Only here could you see the Abominable Snowman walking hand-in-hand with a Wood Nymph. Steve Batson, on the other hand, wore khaki pants, a button-down shirt, and a navy sport coat. As he strolled down the convention center hallway occasionally weaving through the clustered crowds that were milling about on the dark and geometrically-patterned hotel-grade carpet, he considered the ironic fact that almost any other day of the year he would fit right in here, but, presently, he felt entirely out of place.
Among the bustling throng with whom he co-occupied the hotel's convention center, the vast majority were either elaborately costumed men and women coalesced into pairs or small groups, or they were nerdy young men and women clad in Johnny Cash casual (i.e. jeans and T-shirt – all black.) The juxtaposition of the futuristically costumed characters and the mundane beige and burgundy décor of the hotel's conference center created a kind of cognitive dissonance – making one reflect upon what it would be like if superheroes attended conferences like insurance salesmen or auto parts distributers.
Every Labor Day weekend for the past four years Batson had driven from Huntsville, Alabama - where he was, quite literally, a NASA rocket scientist (more properly a Junior Propulsion Engineer)- to Atlanta for the annual Dragon Con convention. Dragon Con was a massive comic book, science fiction, and fantasy assemblage that attracted swarms of fans of Star Trek, Star Wars, and the like, but it also brought out everybody within a hundred mile radius, and in some cases vastly further, who liked to play dress-up as a favorite superhero or science-fiction series character. Hulks, She-Hulks, Batmen, CatWomen, Captain Kirks, and Uhuras were all out in force; as were many lesser known characters.
Steve liked sci-fi and had had a comic book collection from about first grade through high school, but, in recent years, the large number of girls in costume, many of whom had exhibitionist streaks, were a bigger attraction. While one might have expected such a geek jamboree to be almost devoid of females, nothing could have been further from the truth.
The costumed women ran the gamut, and included young, mature, buxom, petite, athletic, blonds, brunettes, and redheads and everything in-between. They portray old favorites like WonderWoman, Princess Leia (most often in her skimpy slave garb), Lara Croft, and Poison Ivy, as well as obscure characters like Orion Slave Girl, Starfire, and Leeloo. More often than not these characters seemed to be of the scantily- and/or tightly- clad varieties. There were always a surprising number of svelte gorgeous young women – who one wouldn't expect to give a nerd the time of day- in attendance, and, if your preferences ran in other directions, there would almost certainly be someone to meet your fancy. Perhaps in an era in which Bill Gates and Steve Jobs were running the world, women were beginning to look at nerds in a different light... or maybe these girls just got their freaks on by being ogled and made the subject of fantasy. While Batson, as a bit of a nerd himself, would have preferred the former, he was willing to accept the latter.
Batson ambled aimlessly around the convention center snapping photos here and there as a subject would strike his fancy. The high-end clunky black SLR camera that hung from his neck on a thick embroidered strap, along with a kit of readily interchangeable lens to meet a range of photographic needs, served him well in this voyeuristic endeavor. Besides taking good pictures, the rig seemed to result in many of the young ladies posing for him because they assumed he was either a photo-journalist or one of the event photographers. Batson was as surprised as anyone how uninhibited the various heroines and villains were to strike a pose when they saw his lens pointing in their direction.
The mindset was not unlike that seen at Harajuku in Tokyo where, on Sunday afternoons, college girls dressed in various colorful anime get-ups and gathered on the wide sidewalk of the road that crossed over the train tracks from the station toward the Meiji shrine. Those girls, too, were happy to let anyone and everyone take pictures of them before they headed back to their dormitories and the mundane existence they lived out in the alter ego that was their real life. Batson had been to Japan a couple times for technical conferences, and always made it a point to visit Harajuku.
Consulting his program, Batson noted that a signing by one of the artists of his favorite comic book, Martian Manhunter, was due to begin and he wanted to get an autograph. Unfortunately, the signing was taking place in one of the smaller breakout rooms, and he couldn't seem to find it.
He saw a girl standing off to the side of the hallway, ostensibly either people-watching or waiting for someone. Given her elaborate costume, he figured she might be in-the-know about the event. Furthermore, given the provocative nature of her costume and the fetching features of the young woman, he figured that his need for directions would provide the perfect pretext to approach a girl that he doubted he would have the nerve to approach out of the blue.
Steve suspected that she was a little younger than he, and that, if she went to college, she was probably a junior or senior. The girl had short auburn hair that was cut longer in the front than the back such that the arcs of hair bracketed her cherubic face, but the back of her neck was exposed below the neatly rounded hairline. It was an apropos hairstyle for the event at hand because it had a futuristic look to it and was a feminine rather than boyish short hairstyle.
The girl was portraying some kind of slave girl. Her midriff was exposed, and her top consisted of a metal mesh bikini-top behind which there was a shear material that was probably intended to keep the sensitive parts of her breast from grating on the cold rough steel. At least Batson suspected that because it didn't do much to reduce the degree to which the costume was revealing. The material was not entirely opaque and the outline of her areola showed through. She wore pasties over her nipples either to reduce the potential for hassle or chaffing (he knew not which). The bottom was also metal and consisted of two pieces. A front and a back piece were attached with a chain. As an item of metalwork it was impressive in that graceful curves had been molded into it with the front portion having a gentle "V" at the crotch joint, and the back consisted of two form-fitting rounded buttocks. It was meant to look like some type of chastity belt, but the fact that it was entirely split up the sides didn't leave one to hold out much hope that it would offer defense of the girl's virtue. There was a minimal cotton undergarment to mitigate the effect of exposure to steel. The costume was topped off with a leather collar around her neck that had a steel D-ring through it that would allow for the attachment of a leash.
