President Slave Girl: The Homouth -- Book 1 of the President Slave Girl series (6 page)

It had not occurred to Eileen that the limit
on how long she would be on this bench wasn't about her -- whether
or not they thought she had "learned her lesson" or not, but on how
many men there were who wanted to use her in this way.

That could be a lot. In her heart of hearts,
Eileen thought that all men wanted her like this. Even Tom had been
faking.

Eileen was crying again.

"Anybody want to do her?" asked one of the
women, "or shall I just use the clicker?"

The consensus seemed to be the clicker.
Perhaps the sight of her cleaning up her own vomit had dampened
their desires.

The woman pushed the clicker and in seconds
Eileen felt the changes in her mouth. Her brief spell of normalcy
was gone all too soon. The homouth was back.

A moment later two men entered the room. Big
men. Naked men. Men with that same arrogant swing to their dicks
that the other men had had.

The approached her, and she trembled
anew.

Over the next several hours, the men took her
in a number of ways. They tied her in many ways. Sometimes they
slapped her and pinched her On several occasions a man whipped her
while others fucked her. And they videotaped what they did to her.
It was if they were proud of it. Sometimes the camera was right up
in her face while a cock went in and out of it. Sometimes when she
heard the camera it was whirring behind her. Once they tied her
spreadeagled and pulled her pussy lips apart as far as they would
go and filmed that.

Eileen cried a lot, and moaned a lot, and
writhed a lot and wriggled a lot, and it all made no difference.
They would treat her as they would.

Sometimes the men talked to her. Typically
they spoke of loved ones imprisoned under the Obscenity Laws. She
remembered some of the things they said vividly.

"Look up at me, bitch!" said a tall, rangy
red-haired man. "I want to see you with my cock in your mouth. You
put me and my wife both in jail. We just had a little website that
showed the two of us making love. We weren't even charging people
money to visit. We shut it down when the Obscenity Laws were
passed, but you STILL arrested us and put us in jail. I'll never
forget the look on my daughter's face when the cops busted into our
house and hauled her mom and dad off to jail." (The man slapped her
face hard at that point.)

"I got raped in jail," said the man. "So did
my wife. Now I'm raping you. You see how it works? This is justice!
Maybe the judge didn't sentence you specifically to be raped, but
he knew it would probably happen. Just the same with me and my
wife. He didn't sentence us to be raped, but he knew damn well it
was likely to happen. Justice is about raping prisoners. I didn't
know that until I went to jail. Now I know all about it. Now you're
learning about it. Enjoy it, bitch." He slapped her again. It
stung.

Later, she was crying, and the man who was
fucking her face said, "Oh, have you found these last few hours
hard, bitch? Well, you put my wife in jail for four fucking years
you damned slut. You think the last few hours have been hard, you
think about four fucking years in a cage away from your loved
ones."

He slapped her, too. Sooner or later, they
all slapped her.

She couldn't believe how much they all hated
her. Sure, she was the one who had spearheaded the drive to pass
the laws that put them and their loved ones in jail. But they had
all been guilty. They had all been given trials and convicted by a
jury of their peers. They should accept their punishment as just
due for their transgressions.

Except that they obviously didn't feel they
had done anything wrong. They seemed to think she was the one who
had done wrong. Was this what Larranaga had meant by "culture war"?
People of different cultures hurting each other as if they were
people of different nations?

By the time the men finished with her, she
was beyond exhaustion. Her hands and feet hung slack in their
bonds. Between uses, her head hung down so that her hair almost
touched the floor. All she wanted was rest, and all she got was
slapped, pinched, cursed, fucked and yelled at. Beyond a certain
point the abuse became meaningless, piled too high, it collapsed of
its own weight. It did not affect her because she was too tired to
respond to it. What might once have elicited a squeal now elicited
the tiniest of moans, if anything.

Finally, they untied her and dragged her to
her stall. They dumped her there and hogtied her. Before they had
finished tying her, she was asleep.

