A Record-Breaking Enslavement

A Record-Breaking Enslavement

Thank you for opening my story. It is a simple tale describing a young woman's enslavement; a familiar theme that has proved popular in the past. It will probably be the first volume in a trilogy.

Although I have written many unrelated stories, They are mostly set in the same general environment, in which secretive organizations have access to life-changing drugs and treatments that are quite unknown to the general public. These assumptions help me to bridge the gap between safe BDSM practice and stories of 24/7/365 sex-slavery of a kind which would be impossible in real life. Please be warned that, although the emphasis on bondage puts this and other stories firmly in the BDSM category, you may well wonder whether the "consent" is always well-informed.

An acknowledgement: the story includes a quotation from a 1950s radio programme; "Listen with Mother," which was a part of "Woman's Hour." It always began with the words, Are you sitting comfortably? Then I'll begin.

Ratings and comments are always very welcome.

Starting the Clock

When I got out of bed on that fateful Thursday in May, I had no idea that I was to be the subject of a record attempt. I went to the university's main lecture theatre to listen to the last lecture in a series entitled Submissive Feminism, given by one of my regular tutors, but not part of any course I was taking. That was all over, and I had my degree, although I had no idea what I was going to do with it. I had lunch in a crowded cafeteria, sitting in the quietest corner I could find at a table for two, and was surprised when the lecturer to whom I had been listening- Professor Vivian Sandringham- sat down in the other chair.

"I hope you don't mind me joining you," she said cheerfully, sitting down before I could answer. "Thursday's always busy in here, because everyone goes off for the weekend on Friday. It's a bit like the House of Commons in that respect. Did you enjoy my talk?"

I was surprised that she had spotted me, as I'd been sitting near the back of the hall. Many of those sitting nearer the front had been quite noisy and animated. I always choose inconspicuous places to sit, for I have very large breasts, and I can always hear (or imagine I can hear) those around me remarking on them.

"I always enjoy your lectures, professor," I answered, and that was true. "You can be very controversial, and I don't always know whether I agree with you or not. The point about female slaves being used by their masters; that's a hard one to swallow."

The professor had argued that, as a slave woman could not resist being used for sex by her owner or master, she could regain control by enjoying it; by having orgasms. For her, it was a feminist triumph to seduce her owner and then use him for her sexual pleasure. It turned the tables on him (or her) and if she was chained, the more helpless she was, the greater the triumph.

I found her thinking difficult- even perverse- although it was also strangely attractive, in a way that I couldn't define. She was, obviously, a controversial member of the university's staff, with frequent calls for her to be dismissed. I found her charismatic- larger than life- and she was physically impressive. Indeed she was beautiful, with a slim, symmetrical face and a finely-sculptured mouth, and she was tall with an athletic figure that seemed to take up more space than it actually did. If she had a fault, it was that she hardly ever smiled, and that gave her a remote, rather haughty air. Along with the fact that she was about forty and believed to be a lesbian, it put off the male students. None had, to my knowledge, tried to hit on her.

She did not speak up in defence of her argument, but admitted that she'd expected another part of her talk to arouse more indignation. That was her contention that female slave was never more powerful than when being auctioned. To stand naked on the block, festooned in chains, was surely the ultimate expression of female strength, playing on the bidder's imaginations like the keyboards of an organ, drawing from them, probably, more of their money than they could really afford to spend.

These were amusing but crackpot notions, and I struggled to understand how she could get away with expressing them to an audience of intellectuals. One reason was that she was a highly reputable scholar with a long list of publications, and the university could ill-afford to do without her. She was specialist in Elizabethan and Jacobean literature; not Shakespeare- they were ten penny- but of contemporaries so obscure that much of their work was only just being rediscovered. Her interest in "submissive feminism" was a personal hobbyhorse that her colleagues tolerated, about which they rarely spoke.

"It's an exciting thought," I admitted, for I found her ideas interesting, not as contributions to scholarship, but as sexual fantasies. Most seemed to have been plagiarized from porn films, novels and short stories. There was a lull in the conversation then as we both tucked into our meals, which were standard canteen fare. She had toad-in-the-hole and I had the last portion of lasagne.

I had overheard the dinner lady tell the next person who asked for it that it was off, only to get the well-worn reply: "I know it's off, but where is it?" While I smiled at the recollection, I noticed that the professor was fiddling with her smart watch. Only later did I realize that she was making a note of the exact time.