The girl had a pretty face with full lips, reddened cheeks, and a button of a nose. Her body was graceful curved in what might be described as a voluptuous way. She had probably been described in less charitable terms on occasion by the supermodel worshippers, but she looked about like the models that Manet had painted. Steve found her attractive, and well within the range that he would call "doable."
"Excuse me, could you tell me where the Stonebrook room is? I can't seem to find it." Steve forced himself to look her in the eye after he realized that he had been looking at her cleavage when she looked up at him.
"Yes, Master. I would be happy to take you there." The girl said in a pleasant tone with just a touch of a southern drawl discernable that indicated she was from the region and a transplanted northerner.
"Thanks a lot. I didn't mean to put you to all that trouble." Steve did his best not to show a reaction to the word "Master" in the girl's reply. He had had an impulse to laugh out loud about how seriously people took the role-playing, but he figured that maybe it was just a Freudian slip, or, maybe, she was an employee and had to stay in character and be helpful as part of her job. At any rate, he did not want to be rude.
"It is no trouble. I am at your service, Master." The girl said, this time giving him a warm smile. Not the kind of smile that would indicate that she was fucking with him. It was more the kind of smile one gave when one really wanted to convey cordiality.
"Well then... Thanks again." He said, not sure how to take her response, and beginning to wonder if he was on Candid Camera. Then, in a yet more surprising act, the girl took him by the hand and began to walk him through the crowd in what he presumed was the direction of the signing. Her hand was warm and soft as it enveloped his bony mildly-calloused hand. The momentary silence between the two as they walked hand-in-hand gave rise to an unrestrainable impulse by Steve to make small talk. Though he was taking advantage of her being out front to stare at the smooth bare bronze skin of her back and then down to the tattoo in the small of the back. The ink was a simple but precisely drawn series of rudimentary shapes reminiscent more of a cattle brand than a statement of personality. "Are you enjoying the convention?" Steve asked.
"Master, I enjoy it if you tell me to enjoy it. Also, if I may be permitted to say so, you don't need to thank me because I am your insignificant servant." The red- headed beauty said without the slightest hint that she was putting him on.
Steve stopped dead in his tracks, and the girl spun to face him as the slack in their conjoined arms played out and her shoulder was pulled back toward him. He wanted to know if he was being scammed, because, if not, he was horny enough that he would gladly put his time to better use than standing in line to get a sloppy signature scrawled by a bored artist. "You should be careful. A guy could get the idea that you would do ANYTHING he asks." He put emphasis on the word "anything" with his best attempt to convey sexual innuendo. Batson was emboldened to make the less-than-subtle suggestion by the fact that this buxom slave girl was so adamantly in character. Yet, he was ready to play it off as a joke and to brace for impact if there was to be a bitch-slap in his immediate future.
"Of course I will do anything that you ask, Master. That is my purpose." The girl almost looked incredulous that he doubted that she was completely at his command.
Batson didn't know where this was going exactly, but he did know that: a.) he was so far beyond horny as to be mega-horny, not having had sex in weeks and tired of jerking it every few days, and b.) as long as she was playing her part to the hilt, he might as well play along. He might just end up slapped across the face, but he would take it only so far as the girl did. "In that case, take me here instead." He reached into his coat pocket and handed her a small paper envelop with the hotel's logo on it that had a magnetic key card in it. Hand written in blue ink on a line on the front was '#712'.
"Yes, Master." She turned around and walked back toward the escalator that would take them to a glass-encased crosswalk leading from the ballrooms and meeting rooms of the convention center to the hotel's lobby. All the while, she was still holding his hand firmly but gently.
As they crossed through the hotel lobby toward the bank of elevators, they entered another world. It was no longer all Dragon Con attendees in costume, but, more typically, businessmen and women in suits and tourists in shorts and polo shirts. Here he would have fit in if it weren't for the fact that he was being dragged along by a conspicuous girl whose limited clothing was made mostly of metal. The sight of the scantily-clad slave girl leaning forward to pull what looked like a photographer across the lobby drew stares, in contrast to when she was leading him through the throngs of caped-crusaders and robots moments ago. The loud reverberating clack of her stiletto boot-heels against the marble floor called to attention anyone whose eye had not already been grabbed by the glinting costume or the girl's deep red hair. Batson was a little embarrassed, and wondered if he wasn't blushing. When the elevator doors finally closed, leaving them alone together, he asked: "Don't you think those people in the lobby might have thought you were taking me back to your room to fuck my brains out?"
"Maybe so." It was the full extent of her reply.
He probed further. "Doesn't that bother you?"
"No, Master. But, if you say it should bother me, it will. I was under the impression that I was taking you back to your room so that you could fuck me or otherwise have me pleasure you. In which case those who thought as you said would only be wrong with respect to inconsequential details, would they not?" Her answer would have to suffice for the moment because the doors opened on the 4th floor and a bellboy got onto the elevator. It was not a conversation that Batson wanted to continue in front of other people.
When they got off the elevator, the slave girl led Steve out, and then, looking to the signage on the wall, led him down the hall toward his room.
Batson asked: "What is your name?"
"It is whatever you want it to be." She said.
