirty, spunk stained floor of the auction room, naked at his feet, daring to press her soft cheek to his leather pants.
She’d been just twenty two. No virgin, but naïve enough to have been shocked at the demands he’d made of her. He’d been insatiable. Her first night with him had introduced her to debaucheries she’d never dreamt of. He was cruel too. She’d been squeamish, she’d refused, when he’d ordered her to lick his ass hole. Her refusal had earned her the first whipping. It had taken weeks for the welts to heal. By the end of the first week, she’d lick his ass hole, wiggle her small tongue into his wrinkled, tight anus, and thank him for the privilege. But he was fair. He’d shown her that her true nature was submissive, and now she couldn’t imagine living any other way.
“Well?” Leon said. “So you rather loosely describe yourself as my uncle’s lover. But that’s not the whole story is it, slut? He owned you. And don’t deny it. I’ve seen the paperwork. The bill of sale. Documents signed by you, giving up all of your rights to Jonathan.”
She hadn’t flinched when he’d called her a slut. She almost regarded it as a term of endearment. Besides, it was the truth, she was a slut. She was listening to Leon’s sexy, deep voice and, once again she imagined sliding his long, thick cock down her throat.
“Yes, he owned me,” she said sadly. “But I did love him, in my own way.”
Leon sighed, exasperated. “Of course you loved him. He paid you enough, didn’t he? You were his paid whore.”
“It wasn’t like that…”
“It was exactly like that. If it wasn’t cash on the table. He bought you this house.”
He stood up. He was very tall, she shrank back into her chair.
“He wanted to make sure I’d be okay,” she said tearfully. “If anything should happen to him. And now it has…”
He walked over to the kitchen window and stared out into the bright garden. He turned around, watching her again, a look of disdain on his dark, angular face.
“So my uncle owned you. What exactly did you have to do for him?”
“You’ve seen the photographs, use your imagination!”
“Yes, I’ve seen them,” his lip curled. “Do you realise that if the police saw them, you could be prosecuted for gross indecency? Bestiality is illegal, you know. Oh foul woman. Not only have you flouted God’s law, you have flouted man’s law.”
“Those were my Master’s orders.”
“Oh, whore of Babylon! You corrupted my uncle. And you would corrupt me. You stink of sulphur and your vile juices. I am sickened to my stomach. I know you. Oh slut. Repent. Repent.”
Well, if he was sickened to his stomach, he was looking good on it. Vicky thought about his cock throbbing inside her. Her cunt muscles clenched and spasmed. Cunt juice surged through her like a tidal wave.
“You don’t know me.” she said angrily. “How do you know me?”
“Father forgive the whore,” he blazed. “You don’t even remember those you have defiled.”
“What.? When? ”
“My uncle gave you to me, for my twenty first birthday gift. You tried to corrupt me and two of my friends.”
So that explained the resonance she’d felt. She remembered now. She’d thought that she’d recognised him because of a family resemblance. But it was because she’d fucked him.
“I don’t recall you minding much at the time.” Vicky retorted.
“Of course I didn’t mind,” he shouted. “I was young. Innocent. You took my virginity and stained me with your filth and corruption.”
“If you call a three way fuck, innocent…As I remember, it was your idea. And you only stopped there because you ran out of holes.”
“And my friends. My poor friends. Forever defiled. They’ve both gone over to Satan, you know.”
“Good for them. I hope they’re having a lot of fun.”
“I weep for them.” And he was. Tears streamed down his face. “You may have succeeded with my poor, lost friends. But you didn’t succeed with me. Oh no.”
“Bill and Harry!” Vicky exclaimed. “Bill liked having his cock sucked. He wanted me to try and get his balls in my mouth too.”
“Oh, whore. Let me cast the devil from you.”
He stepped towards her, and placed trembling hands upon her head.
She slapped him away angrily.
“See how Satan resists. Oh Jesus. Come into this troubled soul.”
His hands shook and he reclaimed her head.
It was most appropriate, Vicky thought, that her face was level with his cock. She could see that he had the most massive erection beneath his jeans zipper. She pushed her face into it and tugged at the zip with her teeth. His hands gripped her harder and he swayed. Banishing Satan was obviously a tricky business.
He groaned his prayer.
“Oh Jesus. See how the whore of Babylon, the daughter of Sodom, tries to seduce your faithful servant.”
What was interesting, she thought, was that he didn’t push her head away, instead, grinding his pelvis into her face. What was even more interesting, now that she’d got his zipper open, was that he wasn’t wearing any boxers. His cock sprang out. Proud and erect. Beautifully ready for her. She wrapped her fingers around his erection and pumped it. She wiggled her tongue into the tiny slit and he whimpered. She slurped at the head of his cock, like it was an ice cream cone, then slowly, expertly, she sank her mouth onto him, taking him down, down into her throat. His balls slapped her chin. Her nose was buried in his pubic hair. His pelvis jerked. His hands slipped down to the side of her head. He pulled all the way out of her throat, then slammed back in again, and again. He gripped her head hard as he fucked her face.
Her neck and head jolted painfully, as Leon controlled the fuck. She realised, there was a family resemblance, he tasted just like her Master. Unlike her Master, he came quickly, jerking his spunk down her throat, straight into her belly.
He stumbled away from her. He was trembling.
“I have cast the devil from this maid’s soul. Thank you oh Jesus. Oh Jesus stay in our hearts. Oh Jesus.”
Oh please. Vicky thought.
“So, are you going to be my new Master?” she asked, sweetly.
“Jesus Lord. Tell me in your holiest, holiest, holiness what I can do to keep this maid free from the stain of sin.”
He slumped down into the chair, his hands clasped, his lips moving in silent prayer.
“I am to keep you clean and white and fit for Jesus, sister. I am to be your new Master. Jesus has spoken to me.”
Vicky personally, hadn’t heard Jesus say anything, but she was content. As far as a good slave is allowed to be content. She considered that Leon showed promise as a Master. Although she would have to teach him how to hold back his orgasms.
She knelt at his feet. She placed her face in his lap. His cock was erect again. She lowered her head and lapped.