They kicked her awake the next morning, and
she did not want to wake up, but she had to because they were
kicking her, so she did. Once again she ate while naked and tied
for an audience of grinning women who insulted her.

Still, she ate, because she was hungry and
most of all thirsty. Still, she was depressed. The men who had used
her yesterday had spoken of loved ones imprisoned for years. How
long did they plan to keep her here?

She would never have imagined in a million
years that things could get worse than they had the previous day,
but ... they did.

The women freed her legs after she ate but
left her arms tied behind her back. They took her to another room.
This one was very different from the one she had suffered in
yesterday. Its floors were coated with pillows, its walls hung with
tapestries.

Then she saw that among the pillow where iron
rings. And that there were iron rings set in the ceiling.

Four women dressed in skintight black spandex
ninja suits followed her into the room. They wore mirrorshades over
their eyes, giving them that forbidding, insectoid look that all
the women so dressed had. They pushed her down on a pillow. There
was a ring in the floor by the pillow. They tied her hands to it.
Then they tied her feet to it, so that her body was bent backward
in a cruel bow. But they weren't through with her. They put ropes
around her knees and tied them to rings set on either side of her
so that her knees were pulled wide apart though her feet were tied
together.

Finally, they looped a rope around her neck
and tied it to her collar just inches away from her neck, so that
if she tried to move her head and shoulders away from the ring, she
was half strangled. But they used a knot that did not tighten when
she did so.

It was a very painful position to lie in, her
arched back forcing the weight of her torso onto her shoulders and
neck, her leg's weight resting on the sides of her feet and her
lower shins because her feet were forced sideways by the ropes that
pulled her legs apart. Her inner thighs were strained too, because
her legs were pulled so wide apart.

The women seated themselves around her, two
on either side, once they had her restrained and spread. Eileen
moaned and writhed, trying to shift her weight to ease the strain
on her joints, but to very little effect.

"That's it, get comfy," said the woman
sitting near Eileen's head. She took off her gloves, but otherwise
remained invisible. The others took off their gloves as well. "OK,
the reason we're here. My name's Laurel, this is Willow, Cinnabar
and Holly. We're all sadists, Eileen. We like to cause pain. We're
also strictly consensual sadists -- we only cause pain to those who
enjoy it. We're very good at what we do --we're sought-after for
our skills.

"One thing you should know about us, Eileen,
is that we despise non-consensual sadists," Laurel continued. "We
have reason to hate them more than most people do, because people
often confuse us with them. We'll put it to you very bluntly
--people who engage in consensual sex are known as lovers, people
who engage in nonconsensual sex are known as rapists. The same
difference applies with us. Imagine if people really did as some
feminists advise and treated all men as rapists. Men would think
that was unfair. But they'd also be pretty damn pissed at the
rapists, wouldn't they, for doing the things that made them suspect
by association.

"Now, we know you're not here consensually,
Eileen," Laurel continued. "But you do present a special case.
Legally, you have no consent to give. You don't have any rights as
a person -- you've lost those. The judge took them away. So in a
legal sense we CAN'T treat you in a nonconsensual manner -- you've
no consent to give.

"But there is still the matter of ethics.
Ethically, this is definitely a nonconsensual matter. But it is
also a special case. You see, you have hurt so many of us so deeply
that no amount of torture could equal it, even if we tortured you
to death and took months doing it. We have all been imprisoned, or
had loves one imprisoned, by your Obscenity Laws.

"In particular, there was one among us named
Rosie," Laurel continued. "A submissive who was dear to all of us
in this room except you, and to many others. She modeled for some
of us who published on the Internet, and wound up in jail for it,
where she was repeatedly raped by guards. She killed herself
because of it. Rosie had been whipped and spanked and caned and
fisted and fucked while gagged and tied like an animal -- but
always by choice. Always, her choice, and the knowledge that she
could say "no" and her "no" would be respected. But she couldn't
handle the sheer nonconsensuality and brutality of the rapes she
endured in prison, so she hung herself from the bars of her cell
one night. We are sure she found death a blessing.