"No, what's your real name? I order you!" Batson was more interested in finding out if there were limits to what she was willing to tell him than in finding out the girl's name.
"I don't have a name, Master." With that reply from the slave, Batson figured he had reached one of the girl's limits. Steve was happy with the arrangement of anonymity, and if that were the extent of her hang-ups he would be an ecstatically happy man.
When they got to 712, she adeptly dipped the keycard into the slot, retrieved it, and, seeing the green light, pushed open the door holding it open for her master.
On the way up to the room, Batson had given thought to how he should proceed. This might be a once in a lifetime opportunity, and he decided that, blue-balled as he might be, he shouldn't just rush to bust a nut. He would get his rocks off - true enough, but he would do it with a little style. He figured that if the girl got off on being a slave, it would be better for her as well that he got into his role. When it was all over, he didn't know her and she didn't know him, and they could go their separate ways with a great story to tell for it.
"Get me a Heineken from the mini-bar." Batson said as he crossed the floor to sit in a yellow paisley upholstered armchair on the far side of the room near the window. He added, "Your name is 'Veronica', but I will just call you 'slave' or 'whore' when we are alone." The name was that of a hot bitch of a cheerleader who had badly embarrassed him in high school. Batson figured it couldn't hurt his ability to be a stern master if he thought about Veronica, rather than the sweet stranger, as the subject of his domination. It was method acting of sorts, and, besides, if they went back out, he would need to be able to call her something.
Veronica did as she was told, and, kneeling at his feet, presented him with the opened bottle. She then sat on the floor next to Batson's chair while awaiting further instructions.
"In the room, you are not allowed to wear any clothing." Batson then added for effect, "It does not please me. I wouldn't even let you wear them outside, if it weren't for those damned laws. But, in here, I am the law."
Veronica stood and began to disrobe slowly and quietly. Batson watched with stiffening wood as she reached around and unchained the top and then took it off, letting her pendulous breasts hang free. The gorgeous orbs were almost as bronze as the skin over the rest of her body, and she had dark areolas. She clearly took advantage of opportunities to tan in the nude. As she peeled off the pasties, her thick nipples were revealed and soon showed engorgement.
She next turned to look down at her right side as she worked the chain connecting the front and back metal portions of her "chastity belt". It was a picture of loveliness to see her twist and reach across to one side as she looked downward in contemplation. It was a statuesque moment, and made all the more attractive by the way her left arm pressed her left breast up and forward.
Batson's approval was notable in the tent formed in his khakis. Veronica finished disrobing of her boots and collar and placed her costume in an empty drawer. She then sat back down at Steve's side looking up at him like a dog to its master. He caressed her hair gently in a manner similar to the way he pet the head of his Labrador at home. Given her docility, it took all his willpower to avoid just standing up and shoving his cock in her mouth, and then thrusting away until she began to choke on his spurting seed. He reminded himself that it would be well worth playing the game. He continued with his rapidly evolving plan. "Bring me the room-service menu." She did as she was instructed. Steve watched her breasts and the forelocks of red hair sway in unison as she turned from picking up the menu, and moved back toward him.
She kneeled down in front of his feet and held the faux-leather bound menu up opened toward him so he could read it. He didn't take it, but, instead, he told her to when to turn pages as he reviewed it. When he had made up his mind, he gave her another order. "Call down and order me the meatloaf with mashed potatoes and green beans and a sweet iced-tea to drink." Steve repressed his natural inclination to ask if she wanted anything because it seemed so un-like the behavior of a master.
Veronica did exactly as he said, and then returned to sit at his feet. Steve just looked at her for a moment. Incredulously, he took in the surrealism of having the sweet-faced, big-breasted, red-head sitting naked on his floor waiting to respond to any whim he might develop.
Batson realized that the food would be a while, so he decided to press forward. "Go ready the shower. It's time for you to give me a bath." He tried to state this matter-of-factly, as if it weren't the strangest order that he had ever given anyone.
Veronica stood and moved briskly toward the bathroom. The next thing Batson heard was the sound of water spattering on the fiberglass pan of the shower. Soon his slave came back and reached out one hand to assist Batson up from his chair. In the other hand Veronica had a hanger on which she put the jacket that she helped Batson disrobe of.
Veronica led Batson to the bathroom by the hand. Steam was already beginning to make the mirror opaque. She took her time in undressing him. She pulled the shirt-tails out from the waistline of his pants, systematically unbuttoned the shirt, and then lifted it off Batson's pale shoulders and lanky frame. The slave then eased herself to both knees, and, holding his belt with one hand, she tugged the free end with the other hand to ease the hasp from the hole and unbuckled it. Unbuttoning the button-fly, she pulled his pants down to his ankles. Batson's erection was now poking straight out- barely restrained by the soft cotton fabric of his boxers. As Veronica tugged the boxers down, his cock was pulled down and, snapping free, it popped up with a bounce that nearly smacked her under the chin because of her close proximity. She kneeled at his feet to get his shoes and socks off, and he stared down at the heart-like shape formed by her two round buttocks and her relatively narrow waistline.
The slave followed her master into the shower. Veronica cleaned Batson thoroughly from head to toe. She shampooed his hair first, and, after rinsing, went on to work down his body. She lathered up a washcloth to scrub his chest and back. Batson was skinny, with the kind of body that might have inspired bullies to kick sand in a man's face, and, while his nine inches of cock had been a pleasant surprise for a couple of girls who had expected far less, he was not exactly an Adonis. However, Veronica looked intently and longingly at Steve's body as she cleaned him, and he thought he heard her breath catch once as though she covetously desired that which she could, for now, only scrub.
