Evocation (22 page)

…and at the same time she would still hate it, still loathe the taste and feel of the disgusting stuff. The machine could tear an orgasm from her whether she wanted it or not. It could force her body to associate sexual pleasure with whatever he wanted it to. But another part of her, something not in her body, would still hate it. She would crave it and be repulsed by it at the same time, and being forced to take it would make her come…

He can make me do anything,
she thought.
It doesn’t matter what I like. It only matters what he wants me to like. He can program my body to want anything.
The realization electrified her. The fact that he could not only use her in any way he wanted, but that he could make her want it, no matter how much it repelled her, sent powerful shock waves of arousal right down into her core.
Oh, my God!

Anthony wrapped one arm around her body from behind, pinning her against his chest. His hand squeezed her breast until she could feel his fingers digging in. The flash of pain snapped her back to her senses, to the feel of the Sybian and the taste still filling her mouth. Her eyes grew glassy, staring at the ceiling without really seeing it. “Guk!” she said.

“Focus.” He twisted a knob, and the machine leaped into full gear. Intense, unstoppable pleasure blasted through her. She tried to shriek, but it came out as a wet gurgle. More white fluid ran from the corner of her mouth.

The world went gray. Fierce, toe-curling ecstasy devoured her, the pleasure so intense it almost bordered on pain. Anthony clamped his free hand tightly over her mouth. “Swallow!” he commanded. His fingers twisted her nipple savagely. “Now!”

She obeyed instantly. Warm goo slid down her throat. Her body convulsed in rapture. The orgasm went on and on, waves of raw, overpowering physical pleasure coursing through her without stopping. The entire time, Anthony’s voice murmured in her ear. “That’s right. You want it. You need my come in your mouth. It tastes so good, doesn’t it? You love being a filthy come-slut.” She was so lost in the ecstasy she barely even recognized the words.

It was over all at once. In an instant, the machine’s stimulation went from blissful to excruciating, as if someone had flipped a switch inside her. The squirming, the vibration on her clit, suddenly became too much. Eileen shrieked.

Anthony released her and turned it off. She sat there trembling for a long time, the powerful sensations still ringing through her body. Occasionally, an especially strong aftershock caused her to shudder. Her mind raced.

This is wrong!
she thought.
He can train me any way he wants to, and he doesn’t even care if I like it or not!

From somewhere in some deep recess of her mind rose a challenging thought.
You like how he treats you. Look how hard it makes you come.

That’s not true!
she protested to herself.
I only come because he forces me to!

Isn’t that the point?
came that arguing thought.
You like to be forced. It’s the only thing that excites you. You must have wanted him to know that about you. Why else would you tell him about your secret thoughts of pirates and rape?

Eileen flushed. She remembered that night when, giddy from too much wine, she had made her confession. They were in her apartment, just the two of them, curled up beneath a blanket on the floor, drinking wine and talking while a gentle rain pattered on the windows. He had asked about the things that turned her on. She remembered how she had giggled and blushed, how she had stammered as she told him her fantasy about being kidnapped by pirates. She thought about the wild impulse had caused her to reveal her deepest secret to him, to tell him how she had never had an orgasm without thinking about being raped.

That doesn’t give him the right to do these things to me!
she thought.
He is just doing this for himself! He thinks he can just put himself in my mouth and in…
Her body shuddered.
In my ass, like I’m some dirty slut, and he can get away with it!

That annoying inner voice responded.
It excites you when he does those things. You like being forced. It’s what you’ve always fantasized about.

He makes me do things I don’t want to do!
she protested to herself.

Of course he does,
came the answering inner voice.
That’s what makes it exciting. Do you remember what that nurse told you? He does a lot of work to make a life that you find sexually satisfying. Being forced is what you find sexually satisfying.

It’s indecent!
she told that calm inner voice.

And you like it,
that inner voice replied.

He says I’m a sex slave! He calls me filthy names!
Eileen said to herself.

You like it. You like hearing that you have a talented ass. When he says that you’re the best cocksucker in the city, you are proud of it. When he says he will turn you into the best lay on the Eastern seaboard, it thrills you. You like all of it.