Her change of subject took me completely by surprise. "You have very big tits," she said, as if she was remarking on a pendant or a pair of earrings. "I can see your pokies. Don't you get lots of male students drooling over them?"

I decided that I might as well answer her. "They would if I let them," I admitted, "but that puts me off dating men. That's all they're interested in. If you don't mind me saying so, professor, you're a fine figure of a woman yourself."

"That's kind. Men seem to realize that I'm not interested in them. Tell me, do you see yourself as one of the submissive women about which I spoke? Would you have a master or a mistress?"

She wasn't being very subtle. At this point I could have made an excuse- perhaps an appointment at the careers office- and hurried away, leaving her to look for another target. Instead I played along with her, and that decision changed my life. "I couldn't let a man chain me up," I replied. "I've never met one that I trusted enough. Only a woman could do that, so I suppose it would have to be a mistress; an authority figure, probably bigger and older than me."

That was really going the whole hog: I was offering myself to her on a plate. I could almost imagine her stripping me there and then, in the hustle and bustle of the canteen. Instead she put her main course aside and tucked into her jam roly-poly pudding, and I, feeling a little deflated, started on my Bakewell tart. Then she seemed to make up her mind. "Can you come home with me this afternoon?" she said, and then added: "Are you free for the weekend?"

I was indeed, even though it was a bank holiday on Monday. I wasn't the most gregarious of young women and had planned to go walking in the surrounding countryside. I was also hoping to finish a short story I was writing for Literotica, to which I was a regular contributor. In the course of a very ordinary lunch, everything seemed to be changing.

It was generally believed that the professor had a partner; perhaps even a wife. Did that matter? It seemed safe to assume that any such person was absent for the weekend, leaving her lover to amuse herself. I thus had a "safe space" to satisfy my bicuriosity- and my submissiveness- without any long-term implications. "Yes and yes," I answered, and we both returned to our desserts. On her suggestion, we skipped coffee.

There was no need for me to go home. I was always conscientious about leaving nothing switched on, plugged in or burning. I had no car, so we both travelled to her house in her electric Skoda, and although it only took ten minutes, it seemed to me that she was driving very fast, and clearly knew there were no speed cameras on the route. I had little time to think, but I was wondering how we would occupy more than four days. Had I been too hasty in agreeing to it? It was too late to change my mind without offending her, so I tried to relax.

We arrived at Vivian's home about one hour after she had done whatever she had done with her watch, and I must say I was impressed. It was modern and I guessed that it had four bedrooms, and the fact that much of the garden around it was sunken, and the garage door was underneath, suggested that it had cellars, like many continental homes. We drove straight into the garage, which had a motorized door, and she showed me inside, but instead of touring the cellar she ushered me up a staircase that opened into a utility room, and then into a large kitchen. She made coffee for us both- instant- and we carried the mugs into the conservatory, where I was almost overwhelmed by the view.

The house was built on a terraced section of a hillside, and the land was hollowed even more to make the sunken garden at the front, the garage and the cellar. At the back, however, the land fell away sharply to give a magnificent prospect over a wide valley, rising to moorland on the other side, which was about two miles away. It meant that the back rooms in the cellar had windows, and the garden on that side sloped very steeply, but the whole plot was very private, made so by a subtle mixture of shrubs and trees, walls and fences.

I stood gazing through the bifold doors, for as far as I knew there was no public place with such a view of the valley. I wondered whether Vivian had a camera good enough to do justice to the scene, and I almost forgot her while I sipped my coffee. Then I felt her come up onto my left shoulder, her arm going around mine. "It's the best view for miles around," she murmured. "When I bought this house there was no conservatory, and trees blocked most of it. Otherwise it would probably have been too expensive for me."

I tried to think of a reply, but was conscious only of her breast against my shoulder, and her hand on mine. No longer feeling steady on my feet, I made one small step to my right in order to put my half-empty cup down on a nearby table, and stepped back into her grasp. I wanted to leave the initiative with her, so I didn't turn to face her, but I didn't want to discourage her either. Gently and slowly, she pulled me around to face her, and as I looked up to her face, she ran the back of her right hand over each of my nipples in turn. I gasped, momentarily unable to catch my breath, and she pulled me close for my first lesbian kiss.