Squatting down, she worked her way up from his feet back toward his throbbing cock. The rough washcloth coarsely cleansed the shaft of his cock, his scrotum, and then was worked through his ass crack. The sum of these actions nearly caused him to blow his load prematurely. Batson took Veronica by her wrists indicating that the scrubbing was enough for now. Veronica then began to rinse the soap off Batson's nether-region and down the drain.
As she was finishing toweling him off, there came a knock at the door. Room service had evidently arrived. Steve picked up his pants, pulled out his wallet, and told Veronica to go let the room service waiter in with the cart. Steve then handed her a twenty and told her to charge the meal to his room bill, but to tip the waiter five dollars.
Batson reiterated with one addition. "Let him in, give him a little kiss on the cheek, and give him the tip." Batson said it, and, as Veronica walked off without the slightest bit of protest or inhibition and naked as the day she was born, he wondered if he might not regret the fact that he didn't tell her to put a towel on at least. This was the Bible belt after all. What if he happened to get a hard-core Bible-thumping room service waiter? What if the guy freaked out? Worse still, he began to wonder whether you had to be an adult to be a room service waiter. What if it was a teenager, Batson didn't want to contribute to anyone's delinquency- besides his own. What if it was not a waiter, but, rather, a waitress? Would that be more or less likely to be problematic? The kiss on the cheek might freak either a waitress or a waiter out. With these thoughts racing across his mind like Mercedes down the Autobahn, he found himself in uncharted territory of simultaneous terror and thrill. He was getting into his role as much as his slave girl was into hers, but there was no indication that she was sharing the butterflies that were lodged in the pit of his stomach.
The racing heartbeat that pounded in his head and chest lasted only an instant before his fears were laid to rest. Batson could see through the partially opened bathroom door as the waiter followed Veronica into the room pushing the cloth-draped cart into the room. The waiter looked to be at least in his twenties, but was more likely in his thirties. Furthermore, the slight glance Batson got as he distractedly tied the belt of the hotel's terry-cloth robe around his waist gave the impression that the man was unfazed by Veronica's nudity. Actually, he seemed to be ogling the slave girl's ass.
Batson poked his head around the corner to see that the waiter's back was to him, and there was no indication that the waiter realized Steve was in the room. Steve watched as Veronica leaned in to give the waiter more of a sustained kiss on the cheek than a peck. As she was shorter, she had to put her hand on the man's other check and pull his head toward her as she simultaneously went up on her toes, all the while her bare breasts were pressing against the man's torso. The waiter then timidly rubbed Veronica's upper arm with the flat of his hand. Batson was amused that it was exactly the kind of conservative maneuver that he might have made- at least what he would have done two hours ago before his confidence began to shoot through the roof under Veronica's ministrations. It was non-threatening, but was still an act of reciprocation. The touch on the arm was a way of confirming that he was comfortable with what had happened and would probably not be adverse to things going further, but it did so in a way that did not, despite the fact that the girl was naked as a jay-bird and kissing him, appear aggressive. It was like trying to avoid frightening away a dog that was licking your face. For an instant Batson thought it was a little lame and pathetic, but then he realized the man had a job to be concerned with and had no idea what was happening. Batson also realized that this girl, ironically given that she was the slave, was breaking him out of the constraints of his own meek life.
"Do you have change for a twenty?" Veronica asked coyly holding up the money. "I need a five for your tip."
The waiter, looking into a vinyl zip pouch with the hotel's emblem embossed on it, said. "Sorry, sure don't. I should have refilled, but I've been so slammed today."
Batson was wondering if the waiter was playing a strategic gambit to see if he could get the whole Jackson, if he was just trying to drag out the moment in the presence of the naked girl, or whether he was sincere. "How's it going?" Batson called out loudly as he exited the bathroom wearing the robe.
The waiter experienced an involuntary spasm of sorts as he turned to see the man who he probably assumed was a furious husband or boyfriend. Then, as a second thought, he pulled his hand away from Veronica's arm as if the hand was on a stovetop that had been lit. "I was just talking with your wife... girlfriend...." The waiter sputtered as he stepped back to create some distance from Veronica.
Now Batson grew even more emboldened because of the waiter's hapless anxiety "It's OK, she is neither. I just use her for sex." Batson stated matter-of-factly.
Relieved, the waiter said. "Ahh... I got ya. But you might not want to go around advertising it. This is kind of an upscale place, and they don't like having... ladies of the evening, here." The young man had trailed off presumably because he wasn't certain what to call Veronica right in front of her face. Batson could imagine the list running through the man's mind ("prostitute", "hooker", "whore"), but each seemed more offensive than the last, until he settled on the hopelessly anachronistic term of art 'lady of the evening.'
"Oh, you misunderstand. I don't pay her. I just fuck her." Steve replied.
The man looked at Batson with stunned incredulity. Batson could tell the waiter's mind was locked in a simultaneous struggle to figure out whether he was being pranked, or, if not, how he might go about getting such a fuck toy for himself.
"Master, he does not have change for a twenty, so I cannot give him a five dollar tip as you require." Veronica said, staring down at the floor. She was clearly unhappy that she could not fully comply with her master's wishes- even though it was not her fault.
