President Slave Girl: The Homouth -- Book 1 of the President Slave Girl series (7 page)

Eileen kept waiting for Laurel to remove her
hands from her face, but she didn't. Her twisting stopped being
just a matter of her head, with her whole body now writhing to get
free of the life-threatening hands on her face, but the chains and
the iron ring held her in place easily, and Laurel's hands stayed
in place easily, and Eileen's heart seemed on the point of bursting
and god she had to breathe, had to breathe, had to ... everything
went black and ...

She was awake again. Her face was wet.
Someone had poured cold water on it. She looked up and saw her
frightened face reflected in Laurel's mirrored shades.

"Well, now we now what your limits are, we
can skate right up to them and dance away," said Laurel. She put
her hands over Eileen's face again.

Once again Eileen was being smothered and
helpless to prevent it. It couldn't be happening again, it was too
horrible! But it was. She struggled and writhed anew, but with no
better result. Then, just as the blackness was descending to give
her welcome respite, Laurel removed her hands and Eileen was able
to sluck in one glorious breath through her homouth, and then
Eileen's hands were back and she was smothering and god, she was
DYING, this crazy woman was going to kill her! She had to breathe!
Breathe! Breathe!

At the same time, another set of hands began
to expertly manipulate her vagina. She felt fingers gently stroking
her libia, probing her clit, and finally entering her vagina and
probing her in a way that roused her in a way that she had never
been roused before, sending white hot surges of pleasure to compete
with the the red hot sparks of pain. Soon she was orgasming
helplessly even as she struggled to breathe, her body a helpless
toy in the hands of these women who so expertly manipulated it in
every way.

Eileen quickly lost track of time under this
regimen. There was only the hands that smothered her and the hands
that made her cum. She wanted to give up and let them kill her or
maybe turn her into a mindless sex toy, which was what she felt
like, but her body fought far past her mind's power to endure. That
was in part was what was so horrible about it -- somehow, they were
extinguishing her mind as they tortured and pleasured her, she was
just a body responding frantically to competing sensations of pain
and pleasure.

The breath control ended, but her torment did
not. They kept torturing her and making her cum. They used floggers
and canes and whips and needles and dildos and vibrators and butt
plugs and their tongues. They knew all of her sensitive areas --
her inner thighs, the soles of her feet, areas near her armpits --
but they also concentrated on her sexual areas.

And each of MacCammon's tormentors, it turned
out, had a homouth of her own. They would unsnap some snaps near
their ears and the lower part of their hoods would fall away,
leaving a mask still covering all of their face above the nose.
While the others tormented Eileen's body one of them would sit
astraddle her chest, lean over, and place her homouth right over
Eileen's in the equivalent of a kiss. Except that both of them had
a clitoris just below her nose. And instead of probing each others'
mouths with their tongues, they rubbed their facial clits and labia
against her facial clit and labia.

The women, having homouths of their own, knew
exactly how Eileen's homouth was wired, and they expertly pressed,
probed and rubbed against her until the pleasurable sensations from
the homouth actually overcame the pain sensations that were coming
in from the rest of her body. She came, time after time, from this
deeply unnatural contact of organs that did not belong on a woman's
face, she came with moans and slurking sounds beneath the women who
tormented her.

To surrender so completely to people who
hated you and hurt you was horrifying, terrifying. But they gave
her no choice at all. Naked, bound, her body arched and totally
exposed to them, she had no defense, and no recourse. She writhed
and shuddered and made pathetic little screams inside her homouth
when they wanted her to feel pain, and she writhed and shuddered
and arched her body even more when they wanted her to come.
Eileen's will, Eileen's interests, had nothing to do with it.

And because she was so helpless and
controlled and tormented beyond her ability to respond as a
conscious human being -- reduced to just a body in the hands of
fiends -- she had orgasms as she had never had them before.
Complete, deep, shuddering orgasms uncontrolled by any conscious
sense of shame or any awareness of who she was or what she was
doing at all, except on the most basic physical level.

Unfortunately, this was also matched by
complete, deep, uncontrolled surrender to the pain they were doling
out to her so generously as well. If it were not for the homouth,
the room would have been filled with hoarse, harsh, full-blooded
screams. The thick tissues of her homouth acted as a gag,
suppressing the screams to tortured moans welling up from her chest
and throat.

The Sisters of Mercy went about their
business calmly, implacably, and with a knowledge of Eileen's body
and how it responded to pain and pleasure that Eileen herself not
only did not have, but could not have conceived of. Eileen had next
to no knowledge of pain. Childhood earaches were as far as her
awareness of pain extended. As an adult she had occasional
headaches and bouts of sinusitis, but she'd always found that drugs
could handle that. She'd had a toothache once, but a dentist
equipped with Novocain and laughing gas had taken care of it very
quickly. Her children had been born while she was unconscious.

Her parents and everyone she had ever known
had treated her with great respect and love and gentleness. She was
in fact ignorant about pain and suffering. She understood that such
things existed and were considered very bad things. She just had no
idea what it was like to experience them to any great extent. It
was part of the reason she had been able to so calmly prescribe
suffering for others. She had understood suffering was bad, but
only in the abstract.

Now, a screaming, moaning writhing thing
chained naked to the floor and in the hands of her enemies, she
learned what suffering and pleasure were all about.

When, some infinite span of time later, they
finished with her, she was completely drained. Limp and helpless,
she hung in the hands of the two large men who dragged her out. She
didn't even shrink from their touch. Her eyes were half open, but
they didn't move around or focus. She was too exhausted to actually
look at things.

* * *

After they dragged Eileen out of the room,
the Sisters took off their hoods, revealing themselves as women in
early middle age with the same late blush of youth that the
nanocytes had given Eileen. Nanocytes were cheap now, and everyone
looked good. Everyone looked young. All were flushed and sweaty and
they all looked unhappy. Sister Holly appeared to have been
crying.

