The Final Record

The Final Record

Thank you for opening this story, which is the third in the "Records" series. I hope that it is possible to enjoy it without reading the other parts. In this volume the story reaches a kind of conclusion, and for the time being I will be returning to other unfinished projects. However, there is obvious scope for future volumes. Please keep the ratings and comments coming; I am happy for regular readers to suggest with which stories they would like me to continue.

Please note that, as this story has progressed, the content has got stronger and the consent more tenuous. It clings to the BDSM category, but if this is a major issue for you, you might prefer to look elsewhere.

The quotation at the very end is from Palm 90, verse 10.

My Future

In the throes of my passion, during that Saturday afternoon spent bound in the professor's bed, I thought that I knew my future. My mind and body would both be adjusted in ways that would turn me into the perfect lesbian pleasure slave, and my mistresses' principal challenge would be to get the balance right between the sexual stimulation that I could both give and receive. Between the two great climactic storms that we both went through that afternoon, I had plenty of time to wonder whether that was the correct conclusion. In a very short time I had received some very mixed messages.

If I was to be nothing but a pleasure slave, why were they so eager to have me lactating? Presumably they would be milking me into their coffees, and onto their cereals at breakfast. That might not disqualify me as a pleasure slave, provided they didn't mind me leaking onto their bedding, They might like to suck my breasts for a midnight snack, but they could not do that if I was housed in the cowshed across the courtyard. They might also use a pleasure slave to pull them around the garden in a toy carriage, but they could hardly keep her in the stables.

Then there was the question of whether or not there was any such thing as a lesbian sex-slave. Wouldn't all sex-slaves be polyamorous? My mistresses must surely have the occasional male visitor, and they could hardly turn him away without offering him relief. Perhaps that was wishful thinking on my part? I was now discovering my lesbian side, and for the time being that was an exciting and fulfilling journey. In a week or two, however, I would probably be quite cock-hungry, and in a month or two, ravenous. And if I was put up for auction, would I be available to buyers of either sex?

Fingers had been pushed into my bottom, and I had gleaned the occasional hint that there might be men in my future. I shivered as I contemplated the idea of anal penetration, and the professor probably thought it was because my body was preparing itself to face the next Himalayan range of orgasms. As her fingers began to push between my pussy lips I was having darker thoughts. Might it be that while the professor and Lucy viewed me as a trainee pleasure slave, Tulip had me cast as a painslut? My best guess was that she did not see the two roles as incompatible, and for all I knew, Lucy was now helping her to oil her whips.

While I say that these were darker thoughts, they were in no way hindering my mounting arousal. For the past hour I had been lying relaxed in my chains, hardly noticing the clips on my nipples. I was amazed at how accustomed I had become to bondage, especially when it was strict and lasted for hours. Now as I began to gush my fluid and I felt the fingers slipping into my tunnel, I heard the distinctive "snap" as I pulled on the wrist chain, and again as I tried in vain to close my legs.

The wrist movement was involuntary, the ankles less so. I was not trying to close my legs and expel the intruding fingers, but to reassure myself that I could not. I found that men were still on my mind, and I closed my eyes and imagined that the fingers were a penis, pushing hard and deep into my helpless and vulnerable pussy. I wonder whether the professor noticed how much I was trying, in vain, to push down as she probed my vaginal tunnel. She must have heard the bells ringing louder and faster as I shook my torso, first in frustration, and then in almost unbearable pleasure. I had never fainted in my life, but that was the closest I had ever come, until then.

When the professor mounted my face I was eager to make up for what I thought was my disloyalty, so she was probably surprised by the force with which my tongue entered her, and eventually pressed onto her clitoris. In the end I was sucking on it almost as if I was fellating a tiny penis, and I had to check myself, thinking I might be hurting her. She showed no sign of thinking that anything was amiss. She was in great good humour when everyone gathered for dinner; fish and chips this time. I managed to avoid the mushy peas, I hope without offending anyone who was trying to feed them to me.