Batson could see as the guy was putting the signed bill away and emptying the cart's contents onto the small wooden table that he was about to leave without a tip. Having this story would probably make it worth his while. However, before the waiter could take his leave, Batson spoke up. "What if she gives you a five dollar blowjob for a tip?" Batson nodded toward Veronica. Given what he had seen so far, Batson was not terribly concerned that Veronica would flip out over being pimped out as a 20% tip. Besides, if she did, he would just give the guy the twenty and make his apologies all around. However, on the contrary, Veronica perked up at the offer that would allow her to make things right with her master. She smiled expectantly at the waiter, hoping he would let her carry out her command.
"OK..." The waiter said sheepishly. He was probably hoping that he was not implicitly agreeing to anything else, like to be on camera or to have Steve somehow participate. Ultimately, however, what man could turn down a blowjob?
Batson then laid down the rules. "There are limits to what five dollars gets you with my slave. It's one dollar per minute, so you get only five minutes or until you cum- whichever comes first, and she will quit exactly when your five minutes are up whether you've gotten off or not. Time starts when she puts your cock in her mouth. Also, and I grant you this is a drag, you have to wear one of these." Batson said, holding up a condom that he had pulled out of a side pocket of his travel bag. Batson thought it would be an interesting experiment to see if Veronica could suck the man off through a condom in five minutes or less. "Those are the conditions. Do you accept?"
The waiter, by the grin on his face, was quite happy with the deal, and enthusiastically replied "That works for me."
As Batson walked past he handed the condom to Veronica, and then, putting his hand on the back of her neck, he pulled her in for a rough deep tongue kiss. After breaking it off, Steve smacked her with his open palm on her bare ass-cheek, and turned to return to the yellow chair.
Veronica went down to one knee, and, taking both of the waiter's hips in her hands, pivoted him around slightly to the point at which her Master would have an unobstructed side view of her cock-swallowing activities. She unzipped the waiter's fly and reached in gently maneuvering his member out between the sharp brass zipper teeth of his uniform pants. The waiter's cock was already semi-erect, as it had been since the panic of being walked in on had worn off. She gave it a few pumps with her hand and a small kiss on the shaft's underside to get it fully erect. Batson noted that the waiter's cock was only about 6 inches long, but was fairly thick. The slave adeptly tore open the condom packet and pulled the rubber out with a finger. Dropping the packaging, she returned one hand to the waiter's shaft to keep him primed. In an act of practiced virtuosity, Veronica was able to put the rubber on mostly with one hand by putting it over the cock head and rolling it down with her fingers. She then used the other hand to get it all of the way down to the base.
Batson was mesmerized as Veronica swallowed most of the man's dick in a single swift motion. She proceeded to suck the waiter with animalistic intensity, and got off several bobs before Batson thought to start the clock. She regularly changed her pace and the depth at which she took the waiter's manhood. Sometimes she would linger while sucking vigorously only the underside of the cockhead, and other times she would switch to deep-throating that would take her lips to the fly of the man's black slacks. When she used the latter technique, she reached around and grabbed a butt cheek in each hand so that she could more fiercely impale her mouth with the man's hardness. Batson thought she might hurt her neck because she threw herself into the task with such relish.
A little over three minutes into getting world-class head, the waiter tensed and started to convulse as he spunked into the rubber. Veronica did not stop, or even miss a beat, as the warm jizm filled the prophylactic. She kept on sucking with abandon. The waiter put one hand gently under her chin and the other on the back of her head and tried to ease her mouth off his member before it went totally flaccid. He seemed to be concerned that the condom would come off and spill his seed all over the carpet. "Keep the change.... I'm good." The waiter said, as he tried good-naturedly to get her to complete the act.
After enjoying the waiter's discomfort a second too long, Batson said "You may stop now. You have pleased me."
Veronica immediately took her mouth off the man's member, and was careful not to spill the jizm on the floor as the condom slid from his now almost entirely limp dick.
"Take him to the bathroom, and clean him up." Batson commanded.
Veronica held the surprisingly full condom in her left hand and held that hand under the waiter's dick to catch any drips. It seemed as though she didn't want to risk irritating her Master with a mess. With her right hand in the small of his back, she guided the waiter toward the lavatory.
Batson heard the sink come on, and then the intermittent sound of water hitting the sink pan as his slave, no doubt, washed the man's cock clean. A few moments later the waiter said a quick "thanks" as he grabbed his cart and wheeled it toward the door, and then clumsily worked it out into the hall before closing the door behind himself. The sink was still running, and there were sounds of activity in the bathroom. Veronica was still cleaning up.
"Come here." Batson said as he heard the sink turn off. Veronica scurried out of the bathroom at his command.
As she began to kneel at his feet, he said: "Remain standing, and come closer." She did as she was commanded- standing right next to the arm of the chair. "Widen your stance." Again she complied. Batson reached between her legs and rubbed his fingers the length of her slit from right below the bottom of her trimmed pubic patch to her tight anal sphincter. As he did, he noted her wetness and the slightest, almost imperceptible, downward lurch. It was almost, but not quite, a full-fledged buckling of the knees. As suspected, Veronica was sloppy wet with horniness. When Batson retracted his hand, his fingers were slick with her warm juices.
"You'll need to clean this up." Batson held his hand, which smelled of her femininity, up. She started to turn, ostensibly to go get a wet towel from the bathroom. "No! Do it with your mouth." At that command, his slave turned, went down to her knees, and began to lap at his hand. She then sucked each finger and thumb into her mouth one at a time. She took her time, and Batson enjoyed dominating her. As Batson leaned back in his chair, the slit of his robe was pulled opened and his erect member found its way through the front of his robe. Veronica eyed his cock with calm anticipation.