That was one of the landmarks in my life that I would never forget. I looked forward to feeling her lips on mine, but I had long thought myself more or less straight, and wondered whether some unknown chemistry would repel me when our mouths came together. I was instantly relieved of that anxiety, for we fitted together almost perfectly. Her lips had looked very firm, but they softened on contact and merged with mine as our tongues wrestled between them. I closed my eyes in anticipation of a very long snogging session, and reached for her breasts.

I was pushed away and turned around, wondering what I was doing wrong, but she spoke before I could ask that question. "That's enough to prove you're a lesbian," she murmured into my ear. "Now the cuffs." At that point her hands were on my breasts, her fingers and thumbs pinching my nipples through the cloth of my blouse and my bra. She moved smoothly to take my arms and pull them behind my back; a gesture that seemed very well practiced.

She had the cuffs ready to hand, and I never worked out how. Perhaps they were in the drawer of the table where I had put my mug, or perhaps they were attached to the waist of her skirt, behind her back. Perhaps she always had them ready, for anyone who came visiting. There was another surprise coming, however. "Do you need the toilet, before I put these on you?" she asked.

I checked myself quickly. "No, thank you, professor," I replied. It was true, but I could probably have managed an insurance wee. It occurred to me, however, that if I wanted to get out of the cuffs, a full bladder would be my "get out of jail free" card. It also occurred to me that the professor was planning a long session; probably two or three hours. Looking back, I am amazed at my naïveté.

It took her only a few moments to lock the cuffs on my wrists. They were already joined by three short links of chain. They felt cold, so although I could not get a clear view of them I guessed they were stainless steel, and as they were not scratchy or uncomfortable, they were polished smooth with bevelled edges. Despite our earlier conversation about chains, I had expected something improvised, like clothesline, or possibly a pair of police handcuffs, possibly with fluffy padding. Now, tugging at them to reassure myself that they were real, I knew I was in purpose-made restraints, and for as long as the professor wanted. There had been no mention of a safe word. I was puzzled to notice that she was, once again, fiddling with her watch.

Taken

She had not taken off any of my clothes before she had locked my wrists behind my back. I wondered whether that was an oversight, or whether she was intending to undo me to take them off. At that time, when I was thinking such thoughts, I had not realized how vulnerable I was, or how unlikely it was that I would be released in the foreseeable future. Whatever the record was for getting a girl in restraints after first making her acquaintance, she had broken it comfortably, and would doubtless want to capitalize on her achievement.

There was lots of deep, passionate kissing, and she groped and massaged my breasts through my clothes. I wondered what the point was of putting me in cuffs. If I was enjoying her hands groping my body, would she not also enjoy mine on hers? It was gradually dawning on me, however, what it meant to be totally vulnerable. My breasts were hers to play with, although they were still covered by two layers of fabric. That was soon to change.

The scissors appeared like magic, like the cuffs. My guess was that all necessary equipment was stowed in the drawers of the occasional tables, and she could remember exactly where it was. She was working to well-established protocols. They were more like fabric shears, so as she stood back from me a little, she had no difficult starting at my waist and cutting up to my neckline, slicing through both blouse and bra. There were no wires. I always wore sports bras with the straps well tightened. It was by far my most comfortable solution. I had never been fitted for bespoke bras, and I didn't' even know my size, although a soon-to-be ex-boyfriend had measured them in British Standard Handfuls.

The shears cut down my short sleeves, and the remnants were tossed onto the floor. "Don't worry," said the professor, "there are plenty of spare clothes here." I thought that hers would look wrong on me; she was taller and broader but less busty. Perhaps some of her previous conquests had been stripped before being bound, or had been sufficiently forewarned to wear bondage-friendly clothing. I opened my mouth to reply, but nothing came out, and she began to cut away my skirt and panties.

That was quite unnecessary, because my ankles were not chained at that time. She could have removed them without any damage, but preferred to cut them away, leaving me not only naked and helpless, but without any prospect of dressing again. Was I going to be naked until Tuesday morning? Would I be able to find clothes in her wardrobes if I was freed from my bonds, or did she keep them locked away?