“I don’t!” Eileen protested.

“You don’t what?” Anthony asked.

Eileen looked at him, startled. She was suddenly aware that she had been sitting motionless on the Sybian, blushing, for several minutes. Without intending to, she had said the last part out loud. “Nothing,” she mumbled.

“Oh. Well, in that case, never mind.” Anthony grinned. He scooped up the semen that had dripped from the corner of her mouth and pushed his fingers between her lips. She wrapped her lips around them automatically. Her tongue found the large glob of come. He flicked on the Sybian, just for a quick second, turning her gagging noise into a moan.

“That’s right,” he said. “Soon your body will associate that taste with pleasure. Won’t that be fun?” She did not reply.

Chapter 22

After that day, the routine changed. Each morning, when Anthony removed her chains, Eileen positioned herself at the foot of the bed and presented her ass for his use, just as she had before. But now he carefully regulated her, telling her to slow down if she became too aroused. His fingertips on her hips guided her, showing her how to move to bring him to orgasm, without letting her come as well.

In the shower, he made her bathe him with her body as she had done before, but he refused to permit her to pleasure him with her mouth or her pussy. Instead, on those days when she brought him to a second orgasm, he permitted her to use only her hands or her breasts, stroking his cock until he moaned, back arched, and spurted tendrils of come across her wet, soapy body.

He came home for lunch whenever he was able, usually two or three times a week. On those days, he would often push her over the kitchen table and plunge into her from behind. Sometimes, if she heard his car in the driveway, she would meet him at the door. He would take her right there in the doorway, hands on her shoulders to pin her against the doorjamb, his pants pulled down just enough to free his hard, demanding cock. Always, if it seemed that she would come, he would slow his thrusts, denying her pleasure.

In the evening, he seemed to delight in working her into a frenzy. He would order her to strip as soon as he came home, timing her with his stopwatch to see how quickly she complied. He would spread her out on her back on the bed, or if he was impatient, on the living room floor. With his face buried between her legs, he would tease her clit with his tongue, moving it relentlessly over her most sensitive place until she thrashed and screamed.

But never, ever did he allow her to come. That was reserved only for the end of the day. When it was time for bed, he would place the Sybian in the middle of the bedroom floor. Conflicting emotions—arousal, distaste, fear, need, and lust—would jumble up inside her. She would approach him slowly, heart pounding, stripping off her clothes as she moved

Deliberately, methodically, she would seduce his body with hers, hands and lips and tongue seeking all the familiar places that turned him on. Practice had made her an expert; when she touched him, she felt that she could almost read his mind. He felt the same way, too; her fingers seemed to be able to find precisely the right ways to touch him, as if they were aware of his responses almost before he was.

When she had peeled away all of his clothes and skillfully worked his body to a fever pitch, he would pick up the handcuffs from the night stand. She would kneel over the Sybian, impaling herself on it with a gasp. With the dildo firmly planted in her dripping sex, she would fasten the straps around her legs, preventing her own escape. He would hand the cuffs to her. Shaking, she would cuff her hands behind her back. Naked and bound, she would offer him her mouth.

He would bring his erection to her lips. Eileen would pleasure him using nothing but her mouth, slowly and thoroughly, her lips and tongue caressing his shaft. Even bound and helpless, unable to touch him with her hands or body, she could still read his arousal, transmitted through the tiny twitches and throbs of his cock. She would work him with all of her skill, focusing her attention on his cock, bringing him slowly to the edge before plunging deep. When he came, gushing hard into her mouth with a cry, her tongue was ready for it, stroking the underside of his shaft just enough to prolong his orgasm, milking him of every drop.

Then the torment would begin.

He would force her to hold his semen in her mouth for a long time, head tilted back so she could feel the warm slick stuff in the back of her throat. His hands would caress her body while he whispered filthy things into her ear, telling her to savor it, telling her how much she loved it. When she started to gag, he would waken the Sybian. It would come alive inside her, brutal, efficient, and tear the orgasm from her body. She would come hard, still gagging and coughing, helpless to prevent the savage ecstasy that lashed through her.