"Well, that was worse than I thought it would
be, and I thought it would be very bad," said Sister Cinnabar. "I
feel like a real piece of shit."

"Well, you are, and so am I, and I hate it,"
said Sister Willow. "I know we told them we'd do the whole thing,
but I just do not know if I can do this again. That was too
awful."

"What difference does it make?" Sister Holly
asked dully. "We're one of them now. Might as well BE them if we
are going to do what they do"

"We're not one of them," said Sister Laurel.
"We talked about this. We figured it out. We made an exception. We
are still OK."

"Well you may be OK, but I am not fucking
OK!" Sister Holly snarled. "I am one long damned way from being OK!
She did not enjoy that at all! We used her against her will. We
fucking raped her, the lot of us. It's one thing to talk about, but
now that I've done it, I just want to fucking shoot myself."

"Yeah," said Sister Willow morosely. "So we
made an exception, and I know she was a stinking bitch and all
that, but now I'm one, too, and even when I was in a jail cell
thinking about my lover trying to get along without me, I knew I
was a better person than the people who put me there, and that kept
me going. Now I'm free, but I don't have that feeling about myself
all of a sudden. I mean, is this how torturers get started? They
make an exception. Then the next exception is easier to make, and
the next and the next, and eventually you don't have to make
exceptions at all..."

"So, look, we did a hard thing," said Sister
Laurel. "It's not like none of us has ever asked any sub or bottom
to do a hard thing, is it? And it was still a thing that needed
doing. You know as well as I do that that bitch had no idea, not a
single tiny bit of an idea, of all the suffering she caused. Sister
Rosie and all the others were just distant blips on her radar
screen. She didn't care because she couldn't understand what she
was doing to people, or that it was people she was doing it to.
Probably she'll never be in a position to harm people again. But we
don't KNOW that, and so she has to learn. Even if she never harms
another, she should KNOW what she did. She should KNOW it. And
thanks to us, she will."

She woke up knowing that the best thing for
her to do would be to kill herself. She knew she should because of
something Sister Laurel had said before she left.

"Get some rest now," Sister Laurel said.
"You'll need it for your next visit."

That meant that there would be a next visit
for sure. In fact, when they came in to take her away, they might
be taking her to them again.

That meant she had to kill herself now,
before they had her again.

Unfortunately, whoever had put her in her
stall had known how she would feel when she woke up. Because she
found herself tied down spreadeagled to the ground, her arms and
legs stretched wide, not painfully so, but not enough to give her
any purchase against the ground.

What's more, a leather harness encircled her
head. It's straps connected to a metal ring located at the crown of
her head, and from that metal ring was hooked a chain, a very short
chain connected to a metal ring set in the ground just above her
head. There was absolutely no slack in the chain, which meant that
she could not raise her head more than a fraction of an inch from
the floor, which meant that she could not bash it into the
floor.

She started crying then, because she could do
nothing else.

When they came for her she refused to eat.
Eating would make her live longer. Not her goal.

They did not give her to the sisters that
day. They put her in a room where she was used sexually by various
men and women. Compared to the Sisters of Mercy, it was heaven,
although she still experienced deep revulsion at the touch of a
man, and the men did considerably more than touch her. But even
standing bent over in a pair of stocks while one man fucked her
right up the ass and another stood in front of her and reamed her
homouth so vigorously that his balls bounced against the underside
of her chin ... even that was a joy compared to the Sisters of
Mercy.

She got to hear about a lot of other men and
women who had been jailed under the Obscenity Laws during her
administration. One of them talked about the fact that her party
had forced the rest of Congress to go along with it by threatening
her veto of the budget. He was right, too.. He accentuated his
points by ramming his cock up her anus with extra vigor, enough to
get muffled grunts out of her, and she was pretty tired by that
time.

She was exhausted but still able to walk when
she went back to her stall. And still they staked her out
spreadeagle with her head secured to the floor.

But before they did that, they took her to
another room, where they tied her to one of those chairs that
hairdressers use to wash customers' hair at salons. Then one of
them brought in one of those steel rods with rollers that hospitals
use to hold IV drip solutions above patients' heads. This one held
a large funnel, from which a flexible plastic hose like the kind
seen in vacuum cleaners. Except the nozzle at the end of it seemed
kinda small, about an inch and a half in diameter.

"Woman wearing a homouth oughtta know better
than to refuse to eat," said the guard who held the nozzle as she
jammed it deep into Eileen's homouth. She wrapped tape around it so
that it was taped in place inside Eileen's mouth. Without the use
of her hands or her tongue, she couldn't get rid of it, anyway. She
could only stare up a the woman as she pressed a lever near the
nozzle and she felt the gruel begin trickling out of the nozzle and
down her throat.

Force feeding. Of course. They did not intend
her to die.

The gruel was periodically washed down by
what seemed to be huge amounts of water, and Eileen swallowed it
all because she had no choice. After they were through, her guard
wiped her face clean with a towel and then wrapped a piece of duct
tape around her whole head several times.

"Better try to keep it down," said her guard.
"Vomit is bad for your teeth, I hear, and if you barf now, it's got
nowhere to go."

So she would not be throwing up, either.

Later, lying spreadeagled and with her head
bound to the floor and the tape gag still wrapped around her head,
trying not to gag, she decided she would eat from now on. Then she
went to sleep.

The next day, at the mere sight of the
Sisters of Mercy, she wet herself. Her guards brought her to the
room and they chained her to the ring, just as before. She cried
brokenly as they did so. Whatever courage or resolve she had was
gone in the face of her helplessness, and her knowledge of what
these women would do to her.