Serious questions were driven from my mind as she started kissing me again, this time with her hands squeezing and kneading my bare boobs, and with her fingers and thumbs on my unprotected nipples. My wrists pulled at the cuffs, and I never had to make up my mind whether I would have covered myself with my hands, or grasped for the professor's boobs. They were soon on show, as she stepped back for a minute to remove her own clothes, without the use of scissors. They were much more expensive than mine.

Once we were naked together I was literally swept off my feet, to lie on one of the big sofas, of which there were two in the room. It might almost have been made for bondage, as the cushion was soft enough to absorb the bulk of the cuffs, so they didn't press into my back as I lay on them. There was another frustrating pause as she cuffed my ankles and hobbled them with a foot of chain. I saw no point in that, as I could hardly run away with no clothes and my hands behind my back.

Only later did I realize that the professor was adhering to a well-established procedure. The seduction, stripping and binding of new subjects was not a spontaneous act of passion. The steps involved were spelled out in black and white, in printable form on the internet, if one knew where to look. The new addition did not impede me much at that time, as I was able to open my thighs wide by crossing my ankles. I did notice that she checked her watch again, and thought it must be a harmless, if unromantic, compulsion of hers.

Then she was beside me, kissing me again, her fingers working their way into my vulva. There was nothing to impede her as I was always shaved there, and I was surprised to find that I was already wet. Soon, I was breathing hard as she pushed deep into my tunnel, and I was making a conscious effort to keep my knees well apart. I remembered a boyfriend who had complained that I crushed his head with my thighs when he was trying to give me cunnilingus. It was probably because he wasn't very good at it. My more immediate concern was that the professor was covering my mouth with hers, and I was struggling to take in enough air through my nose.

She lifted briefly, and took the hint when I gasped in a few lungfuls, turning my head to one side and sticking her tongue in my ear. I would rather she had sucked my breasts, but that was difficult for her because of my shorter stature. I had to suppress the urge to giggle, but as she moved her lower hand onto my clitoral mound, and began to pinch a nipple with the other, I forgot about that and was soon approaching my first lesbian orgasm.

When it came, I learnt a lot more about bondage. As my body jerked, spasmed and tried to force its way up against the probing fingers, my wrists fought their bonds and my ankle chain rattled as my legs straightened. When masturbating at home I usually used my second hand to press down on my fingers as I climaxed, but now I could not do that. My pleasure was in the gift of the professor, and I could do nothing to augment it.

The professor was in a generous mood, for she allowed me only the briefest of pauses before she began to press again. She soon got the feel of me, sitting up by my side as wave after wave of multiple orgasms coursed through my body as I thrashed and struggled until I was too exhausted and breathless to take any more. Then she eased off gradually. "Your stamina will improve," she said softly. "Now it's time for you to eat me out."

I was, very dimly, conscious that something strange had happened. At a point which was, possibly, a third of the way through my succession of climaxes, she had picked up from somewhere a black, egg-shaped object, sized to fit comfortably in the palm of her left hand. While she continued to frig me with her right, she held it briefly but firmly against my throat, and I felt a firm jolt. Whether it was an injection, an internal vibration, or an electric shock, I could not have said at the time, but I suspected the first. Was it something to make my orgasms last longer and/or be more intense? If so, it seemed unnecessary.

After she had finished with me I felt like a washed-out rag; the more so because I couldn't move my hands to brush the sweat off my face. I could feel the cuffs on my ankles more now, because in the throes of my passion I had tried to work my legs separately, as if running or cycling, and the chain had pulled me up short, the metal harsh on my skin and bones. She did not, however, give me time to recover completely, but mounted my face in the reverse cowgirl position, facing my feet.

It was difficult for me to switch my attention to her so quickly. I think she probably wanted to feel the wind of my heavy breathing on the wet tissues of her vulva, and indeed she hovered above me for a minute or two, masturbating with her right hand. Then she sank, almost enveloping my mouth as her labia spread open, and my tongue was probing into her vaginal tunnel.

One of the advantages of lesbian sex is, supposedly, that the partners know how to stimulate one another's sexual organs. That might be a simplistic view, as women can have very different tastes, and although I had pleasured myself frequently, I could not reach my pussy with my tongue. All I could do was to push it in and out, but it was not very strong and I could not get it in far, nor could I keep it up for long. I was opening and closing my lips to influence the surrounding area, and hoping that I was covering enough ground to affect her clitoris.