And every time, at the exact moment the frenzied climax peaked, he would clamp his hand over her mouth and order her to swallow.

As the days passed, the things he did to her began to take hold in her body and in her mind. The idea of bringing him to orgasm in her mouth gave her a little thrill of arousal, and she found herself beginning to look forward to taking him between her lips, feeling him pulse and jet in her mouth.

They took hold in subtler ways, too. She found that the sound of his car in the driveway would cause a tension to build in her nipples and between her legs, a sudden hot flash of sexual desire ignited by his arrival home.

She could also feel it in the mid-afternoons. Her pussy would tremble as the clock approached noon; she would feel her arousal grow and grow, until it peaked near the time ho would normally take his lunch. If he didn’t come home that day to help himself to a bite to eat and her body, she would often sit in the kitchen under the golden shafts of light reflecting from the copper pots, or in the living room on the couch with her legs spread wide, and run her hands over herself, dreaming of Anthony’s hands pinning her roughly against the wall.

She became expert in touching herself, just as she had become skilled in touching him. She learned all the places where her skin loved to be stroked, all the secret little responses that came from coaxing herself into higher and higher states of arousal. She had lived in her body for her entire life, but she was, it seemed, only just now really learning everything about it.

She became equally skilled at finding the razor’s edge of orgasm, holding herself there with her eyes closed, fingers caressing her nipples or stroking her clit, body tense with energy. When Anthony did come home in the evening, she would meet him with naked hunger, pressing her body to his, inviting him to use her however he liked.

Whenever she went out, the world felt amazingly, incredibly alive, vibrating with intensity. The unlocking of her sexual side seemed to have awakened her skin, so that it became something through which she could feel the world rather than something to insulate herself from it.

Even something as simple as walking down the street became erotic. Eileen felt alive to the looks of the people who passed her by. Often, if she caught the eye of some passing stranger, images would come tumbling through her mind of that stranger grabbing her by the wrist, pulling her into a dark alley or shoving her against a closed door, and tearing her clothes off. She would think, in quick short flashes, about his hands on her, demanding, about the greed in his eye as he stripped her bare. She would imagine him surrendering to his own desire, ignoring her cries and struggles as he sated himself with her body, his cock hard and demanding in her pussy or mouth or ass; and then, when he had taken his fill from her, releasing her to continue on his way, sated.

Her body remembered vividly the feel of strong hands grasping her wrists and hard stone pressed against her breasts at the hotel that night. Those memories, rich and tactile, returned to her often when she sat at home waiting for Anthony, or when she ventured out to the store and saw the handsome cashier. Even without the training device that Anthony no longer made her wear, her trips to the grocery store were still filled with tension; the slightest movement of his hands, a little smile on is face when he picked up her groceries, and she would mentally be back behind the store, longing to feeling those hands on her, aggressive and unstoppable.

One evening, a week to the day after Anthony had forbidden her to have an orgasm unless her mouth was filled with his come, something happened she didn’t expect.

He hadn’t come home for lunch that afternoon. Eileen, aroused and disappointed, decided to draw herself a bath. In the tub, she let her hands wander over her body, caressing her skin, working herself languidly into a warm glow. She ran her fingers up and down her arms, deliberately avoiding her breasts and pussy. Her mind was filled with fantasies of pirates, dragging her onto the deck of the ship, tearing her clothes away, bending her over the railing to ravish her.

She stroked herself sensually, dreaming of rough hands and strange cocks, until her skin tingled and buzzed. When she felt herself in a state of simmering need, she drained the bath. She dressed in nothing but a long, sheer button-up shirt, feeling decadent and naughty, delighting in the warm erotic glow.

He found her that way when he returned home from work. She was lying on the bed reading, still wearing nothing but the shirt, a dreamy expression on her face. One hand was caressing her body lightly. She was so distracted she hadn’t heard his car. She looked up when he came into the room.

“Come here,” he commanded.

Eileen’s heat thudded. Without a word, she put down the book and rose, already unbuttoning her shirt. By the time she had crossed the room to him, it hung entirely open.