It was a relatively quiet evening. That was a relief, as I had half-expected that Tulip would take me away for a caning. The three mistresses watched porn movies, and instead of having me kneeling between a pair of legs they laid me across all their laps, turning me around between the relatively short films. I found the energy to enjoy more orgasms as I was fingered in the vulva and bottom, had my breasts kneaded and my nipples pinched, and multiple fingers pushed into my mouth. I tried to reach nearby pussies, but with limited success, and my mistresses came largely from masturbation and one another's fingers.

That night, I slept with my hands behind my back and my ankles locked together, although I usually kept them crossed to open my knees. I was often awake as a questing hand sought out my private parts, and it was a struggle, as usual, to keep silent while I was being groped. The mistresses seemed to enjoy fingering me with one hand and themselves with the other. That way there was not too much movement, and they sometimes managed it without waking the others. A failure in that respect led to a general orgy at about two in the morning, after which everyone went to the toilet. We were late getting up, and the usual routine took until nearly eleven o'clock. I was taken to the summer house by the professor and Tulip, so there was no more sex before lunch, at which all the talk was about a visitor who was coming that afternoon.

That was frightening. Everything that was happening was novel, but I was getting used to being naked and bound with my three owners, as I now thought of them. To expect a complete stranger was to contemplate starting all over again. Nothing was said about the newcomer, although they all seemed to know who it was and were comfortable with the visit.

No special arrangements were made. I was naked with my hands behind my back and my ankles hobbled with about six inches of chain, so I could move about slowly and carefully. I was told to greet the visitor on my knees, so when Lucy opened the gate to admit a small van, I assumed the position on the living room floor. Looking back on it, I think I must have still thought I was role-playing. It seems inconceivable that, after just a couple of days, I had become so totally submissive.

There were two surprises in store. One was that the visitor, shown in by the professor, was male. The second was that he was not alone; he had a woman with him, and something about her manner told that that she was not his equal. She was dressed in a very simple, loose-fitting grey dress, and she hung back while he- addressed as Allan by my mistress- drew me to my feet, looking at me intently. At that moment I knew that he was not going to be my first male user, for he was gay. So why did he have a woman with him? Presumably, that would become clear in time.

Learning the Ropes

When the greetings were over, Allan beckoned the woman to come to him, which she did. It was only then that I realized that I could not see her arms, which were enclosed within the dress that was very effective in concealing her shape. She remained impassive as he turned her around and pulled open the seam that ran right down the back, and as it was basically a very loose tube with a hole for her head, he was able to strip her in one swift, smooth movement. He dropped the dress on the floor and, taking her by the shoulders, spun her around to give everyone a quick look.

"This is Bimbo," he said. "We'll think of a better name for her sometime, when there are more like her around."

I gaped in amazement, for the woman was, from the neck down, the very image of a bimbo, with breasts that appeared to be inflated, like beach balls. As she was moved they swayed a little, but the movement was all that their bases, for they never changed shape. Although they were obviously silicone I could see no sign of scarring, but the perfectly round areolas, with prominent and stiff nipples, looked rather as if they had been glued on as an afterthought.

Her breasts were the more prominent because they were confined at their bases with windings of rope. In fact her entire upper body was a network that passed around, above, below and above her boobs, with complex joins behind her, holding her arms in a box-tie, folded wrists-to-elbows. More rope was tied around her waist, keeping it narrowed like a corset, with strands passing under her crotch and disappearing into her pussy. She must have felt it on her clit with every step that she took. Her ankles were hobbled, not with chain but with more rope, and as far as I could see there was no metal anywhere on her body.

Her bottom, like her breasts, was also unnaturally rounded, and I wondered whether she could feel the implants when she sat down. The overall effect was a caricature of a very curvaceous woman; more a cartoon than serious sketch. Her face was, however, very different. Although her mouth was large and her lips full, she looked entirely natural, with the slightly weather-beaten appearance of someone who spent a great deal of time outdoors. Her hair was short and black, and her eyes very dark brown.

I immediately liked the look of her. Although a slave in bondage she looked strong and confident; even assertive, and I, along with my three mistresses, were eager to know something of her story. "Was she bimboed before, or after she was enslaved?" asked Tulip. "Can she speak?"