I knew that, in getting the timing right, the crucial decision was when to transfer the bulk of my efforts to the clitoral mound, but I would have struggled to move my head enough to reach it. She needed to show me what she wanted by shifting herself back a bit, putting her clit over my tongue, but instead she decided to turn round completely into the forward cowgirl position, which took her no more than about five seconds.

I had formed the impression, both from reading and from the use of my own fingers on myself, that the clitoris should first be circled rather than stimulated directly, but she was bearing down on me hard enough to make that distinction difficult. I tried to keep my tongue flat and pressed over the whole area, and she seemed very happy with that, using her hips in a stirring motion to grind herself ever further down onto me. My priority was breathing, and I was, from time to time, trying to rock my head or tip it up to get my nose into clear air for a few seconds.

I was able to detect the signs of her cumming and fill my lungs. For a few seconds I couldn't breathe at all and my face was pressed down so hard that I feared damage to my neck muscles. Her orgasm was followed by several more, and for some of that time my head was forced over to look sideways, as she rammed herself down onto my cheek and even my ear. That hurt quite a bit.

Afterwards, she lay beside me, kissing and licking my mouth and face, obviously not minding the taste of her pussy fluid with which it was liberally coated. "You were better than I expected," she told me, and I wasn't sure whether or not I was being damned with faint praise. "Your head rocks about rather a lot. I'll see if I can find a posture collar that fits you."

I felt bound to protest about my inability to breathe. Surely if I couldn't move my head, I would suffocate? All that came out was a kind of sighing noise, similar to the "ahh" that people make when a doctor presses on their tongues. I wondered whether my jaw had been damaged by the weight of her body, but the explanation was completely different.

"You can't speak at the moment. I've given you an injection to temporarily put your vocal cords out of action. I'm sure your wit and wisdom are unparalleled, but they aren't required this weekend. I intend to use your mouth a lot, so gags are not an option. It should wear off by Tuesday morning. There's no limit to the number of doses you can have."

She must have felt me shudder as the adrenalin coursed through my body. I had no means of commenting on or protesting against anything she did to me. There was no going back until Tuesday, and she obviously had access to drugs and treatments that could make major changes to the way my body worked. Were there any limits? Were the massive and numerous orgasms I had enjoyed wholly or partly result of something she'd slipped into my food or drink? She soon gave me a partial explanation.

"You're probably wondering how I come by these treatments. You will come to understand that the society in which you live is, to me, a kind of ante-chamber. My world is about half a century ahead, with some developments deliberately withheld because of the damage they might do to the economy, or in the wrong hands. It wouldn't be a good thing for husbands or wives to be able to strike their partners dumb, turn them into sex fiends or render them impotent or frigid. Then consider the effects on pension funds if everyone's life expectancy was doubled."

The last of those was astonishing. Was she really claiming to part of a group that could extend the human lifespan? Had I become a character in a science fiction story? Apparently not, as the professor explained.

"The public is fed a constant diet of improvements: a better test for prostate cancer, a treatment for Parkinson's Disease, a new way for diabetics to test their blood sugar. It's all the tip of an iceberg. Much more radical interventions are developed, tested, produced in small batches, and kept secret from the general public. That's the difficult part. Most of that kind of work is done in smaller laboratories, by specialists who a very well paid and are the first to benefit from their own work. You now know rather more than you should know. Time to get you ready."

The professor had previously let slip that she was part of some much larger organization, and I had been suspicious all along of her fiddling with her watch. Now she was being much more open, and I wondered whether she had made a crucial decision about me. Did I now know too much to be just a one-weekend stand? She had said that my stamina would improve; over how long? The dumbness injection could be repeated indefinitely; how many times would she actually repeat it? Time to get me ready for what? It was time to test the waters. I needed to take a leak, but had no way of saying so.

When I looked agitated and kept nodding at the door, she was quick on the uptake. "I suppose you need the loo," she said. "Come with me."

My bladder was now very full, and I wondered whether I could make it to the bathroom, which was near the front door and at the other end of the house. I had to take mincing, one-foot steps and try to minimize the chances of losing my balance. I had never thought about what it would be like to walk with my wrists locked behind my back. The professor stayed close, holding my arm when I seemed to be in danger of falling or veering to left or right, so there were no accidents.