"We blame you for that. And we're going after
the guards, too, in a different way, if that's any consolation to
you -- didn't think it would be.

"So in all of our names, but particularly in
Rosie's name, we can't just let the matter drop," said Laurel, a
hard edge creeping into her voice. "We thought about it, and we've
decided to hold a special memorial service for Rosie, and you are
going to be the guest of honor for it. We are going to tell you
about Rosie and some of the others who've suffered under your hand,
and while we are doing it, we're going to teach you a thing or two
about suffering. Because you really need to know about it. That is
why we are going to make this exception to our rule against
nonconsensuality -- because you need to understand what suffering
and humiliation is, so that you can never again treat human beings
as you have in the past."

"What we are about to do is to soil ourselves
for your sake, and for Rosie's and for everyone else you have
injured or may injure in the future," said Laurel. "We don't think
you have any idea how much suffering and pain you've inflicted on
others, or really, what suffering and pain is. We are going to
teach you about that."

"These are our tools," said Holly, opening a
black canvas back and pulling out a roll of dark cloth. She
unrolled it and saw an assortment of very nasty looking objects
indeed. Whips. Floggers. Paddles. Needles with wooden handles.
Clothespins. A couple of electronic devices with alligator clips.
Alligator clips with chains attached to them. Round spiky wheels. A
lot of other things, all of them very clean and shiny but with a
patina of use.

Eileen looked at the array of devices spread
out on the cloth and grew very, very afraid. In fact, she began
trembling.

"There, there," said Laurel, "I guess it's
reasonable for you to be afraid under these circumstances, but you
don't have to be that afraid. We are not allowed to maim you, and
we won't. We won't even affect your appearance, really. We may
break the skin here and there, but nothing that won't heal up good
as new in a couple of days. You're going to get through this
physically unharmed. Psychologically, well, that's a different
matter. We're hoping to make a few changes there, and that's gonna
leave some deep scars. Surgeons leave scars, too, you know.
Sometimes you have to leave a scar to heal."

Eileen was comforted to know she was not
about to be maimed, but not all that comforted. It wasn't just the
instruments that frightened her. It was the way these women moved.
They began putting electrodes on her, after dotting her skin with
ointment where the electrodes would go. They moved with practiced
skill and grace, like an operating team working over a patient.
There was a certain calm familiarity in the way they put their
hands on her body, as if it were already familiar territory to
them.

They stroked her skin sometime as they put
the monitors on, but it was a very possessive touch they had, as if
they were claiming her body as their territory.

"EKG monitor,"" Laurel explained. "We don't
want your heart to give out or anything like that while we play.
And you'll be glad to know that Holly here is a licensed paramedic,
so if you do have any sort of cardiac problem, we can get you taken
care of."

This frightened Eileen more. They were going
to be doing things that might make her heart give out.

Without really thinking about it, Eileen
began struggling against her bonds. She knew it was hopeless, but
she was frightened at such a deep level that her body was
struggling without any conscious intervention on her part.

Knowing glances among the women.

"You don't really want to be here, do you,
Eileen?" asked Laurel. "Well, Rosie got to feeling the same way
about her prison cell after awhile, but you know, they never did
let her go. She had to go to some drastic measures to manage her
escape."

"You can call us the Sisters of Mercy," said
Laurel. "We'll be taking you to the point where you know that you
just can't go on, and beyond."

Eileen was now officially terrified. Her
nakedness, her helplessness, and the calm implacability of the
women who surrounded her was too much. She began to make terrified
noises that her homouth converted into pathetic bleats.

"Let's start with a little breath control,
that always gets the attention," said Laurel. She pinched Eileen's
nostrils shut with one hand and put her other hand over her
homouth, shutting off her breath completely. Eileen twisted her
head this way and that, but bound as she was she couldn't get her
shoulders into it at all, and Laurel kept her hands in place with
practiced skill.