She pressed her body against him, hands sliding up his arms. He took her wrist and, in one quick motion, wrapped a leather cuff around it. Eileen gasped in surprise, butterflies swirling faster. He placed a cuff around her other wrist and buckled it tightly. “Follow me.”

Anthony walked out to the living room. Eileen followed behind him, quivering with anticipation. He directed her to sit on the couch with her arms extended along its back, and bound her wrists there, holding her in place. “Wait here.”

She squirmed against soft leather, feeling herself dripping. He left briefly and came back with a rigid leather case, dark brown in color, cracked and worn from use. “You know,” he said, “when I was a kid, one of the reasons I wanted to become an architect was so that I could spend all day drawing. Now, of course, everything’s all computers and rendering. But I do still like to draw.” He opened the case and set out an assortment of small containers. “I just need to find different outlets, that’s all.” He knelt on the floor between her legs. “Don’t move, or I’ll punish you.”

He laid out a collection of tiny paintbrushes on the coffee table. Slowly, with great care and attention, he opened Eileen’s shirt wide. Her heart beat faster. He chose a paintbrush with a small pointed tip. With a lopsided grin, he dipped it into a container of dark green paint. He brought it to her breast. The brush tickled on her bare skin, making her squirm.

“I said hold still!” His voice was commanding. Eileen fought to keep herself from wriggling away from the tickling brush. He worked slowly, with great care. She felt wetness between her legs. Her pussy clenched.

He worked methodically, changing brushes often. Before long, she started unconsciously rocking her hips. Anthony slid his free hand up along her thighs. “You aren’t being still,” he said. With one swift move, he thrust three fingers into her. Eileen thrashed, nearly coming on the spot. He kept his fingers inside her, pressing her hips down into the cushion. “Don’t move.”

Anthony resumed his patient work, painting one-handed on her body, holding her down with his other hand, fingers buried inside her. She felt herself squeezing around them, on the edge of orgasm, afraid to come without permission.

It took nearly two hours for him to finish. Eileen squirmed and writhed despite her best intentions as the brushes danced over her breasts, nipples, and belly. The light touch of the tiny paintbrushes, the cool wetness of the paint, Anthony’s steady breath on her skin as he worked, and her feelings of restraint and exposure all combined to make Eileen feel intensely aware of her body. Slick wetness dripped around the fingers shoved up inside her.

At last, he was done. Anthony put don the brush, smiling. He unfastened the straps and led her to the bedroom. “Look.”

Eileen stood in front of the mirror. Her body had been turned into an intricate, colorful Impressionist painting, a garden with a white gazebo in its center. A woman—an image of herself, she realized—sat nude in the gazebo, brushing her hair. All around, flowers in a riot of brilliant colors bloomed.

“You like it?” Anthony asked.

“It’s beautiful!”

“Yes, indeed.” He kissed her cheek. “So is the painting.”

Eileen blushed. The expression changed to surprise when he knelt and fastened broad leather cuffs around each of her ankles. He disappeared into the closet and came back out carrying coils of rope. “Come on.”

“What? Where?”

“The principle purpose of art is to be shared. Good art needs to be exhibited, don’t you think?”

“Anthony!”

He grinned. “Yes. Now be a good girl. Come with me.” He propelled her out of the room.

She offered no resistance until she realized he was steering her toward the front door. “Anthony! You can’t It’s indecent!”

“Good art often is.” His grip tightened. “Out you go!”

He dragged her, blushing and squirming, onto the porch. Cold air curled around her body. The ropes were quickly fastened to the cuffs on her wrists and ankles. Anthony strung the other ends through the rings he had attached to the columns flanking the door, and soon Eileen was bound between two columns, arms and legs stretched wide. The shirt fluttered open from her shoulders. “Anthony!” she cried.

“Hush.” He kissed her cheek again. “You stay here. I’m going to go make dinner.” She felt him move away. The door opened and closed behind her.

Eileen stood frozen for a long moment. Being bound nude in plain sight, helpless, without Anthony’s presence and without even being able to hide behind a column, made her heart pound. The thin shirt hanging open from her shoulders did not protect her at all; if anything, it only accentuated her helplessness, the ease with which someone could access her body.