Used

I expected that at least my hands would be freed for me to pee in the toilet, and to be given privacy. She could have demanded that I give my word of honour to submit again to bondage afterwards, and I would have nodded, and meant it. The reality turned out to quite different. She stood me in the shower stall and told me to empty my bladder, and my need overcame my nerves and my embarrassment. The warm liquid ran down my inner thighs, over my feet and into the stall, and mostly down the drain. Afterwards I stood helpless, waiting to see how she would clean up, and she simply took the shower head and sprayed everything from my waist down. I thanked the patron saint of plumbers (St Vincent Ferrer (1350-1419)) for not creating one of those terrible showers that runs cold for a minute or two before the hot comes through from a tank fifty yards away. Then, as if as an afterthought, she stepped in herself and cleaned us both with a very pleasant Occitane gel. She even washed my hair, but not her own. She dried us with fluffy white bath sheets and moisturized us; this time with a Simple product that was effective but unperfumed. All this took much less time than one might imagine, for she was confident, efficient and economical in her movements, and my hair was then only shoulder length and took only a few minutes under a Dyson dryer.

Once I was no longer urinating, the shower experience was more erotic than embarrassing, but it was still more impersonal than it sounds. To be systematically cleaned by another person while in bondage can be confusing; it isn't clear whether one is a thing, an animal like a pet dog, or a much-loved and valued but very submissive person. The whole thing was like a dream, but I was no longer tugging at my bonds to check that they were real. I knew that they were. I knew that it was more than real; more than an afternoon or a weekend's erotic dalliance, more than a role-playing game.

From the ground floor shower room she took me up to the first floor. There was a lift- a rare luxury even in a prosperous English home. On the way we passed the open door to a small study, and I caught a brief glimpse of a framed photograph on a desk. It showed the professor with a beautiful black woman, probably rather younger. Both were smiling happily, and it looked like a professional portrait. I realized that she must be the partner, and as the photograph was still on show, she was still extant.

There were obvious contradictions. If the professor had a functioning partner, why was she dropping hints about a longer-term future for me? Presumably the black woman knew about the stashes of bondage equipment in the house; was it also used on her, or did they use it on one another? Somehow, I could not imagine the professor tied up. She was too much in control, of herself and her surroundings, and too physically imposing. I had no idea, at that point, how quickly my questions would be answered.

I was made to shuffle my way from the lift, along a broad landing, to a luxurious bedroom with a huge brass four-poster, with metal frames at each end. There were chains already attached to the vertical bars near each corner, but as it was a super-king size, they were a couple of feet from the sides. I knew from the moment I saw the bed that I was going to be spread out on it, in the classic X-shape that I'd often seen on the 'net. I also knew that I was not going to resist, although I still imagined that I might have the chance.

I was not going to have the chance. The professor went through a sequence that was obviously well tried and trusted, ensuring that before my hands were freed I was chained securely by the ankles, and the key was well out of reach. It would have been impossible to escape, even in the improbable event of my being able to overcome the professor. She worked quickly, and as efficiently as always, so in a very few minutes I was spread out on the mattress. I was not stretched. I had read many times that it was necessary to leave just enough slack for me to be pushed down into the foam, if, for instance, someone jumped on top of me.

Naturally, I assumed that the jumper would be the professor. It was a surprise, therefore, when she produced a blindfold. I smiled up at her, thinking that I knew what she had in mind. She was going to tease and edge me for a long time- until dinner- and I would never know where she was going to touch me next. I had read about that too.

It was a good guess- an educated guess- but it was wrong. The blindfold went on and the world went black, but there was no teasing; no more bondage sex with the professor, at least for the time being. She came close and spoke softly into my ear.

"My partner will be here in half an hour. We share everything we have, so that means that we share you. She'll have an hour to get to know you before we all have dinner. I'll be up to her when and if she lets you see her. It's very much in your interest that she likes you, so let that guide your response to her." She kissed me warmly. "See you soon. I'm looking forward to our first night together."

Then she was gone, and my mind was racing. I had been left at the mercy of someone that I was not allowed even to see, although she was probably unaware that I had seen a photograph. I tugged at the chains, but I knew they were secure. After a minute of futile effort I did my best to relax. I understood that it was in my best interests to accept what came to me- indeed that I was helpless to do otherwise- but it was difficult to act on that. I also found that it helped me to pull at the chains. It was a kind of exercise that relieved tension, like when a person stretches when waking up in the morning.