"So I see you enjoyed yourself like a little whore, as you sucked that man's cock." Batson commented.
"Yes, Master." The slave said meekly. She was not certain whether she was being scolded or applauded.
"Did I tell you that you were to enjoy it? You were just supposed to be a good little fuck toy and let him satisfy himself in your mouth." Batson was new to dirty talk, and had never spoken to anyone this way. He was not in the slightest bit angered in reality, but, the raw power of being able to tell the girl under what circumstance she could enjoy sex or not – something that was utterly autonomic and beyond her control- was the ultimate aphrodisiac. He was nearly trembling in anticipation of taking her with animalistic force, and he found that the harsher he played the character, the more energized and alive he began to feel. In the parlance of the geeks downstairs, he was "going over to the dark side", and getting more aroused the more he did.
Veronica was now looking down at the ground, rather than being fixated on his cock as before. She responded wanly. "No, Master, you did not tell me that I could enjoy it. I am sorry. But, Master, if you will allow me to speak. Your sex box here [she pointed at her pussy] got horny wet from bathing you. I couldn't help it. Scrubbing your naked body is what really made this pleasure toy of yours so slick. But, if you don't want me to enjoy myself, I will try my best not to." She said meekly.
Batson whispered intimately into her ear as he pulled her head close to his face. "Oh, you won't be able to control yourself with me, because I am going to fuck you so hard and so long. First you'll feel good, then great, then sore, and then you'll want me to stop, but you'll just have to keep taking it until you're so full of my jizm that you're oozing from every hole on your body."
Steve then remembered the food that was cooling on the small table. He got up, walked over to the table, lifted the stainless steel plate cover off, and then sat down in the ladder-back chair. With his fork he scooped up a large dollop of mashed potato, and, moving his roll onto his dinner plate, plopped the potato down onto the vacated bread plate. He added bits of the entrée and vegetable as well; though not with any great care, but, rather, as one might fill a dog's bowl. He then set the small plate down on the floor next to his chair. "Eat that. You'll need some energy." He commanded.
Veronica walked right up, got on her knees and elbows, and began to lap up the mixture of food. Batson watched with amusement for a moment before he began to nibble at the food on his plate. He was not particularly hungry. He occasionally stroked his hand along the slave's naked back to pet her. It did not take her long to clean the plate of its contents despite using nothing but her tongue and lips.
"Are you still hungry?" Batson asked.
"Only a little bit, Master." Veronica said looking up, but not looking him in the eye.
"Help yourself." Steve said this as he precariously balanced a morsel of meat on his cockhead.
She engulfed his meat with her mouth letting her lips tighten around the head of his cock. She sucked once and dragged her lips off his cockhead. Once his member was no longer in her mouth, she chewed the meatloaf slowly in her closed mouth.
Some of the sauce had dripped down on the top of his inner thigh. "Clean that up." Batson ordered.
His slave did not need to be told twice. She opened his robe on the pretext of not getting any of the tomato sauce on the bleach-scented white robe, and then ran her tongue over the area getting it entirely clean.
Batson ran the locks of hair that framed her face between his index and middle fingers sweeping it off her cheek. It was a tender action that he followed with one that could not have been more diametrically opposed. He moved the hand that had caressed her hair around to the back of her head; then, cupping the other hand under her chin; he pushed her mouth down onto to his cock. Batson's hands were positioned like the waiter's were earlier, but instead of trying to gently extract his member, he was using his hands to keep her head in place as he penetrated it with his rock-hard member. He was thrilled by the lack of need for niceties. Without the slightest bit of the inhibition that he would have with a girlfriend, he pulled his slave's mouth onto his shaft and began to mouth-fuck her intensely. He might have worried about pulling her hair or bruising her neck or jaw if it were not for one thing: she was sucking with such enthusiasm.
While it took little effort to drag Veronica's mouth onto his dick, he did have to pinch her nose shut and pull to get her to release his meat from her mouth. He had not cum, and it had taken every bit of his willpower to convince himself to hold out. Once she had removed her mouth from his member, he leaned forward in the chair, and, cradling her head in both his hands, put his mouth close to her ear and said: "Slave, it's time for me to inspect your wetness again." He then stood up, and, pulling her up by clasping a nipple between each of his thumb and index finger knuckle pincers, got her to a standing position.
He backed her up to the bed by guiding her with hands on her shoulders. Then, with the upper edge of the mattress below her butt-cheeks, he shoved her shoulders hard, which abruptly sent her bouncing onto the mattress. He leaned in and buried his face in her pussy. He tongued her wet cunt with gusto. He lapped the length of her slit, and then stabbed his tongue several times into the depths of her canal. His face, from his chin to both cheeks, was glistening with her juices. It was animalistic, like a lion tucking into a downed gazelle. He then got some focus and began to suck, nibble, and run the tip of his tongue across the sensitive spot on her clit right under the hood. Soon he had her exactly where he wanted her. She was about to boil over in an intense orgasm. But as he felt the tremors that indicated it was nearing, as her breath was beginning to become spasmodic, he abruptly quit. Batson loved eating pussy, and despite the fact that it didn't seem consistent with his role as Master, he did it just to take her to the edge in order to leave her assured that he was in control and that her orgasms would come only at his pleasure.