"No," replied Allan, answering the second question first. "And after, of course. Her background's unusual. For reasons that even she doesn't understand, she agreed to become the third wife of a middle-easterner, and to move to his very conservative little emirate. I understand we're in the record-breaking business here, and she set a new one- just a week- for time between her wedding and her conviction for adultery. She was sentenced to be stoned, but sold to an agent who passed her on to me. I have to say that she's been very cooperative; virtually a tabula rasa. A death sentence has that effect on people."

I noticed that Bimbo's face was as blank as she could make it. With him talking about her in her presence she could not show even the slightest sign of displeasure or dissent, but to smile would have made her look imbecilic. Masters and mistresses conversed freely in front of their slaves; it was one of the ways in which they signalled their difference in status. I was no closer to knowing what a gay man wanted with a female slave, but I was about to learn.

"She was in the clinic last week, having her twat tightened and a ring and vibrator installed. She needed a few days to recover, so they sent her to me, but she's fully functional now. It's safe to leave her with Tits. She'll enjoy that, but I'll rope her first."

It took me a moment to realize that "her" was me. It soon became clear that Allan was an expert rigger; a specialist in rope bondage. My mistresses were expecting to be coached, and had volunteered to be his subjects, but Bimbo and I had to be taken care of first. Working methodically and ensuring that the professor, Lucy and Tulip had a clear view, he replaced my metal restraints with rope. All security protocols were observed; I was chained by an ankle to the floor until I was thoroughly and helplessly bound.

Lucy filmed everything, and even before I got to watch the video I knew that I was a work of fine craftsmanship, if not art. Unlike Bimbo's, my arms were kept straight behind my back; my wrists not crossed, but parallel, with bindings around them and between in very neat, adjacent rows. The ropes formed loose cuffs that were then cinched taut with vertical windings, and were inescapable, but did not cut off my circulation.

The process was repeated above my elbows, and he enlisted Tulip's help in holding them together while he did it. He then added a criss-cross pattern of strands to connect the two bindings, holding my arms close together down my back and forcing me to push out my chest. He then bound my ankles, and my legs above my knees, but left me with the capacity to take very small, shuffling steps. I could not open my knees, so access to my vulva was necessarily restricted. That didn't matter to him, of course, but I noticed that Tulip and Lucy were muttering together.

He left my collar in place, as he did not intend to put rope around my neck. Then he asked my mistresses to watch carefully while he tried several different bindings on my breasts. He began by tying ropes tightly around the bases, forcing them to bulge, almost like Bimbo's but less perfectly round. Then he tried tying them together and hoisting them higher with a rope behind my neck. The final verdict was to leave them free of rope. They were classified, apparently as "big naturals," and looked better unadorned. Asked whether they intended to have them pierced, the women said no, because I would be milked regularly.

Allan confirmed that Bimbo would also lactate, although her production would be limited. "You can't squeeze much milk out of a lump of silicone," he joked. "It's strictly for recreational purposes. Most female slaves are kept in milk, nowadays."

My image of my new world was filling out all the time. Were there really enough slaves in the UK to make a statistical sample, with fashions waxing and waning among their owners? During the conversation with my mistresses he was handling me constantly, pulling at the ropes and examining the marks the way my body was responding to them. I found myself wishing that he was straight. To be mauled as a sex object was what I expected now, but to him I was just a prop for his performance as a ropemaster.

Then it was time for Allan and my mistresses to go elsewhere in the house for their rope bondage workshop. He told me to make my way to one of the sofas and to lie with Bimbo, and spend the next hour or two getting to know her. I understood that he meant knowledge in the biblical sense, since neither of us could speak. "You should learn something from one another," was his parting shot.

I waited until Bimbo was lying full-length on the sofa, propped up by the back so she was on her side, and I sat by her and flopped onto the cushion, still unused to manoeuvring in such restrictive bondage. A few wrigglings and squirmings brought my face up against hers, and with neither of us able to talk there were no preliminaries. Our mouths met immediately, and she seemed, not just responsive, or even enthusiastic, but hungry.