I heard the door opening, but the carpet was too thick for me to hear her walking towards the bed. She must have taken off her clothes, for the body that reclined on the bed beside me was naked. I felt a hand exploring the curves of my body, and passing lightly over my breasts, with fingertips touching my nipples. In my mind I held the image that I had seen briefly from the landing. The thought that I was at the mercy of a voluptuous black girl (my imagination had filled in a few gaps, as the picture did not show her body) was exciting.

Then, as the hand began to explore my slit, I felt the full, plump lips begin to touch mine, and her tongue lightly tracing the outline of my mouth. For a brief moment I was unable to resist the impulse to pull at the chains in the vain hope of getting my hands on her breasts. I imagined big, prominent nipples and virtually black, knobbly areolas that were at least three inches in diameter. I even wondered whether they were pierced. As I had been blindfolded, no-one could blame me for resorting to stereotypes.

Gradually, the contacts became firmer. Our lips were joined in a deep but slow-moving French kiss and her fingers were delving into my crack, sinking into the moisture and probing my vaginal tunnel. She kept the kiss going throughout as she moved onto my clit, and within a very few minutes I was beginning a long series of orgasms that, I thought, were a little more intense than those that the professor had imposed on me. My body writhed and struggled and the chains snapped as I fought them, and afterwards I felt the strain in my shoulders.

I had read several BDSM stories in which persons in bondage for very long periods has been made to restore their muscles by exercising on bikes, rowing machines and/or treadmills. Now I wondered, briefly, whether that would be necessary in my case. Perhaps a helpless person, made to climax repeatedly, intensely and powerfully, would struggle so much that she (or he) would remain fit and healthy. I was soon distracted, however, by the vulva that was descending on my face. It was mildly irritating not to be able to see the contrast between the almost black outer labia and the bright pink interior, and I imagined that I could tell the difference by the feel of the flesh on my tongue.

Giving her cunnilingus was very much like doing it for the professor, and that seemed unsurprising as I assumed that they usually did it together. One very obvious difference was that, as she finished off in the backward cowgirl position she flopped down onto my body and found my vulva with her mouth, giving me two more orgasms before she finally called it a day. Then she turned around and lay with me for a short while, kissing me gently but thoroughly. Finally, with a little sign, she removed my blindfold.

Truth

When the blindfold came off I was facing away from the woman who had just used me in bondage, so I just blinked to get accustomed to the light, and then turned my head to see her for the first time. I was astonished to find that she was white, and it must have showed before I could compose my features into something more normal. She was about my height and short-haired, but her face was attractive in a slightly unusual way. She had a wide mouth with very full lips, as if made for someone considerably larger, like the professor. Her breasts were not as big as mine but were still substantial, and her nipples and areolas were indeed larger than average. She had a narrow waist and a lovely "bubble-butt" which I wished I could feel. She was smiling broadly.

"I'm Lucy," she began. "I'm the talkative one. I've been sent to explain a few things to you, in the hour or so we've got before dinner. Are you sitting comfortably?"

I was as comfortable as it was possible to be, still stretched out, exposed and helpless, with my arms and shoulders feeling the strain of fighting the chains through more orgasms than I'd been able to count. I nodded and she continued. "We're using you to establish some benchmarks. The original idea was to create a standard protocol for the treatment of new female recruits, but you've broken all known records, and I doubt whether they'll be broken again soon. Between Vivian sitting down with you in the university canteen, and snapping the cuffs on your wrists, was just eighty-five minutes!"

She seemed to find that amazing, and paused to reflect on it, kneading both my breasts gently as she did so. At times she leant over my face, coming almost close enough for me to raise my head and get a nipple into my mouth, but I never quite managed it. I knew I should be concentrating, but my pussy was still singing to me.

"It's now about six hours since you were strolling about the campus, free as a bird, and now you're pinned down like a dead butterfly, naked as a jaybird, helpless to stop me playing your body like a violin. You are officially the fastest woman in the west, the horniest, most wanton slut on record."

She was looking at me as if she expected me to protest, or at least look surprised, but I kept my face neutral, waiting for her to go on. She had armed herself with a bottle of water from the bedside cabinet, and she trickled a bit into my mouth before going on. She had evidently noticed my efforts to reach her nipples, for she now let me suck one for a minute. Then she sat up again.