Batson walked around the bed taking in the view of her naked body and that pretty face, as he lustfully but lightly stroked his member to keep it ready. He then lay down next to Veronica on his back. "Ride me, slave." He gave the simple command.
Slave Veronica rolled over and got to her knees before straddled Batson's legs. Then she rose up, guided the tip of his cock onto her pussy, and then dropped down impaling herself on his shaft in a single move. She then put her hands through her hair as she rose and fell in long rhythmic fucking motions. She would cant her hips differently and work the muscles occasionally to break any monotony. Her tits were jutting out prominently. Batson began to play with them. He pressed them together, kneaded her nipples with his thumb and finger, and occasionally he pinched the sensitive areas to send of bolt of pain through her and then enjoyed the resulting involuntary spasm.
Despite his best attempts to control himself, the expert ministrations of the slave had Batson on the verge of blowing his wad into her far too soon. This particularly became a risk when she began to reach behind herself arching her back in order to stroke and pet Batson's scrotum. "Off." Batson commanded her to dismount.
Batson was finding that the more he held out, the more primal his urges became and the more the underlying barriers to his complete domination of her became. With each passing moment he spent without gratification, the thoughts about whether he was being too rough or concerns about whether he was enjoying meanness a little too much were vanishing. His self-imposed frustration was giving him the ability to be a stern master, and, if it was driving the slave crazy... who cared – she was just a beast for fucking.
"You're a dirty slut. I think it's time that you took a shower. I'm going to observe to make sure you get clean enough." Batson was going to enjoy a little show before he came in the slave's ass.
"Master, may I have permission to use the toilet." His slave asked meekly.
Batson paused for a long time, as if deliberating on the request. "What do you need to do?" To his own surprise and amusement, the power to violate any semblance of the slave's personal privacy or space was really thrilling to Batson. He was living outside himself now, and all of the conventions and taboos that had developed over a lifetime were crumbling down.
"I need to poop, Master." Veronica said without a bit of hesitation, and showing indications of physical discomfort and the tension of restraining her bowels.
Batson deliberated again while showing an expression of disgust, and the finally said: "Permission granted."
As his slave walked off briskly but tensely, Batson followed her right into the bathroom. Batson smiled as he considered that even a prisoner in a Soviet gulag would probably have been able to take a crap in private without his or her space being invaded. Such was the degree of control he exerted over her. He had an inclination, bordering on becoming a compulsion, to humiliate her in the most fundamental ways possible.
As she sat down on the toilet seat to defecate, Batson pulled her mouth onto his cock and submerged it until her nose was nestled in his pubic hair. He skull-fucked the slave girl several times while she released her bowels. While she had shown great expertise in sucking cock both with the waiter and Batson earlier, she clearly had trouble maintaining her expertise and concentration while relaxing the muscles in her anus and trying to breath – particularly when being forced to take in so much of Batson's man-meat in such a furious fashion.
"Oh god, you are a disgusting little pig-slut." Batson said. He reacted to not unreasonable odor level as though a football team who ate Mexican the day before had all crapped in the pot without flushing.
"See how disgusting that is, and, my lord, smell it." He pulled her off the toilet and pushed her face down toward the rim of the bowl. She was made to stare directly at the floating turd, and commanded to take a deep breath in order to fill her nose with the emanation. Batson pulled her back just before her bangs would have dipped into the soiled water, and then let her up to flush and wipe herself. He watched the latter intently, not because it was a turn-on to see it, but because it was a turn-on to rob the slave girl of any sense that she was a free individual.
"Now you'd better get in that shower and scrub hard. Make certain that water is hot, and that you scour that nasty anus very thoroughly." Batson commanded. Then he watched as she turned on the shower before getting into it as it quickly got steaming hot.
The water was hot indeed. Tendrils of steam roiled in the air, and the slave's skin flushed under the pounding spray. She washed her hair, and, as she arched her back gracefully to rinse it out, Batson was struck by the eroticism of the spectacle and lightly stroked himself as he ogled her. Her breasts were pushed forward and up as her hands ran through her hair. She glanced over at Batson, and he imagined that she was realizing that what she had thought was a private moment was actually a peep show.
The slave turned back to working her way downward, soaping up her round pendulous breasts with simultaneous slow circular motions of one hand on each tit. She continued with her stomach and arms, first soaping them up and then rinsing them off. She was in her own world and paying no attention to her voyeur. She thoroughly cleaned her pussy and ass cleft. Putting a foot up on the edge of the tub, she was position so that Batson could watch as she soaped up her nether region, and rinsed it with the detachable showerhead in hand. For a moment, she seemed to be twisting the washcloth so as to work it into her tight bung hole. This was less a moment of graceful eroticism as a moment of preparation to be wantonly violated, but it, too, led Batson to pump his turgid member. After she had worked her way down to her toes, she cut the shower off, and grabbed a towel off the rack to dry off.
Batson enjoyed the spectacle of the girl slowly drying off. The tilt of her head as she toweled her hair provided another aesthetically pleasing instant that he enjoyed as uniquely his. She toweled under each of her round tits, and her motions around the nipples caused them to thicken in engorgement. As she bent over to dry her legs, Batson found himself staring straight at the tightly puckered sphincter of the slave's anus and, below it, at her thick pussy lips. Batson was ready to take her.
Wordlessly, Batson handed her a spare toothbrush. It was of the stubby variety that one is given by some airlines on overseas flights, and it just happened to have been left in his toiletry kit. He went into the bedroom rather than watch her brush her teeth.