With Bimbo being a recently married- not to say adulterous- woman, I had wondered how she would feel about same-sex snogging, but I was immediately reassured. She had been well-chosen for her role, for she was not just voluptuous, but positively vulpine, and I found my head was being pushed back by her lips, with her tongue thrusting deep into my mouth before mine had begun to respond. I summoned up all my two days' experience of lesbian kissing and pushed back, and soon we reached a kind of equilibrium, our heads rocking and our tongues wrestling for supremacy between our lips.

She was good. She was not just horny, obedient and conscientious. She was a woman who had dedicated her life to debauchery. Lust was her guiding principle, her raison d'être, her calling. Although we were only kissing, I could imagine that she would soon begin to devour me like a praying mantis. I would have happily continued for many minutes- even hours- but I wanted to get to her breasts, and I could already feel them pressing against my softer chest. I broke free and began to worm my way down her body.

I paused when my face was level with her breasts, and began feel them in every way that I could, rubbing them with my cheeks, kissing, and sucking them, exploring the nipples, the surrounding areolas, and the plain tit-flesh. As I expected, they felt much more "rubbery" than mine or those of my mistresses. When dented they bounced back very quickly, and I could imagine them serving as shock-absorbers if she was negotiating obstacles when blindfolded, or tripping and falling forward.

She moaned and struggled when I sucked her nipples, which I did in turn for at least five minutes. It seemed obvious that, although she had been stuffed with silicon, the tissues around it had been thoroughly sensitized, so her boobs were just as erogenous as mine were becoming. She wriggled as I played with them with my mouth, and I'm sure that she was feeling, just as I was, the ropes moving slightly on our skin. It felt very different from being restrained with chains and cuffs, but for the time being, at least, we were just as securely confined.

Since Bimbo was able to cross her ankles and open her vulva, I was free to give her cunnilingus, which I did until she seemed exhausted, gasping for breath and soaked in perspiration. From my point of view, the most notable thing about her pussy was that her clitoris was ringed. The metal insert was thick and about an inch in diameter, so forcing it through the piercing had caused the bud to swell and bulge through her labia.

I could only wonder what it had felt like when the feeling had returned, assuming that she'd had at least a local anaesthetic. I guessed that it probably made her more sensitive there; she certainly responded when I pulled the ring with my tongue or lips, or twisted it in my mouth. It was easy to work my tongue around it when I was working her up to her successive climaxes, but I wondered whether the usual assumption held; that one should not move too quickly onto the clitoris itself, but work around it first. The ring almost begged to be pulled.

I thought I was probably going to miss out on my share of orgasms, because my legs were bound at the ankles and above the knees, preventing me from opening my crotch. It seemed barely worth the considerable effort of working my way into a position in which she could push her face against it, but I tried anyway, and she could, by pushing hard, just about reach my clit with her tongue. That promised to be very frustrating, as I did not expect to reach a climax that way.

She was, however, very persistent. Starting a bit lower down my thighs, she was able to exploit the slight gap created by the synching of the ropes above my knees, forcing her head into it and working it up to my vulva. No-one could have argued that it was a satisfactory situation; the pressure must have hurt her ears and the ropes were digging into my flesh. There was no question of poking into my vaginal tunnel; she just got her upper lip onto my clit and rubbed as hard as she could, which wasn't very hard. It was just enough, and I had one modest orgasm before the mistresses and Allan returned to find Bimbo struggling to extract her head from its trapped position.

***

At dinnertime I was back in my cuffs and chains, with my mistresses tut-tutting over the marks- resembling tractor tyre tracks- that the ropes had left on my skin, especially where Bimbo had forced my legs against them. She was still roped, and seemed to be in great good humour, and I wondered whether she had been sex-starved in the company of a gay male. I had no idea what his domestic arrangements were. While we were being fed we both listened carefully to the conversation, for it was mostly about us.