"You're comfortably the quickest peacetime enslavement of which we know: it's just a matter of whether the techniques involved can be codified and repeated. If so, the impact on the market should be almost immediate. We don't have any immediate plans to sell you, however. We intend to use you for our research into household ratios and workflows."

My mind was racing as she spoke. She had used the word "enslavement," and that put a decisive end to any idea that this was a weekend adventure. The word "market" required no explanation, but she was also revealing that there were many other people involved, and not just in medical research. The talk about ratios and workflows was double-Dutch to me, and it probably showed, as she struck a pose that suggested infinite patience, and started to explain it.

"Have you ever thought," she asked rhetorically, "about the ideal ratio of free users to sex-slaves? What does a young, virile male think? Does he imagine himself reclining naked, surrounded by nude, buxom young women all in golden chains? I suppose his ideal is to have one kissing him, one sucking his cock, one eating his balls, and at least one tonguing his toes, while two others are close enough for him to fondle their breasts. Another couple wait with glasses of champagne and sweetmeats. Of course, he probably doesn't think that he'll be the one cleaning their bottoms, giving them enemas, chaining them up and feeding them by hand. He'll need a small army of workslaves- kitchen staff, chambermaids, bath-women, gardeners- so his home will be crowded with people, not all of whom want to be there."

More water then, and she began to finger my slit again. "I think we might squeeze a couple more orgasms out of you before dinner," she remarked, and then continued her exposition.

"The outcome of our thinking might surprise you," she said. "We think that one sex-slave should be enough to service three free persons. In real life, nobody has sex all the time. They also do it with one another, and they also use slaves together. At a pinch, the other staff are always available. A good pleasure slave is like a box of fine chocolates left open on a sideboard. Everyone can take them whenever they want a treat, but they don't all eat them as their main courses. One box should last a weekend."

I couldn't help noticing that she was using the "slave" word very freely now. That was how she thought of me, and how she expected me to think of myself. She was certainly right in thinking that a breathtaking change had come over me in a vanishingly short time; presumably a record time. She was soon explaining that, at least partially.

"You'll have noticed that Vivian has given you certain medications and supplements, including the injection that took away your voice. One reason why we're establishing new standards now is that a second generation is appearing, of many of the products that we've been using for years. The new stuff acts faster and is more controllable. You're already much hornier than you were this morning. Soon, your breasts, bottom, asshole, and mouth will all be erogenous zones, very much like your pussy. Your tits are already to die for, but we'll probably enlarge and stiffen them just a little, and start them lactating."

She paused briefly then, as if she was reflecting on the possible negative effects of the changes she was describing. "Obviously," she went on, "a sex-slave needs to remain fresh and motivated. You could make calculations which might show that one could service four, five or six free persons, but would you then get enough sleep? Would your work become, to you, more like sewing hems in a sweatshop, or stacking toilet rolls in a supermarket? I love to see a bound woman having orgasms. I want you to remain curious and responsive."

It seemed to me that what she loved most of all was the sound of her own voice, and since I could not argue with her, or interrupt her, I was the perfect partner. I was still digesting the news that I was to become a wholly sexual animal, and that sex would be my full-time job. It was a shock to learn that my breasts, about which I had always been self-conscious, would grow still larger. There were obvious compensations, as I was adoring the feel of her fingers in my slit, and hoping that I would not have to wait long before she began stimulating my clitoris. But she had something else to say yet.

"You looked surprized when I took off your blindfold. Were you expecting me to be black?"

Honesty was my only policy, so I nodded. "I suppose Vivian's left a picture somewhere," she went on. We haven't had time to arrange a formal portrait of the three of us. As you've probably gathered now, we're a ménage à trois, and the black woman is Tulip, the one of us that you haven't yet met. She'll be home for dinner, and she'll introduce herself to you properly this evening. That'll be another record."

She interpreted my raised eyebrows as asking what kind of a record it would be. "We're all different, the three of us," she said. "Vivian's strong and determined, and she takes her sex like food. She needs it, and consumes plenty of it, but she isn't sentimental about it. I'm more reflective, empathic; a thinking person's crumpet, I suppose. Tulip is more physical, more demonstrative, and more interested in the interface between pain and pleasure."

I digested that during a moment of silence, almost abandoning myself to my mounting arousal, when she suddenly spoke again.

"She'll give you your first whipping."