Soon his fuck-slut came into the bedroom. Her hair was still a little wet, and, as she stood with her head bowed down in deference to her master, Batson watched a small drop of water drip down onto her bosom and then as the bead meandered down toward her nipple. The drip eventually dropped off the underside of her tit and onto the floor. The fragrant fruity smell of shampoo lingered in the air.
"Get over here, slave." Batson said brusquely pointing to a spot on the floor a couple feet in front of him.
She lurched into motion compliantly.
He lifted her chin with his right hand, which grasped her jaw, while reaching around and pulling the short hairs down at the back of her head with his left. This brought the slave eye-to-eye with him. "Look at me. It is time for an inspection to see whether you are still a filthy little whore!" He then leaned toward her and sniffed the air a little as if trying to tell if a carton of milk had gone bad. He then put this mouth onto her lips and forced his tongue into her mouth. He drove his tongue as deep as he could and rolled it around.
He next lifted her heavy orbs, looked underneath, sniffed, and more generally acted as though he was inspecting a piece of livestock that he was considering purchasing. He pinched her nipples then licked, sucked, and mildly bit down upon them.
"Put your right foot up here on the edge of the bed." Batson gave the command.
The slave did as she was told. However, as she was not very tall, it was quite a stretch to remain with one foot on the floor while she put the other foot flat on the bed. It was like standing with one foot in the street and the other on the curb, but, with a bed about three feet high, it splayed her legs wide. He rubbed her pussy as he had done earlier, and, as then, it was wet – though not yet quite as wet as it had been.
He moved around to her side keeping his left arm across her stomach. Batson ran his right index finger down the crack of her ass, and, when he felt it rise over the roughly textured bump of her bunghole, he sharply stabbed it up into her anus. She rocked forward and up on the balls of her feet in an involuntary reaction to the pressure of the finger, but his left arm across the front of her waistline kept her from escaping the invading finger and allowed it to drive all the way to the web of his fingers. He curled the finger around while twisting his wrist, and then pulled it back out. Upon retrieving the finger, he inspected with an air of disgust. He brought it near his face, and then recoiled as if in revulsion.
Batson moved back in front of her. "Slave, you didn't get my fuck-box clean. You've defiled it. Do you think that it belongs to you? That you can get your nasty shit all over it? No! It's mine, and I use it to store my nice clean white spunk sauce. I swear, if I had a straw long enough, I would make you slurp some out after I'm done. Then you would know the importance of hygiene." As Batson was engaging in this lecture, he was pressing the slightly soiled finger up under her nose in a manner that drover her head back slightly.
"Clean it." He said as he pushed the index finger into her mouth. She took the finger into her mouth all of the way to the base of his finger while quelling the gag reflex as she had done while taking cocks in her mouth earlier. She sucked and licked the befouled finger, and moved her head side-to-side to create a scrubbing action. The finger emerged from her mouth coated in saliva and trailing a coil of spittle, but, otherwise, it was clean as a whistle. It seemed as though the more authoritarian Batson became, the more the slave longed to please him.
He seized the back of her neck and pushed her face down toward the floor. "Get onto your knees, and put your forehead on the floor." Batson gave the command, and followed her down to kneel behind her as she assumed the position.
Without letting her get set, Batson thrust his cock deep into her hot wet pussy with a single decisive thrust. Because her hands weren't yet positioned to resist the impaling force, her face slid across the rough carpet. She eventually managed to get her forearms on the ground forward of her head to absorb the force. But it was made difficult by the fact that Batson was fucking her hard, and she was constantly being pushed off-balance whenever she rose up to move her arms into position. By now the last vestiges of the polite and sensitive scientist were gone, and he showed no interest in the slave's comfort as he satisfied his need inside her.
Batson used the full length of his member. The cockhead almost popped out on occasion, but he concentrated all his attention on roughly fucking the slave. Despite his apparent indifference toward her well-being, the slave began to push back into the thrusts, and to occasionally undulate her pussy muscles to please him. She was all about pleasing him. His waist and thighs slapped hard against the slave's round smooth ass cheeks. Occasionally, as she was pushing back he would send and open palm smacking across her ass hard enough to leave a reddened hand print. Once he managed to catch the timing just right so that her pain spasm gave him yet more pleasure.
"Stroke your clit with your hand. I will allow it because I want to get the pleasure from your orgasm contractions." Batson gave the command, and the slave wasted no time in reaching back and rubbing her engorged clit. He kept working her pussy with gusto.
"Take it all, slave. You naughty, nasty bitch, I am going to pound that pussy until you can't take it anymore." Batson's nascent experience with dirty talk was going quite well.
The slave started to spasm and moan in an intense orgasm. Batson continued to stroke until her body was beginning to be racked with orgasm, and then he pulled his cock from her pussy and rammed it into her anus. His dick was so slick with her natural lubrication that it went in with relative ease despite the tightness. Batson only got in a few strokes against her snug bunghole before he blew his load right into the slave's ass.
Batson was spent, and, as he extracted his member and stood, he let himself fall over onto his back onto the bed.
"Come." Batson commanded.
The girl moved up onto the bed and was curled up on her side with the warm flesh of her back and ass touching the naked skin of his side. She was like a pet in deed. Before he drifted off into a nap, he had an epiphany about what his next assignment would be for his slave, but first a well-earned nap for the both of them.