The professor seemed sceptical about Bimbo, although she was happy enough to grope and knead her breasts between pushing forkfuls of steak and kidney pie into her mouth. "These are surprisingly tactile," she remarked, 'but surely, the fashion is for more natural girls now. Is Bimbo aimed at a particular market?"

That provoked a lengthy answer from Allan. "You're quite right," he began. "Tits will still look almost natural, if extremely busty, when she's fully grown. She'll appeal to the refined user with a 'back to nature' outlook, who likes really big boobs but wants plenty of flesh all over, especially when cuddling up in bed on winter nights. Bimbo's aimed at a different, cruder kind of lust. There are many men and women who appreciate an out-and-out whore, who has no claim to look natural but is created as a sex object; a toy. She's going for her first rolling gang-bang tomorrow."

I had a vague idea what that was, but I was pleased when Lucy asked for clarification. It could, apparently, take several forms.

"Just four men, this time," replied Allan. "They'll all cum in all her holes and between her boobs. It's necessarily quite slow-moving, and although they'll all have stimulants to reduce their recovery times it'll take at least six hours. She doesn't have much anal experience, so I'll plug her after dinner. Have you done that with Tits? From what you've told me about her, she might be a virgin there."

I was, and they hadn't. The professor explained that they had no immediate plans to expose me to males, and I'd proved able to take a couple of fingers in my bottom. I was having mixed feelings about that. Although his description of a rolling gang-bang sounded daunting, it had set some strange squirmy feelings going between my legs, and I could feel the moisture beginning to bubble out of my slit. The usual tingly feeling in my breasts was intensified as I imagined a succession of cocks being rubbed off between them. Would some be black? I was supposed to be immune, now, to itching and tickling, but I found myself surreptitiously pressing my nipples against the edge of the table. I wasn't surreptitious enough, and was told abruptly to sit up straight.

I was trying to get a look at Bimbo's crotch. She seemed untroubled by the news of her appointment tomorrow, but she was not actually oozing and she looked more subdued than she had been when we sat down. Perhaps it was the evening to which she was not looking forward. I had no idea what was going to happen after dinner, but perhaps she did. In the event we went straight to Tulip's bedroom. The four residents, including me, sat side by side on the bed, all looking expectant while Allan, using rope again, tied Bimbo up between the two posts, as Tulip, using cuffs and chains, had done with me.

The difference was that Bimbo's feet were not on the floor. He made her stand on blocks while he bound her, and removed them afterwards. Her weight was evenly distributed between the ropes that held her four extremities, and he looked profoundly satisfied when he had finished. It was a rigger's tour de force, especially when done single-handed in front of an audience.

While Allan looked pleased with himself, Bimbo looked tense and unhappy. She was breathing hard, but that had nothing to do with any strain imposed by her bondage. She was pulling at her ropes, but I had the impression it was more to distract her than with any hope of loosening or escaping them. She was bound for whipping, and there could be no other explanation. When he'd finished, Allan gave an elaborate bow to all of us, but finished the gesture facing Tulip, who rose to her feet and collected from the cupboard the same single-tail instrument that she had used on me.

Tulip went through almost exactly the same motions, except that Bimbo received ten lashes instead of my twelve. She cried and screamed, but the element of shock was missing, so I had to assume that it was not the first time, although perhaps it was the first time with Tulip. The latter put her back into her task, but all the same she never had to breathe through her mouth.

I had to wonder how many lashes the black woman could administer without the effort showing. I had very mixed feelings about the spectacle. I sympathized with, and almost felt, Bimbo's pain, but the sight of her struggling, stretched-out body was erotic enough to renew the leakage from my vulva. I caught myself almost hoping that I would not have to wait too many days for my next whipping.

Lucy was filming it all, and it probably looked a little different to mine. As Bimbo was hanging in the ropes, she was more stretched, and her only significant movement was the twisting and shaking of her torso. That emphasised the silicone implants, with her boobs reminding observers of well-stuffed bags with melons among the contents.

I noticed that Tulip, although giving her only ten lashes and changing hands after five, seemed to be keeping up exactly the same pace, also seeking to lay an even criss-cross pattern down Bimbo's back. I began to understand that she regarded whipping as a discipline- a sport or an art form- with rules and a scoring system that were probably shared by some kind of club or league of which she was a member. The others were probably only spectators, although Allan's role was unknown.

That became clearer in the following hour. At first he sat idle, while the mistresses all in turn fingered Bimbo as she hung between the posts. I knew from experience what the effects would be, but she experienced it three times, and I fancied that I could see the waves of feeling coursing up and down her body. I might have been imagining that, or perhaps it was the effect of her muscles spasming in turn. Her principal movement, of course was the twisting of her upper body, with the consequent effect on her breasts.

Much to my surprise, I was given a turn at the end. What I could do, in my restraints, was very limited, and I almost fell twice on my way from the sofa to the posts, alternately hopping and shuffling. When I got there I could only kiss her mouth and breasts, which she seemed to appreciate, but then I tried to go lower. I lurched down onto my knees without having any idea how I would get up again, If that sounds foolish, readers will perhaps understand that it was my fourth day in bondage, but only my first with my legs tied close together.

I could really only reach her stomach, and then I formulated a plan to turn myself right over, lie down and raise myself between her legs. That proved far beyond my capabilities, but I heard Allan suggesting to my mistresses that they should help, and both Lucy and Tulip came over to hold me up, the latter pushing my face into Bimbo's crotch. Before I made contact I had felt drops fall on me, and seen the moisture on her inner thighs, Then I found myself thrusting my tongue into a gurgling morass which seemed to be defying gravity. I seemed, as it pushed inside, to break some kind of bubble that was holding it in, and within a few seconds her fluids were washing over my face, forcing me to close my eyes.

With hands holding me in place, it was easy to make her cum again, for my predecessors had left her almost fully aroused. I could feel her almost vibrating, and she managed to move enough to spread her ooze all over my face, so I felt the cold of its evaporation as I moved back to my seat, crawling on my bottom this time. Allan immediately began the process of taking Bimbo down and binding her hand and foot, as she had been before. He anointed her with the soothing and healing ointment that had been used on me by Tulip, but left her dripping with sweat.

To my surprise, Allan and Bimbo did not stay the night, but left just before our bedtime. Presumably he did not live far away, and she was smuggled into the back of his little van, still bound and naked. I was sorry to see her go, and sorry that we had been unable to speak to one another. I wondered whether that was a deliberate ploy designed to stop slaves from plotting against their masters and mistresses, or exchanging gossip about them. Time would tell, presumably. I thought that, if I was allowed to go home for long enough, it might be a good idea to learn Morse code.

Just Another Monday

Apart from one vacation spent as a library assistant, I had never had a regular nine-to-five job. I suppose, therefore, that bank holidays should not have meant much to me, but somehow they did. There were always more people about, different sports on the television, and no classes during the university terms. Did sex-slaves have bank holidays? Obviously not, I thought; quite the reverse. Their masters and mistresses were much more likely to be at home, spending longer in bed and expecting full service. They might be having friends around for lunch, dinner or both, and their guests would certainly need relief. Bimbo was going to be gang-banged, and that was probably not unusual.

I slept overnight in the X-position that, I suspected, my mistresses favoured. If I was chained a little way down the bed they could, if they felt the need in the watches of the night, mount my face without causing too much disturbance to the others. The professor would have preferred to put me in another bed, to be visited and used as and when necessary, but that had not happened yet. The others liked to use my breasts as a pillow, and it was just about possible for me to accommodate both Lucy and Tulip.

No-one had said anything about what was going to happen during the day, but I knew it was going to be a bit different when we didn't all go back to bed after the usual breakfast-toilet-enemas-shower sequence. Instead everyone gathered in the main living room, still all naked, and now wearing strap-on penises. My wrists were locked behind my back, as usual, but surprisingly, my ankle irons were not linked at all. My collar was then attached by a long thin chain to the frame of a sofa, thus dashing any hopes that I might have of running off down the road, naked and bound, in the rain that had just begun to pour down.

The back of the sofa pivoted down to make a double guest bed, and I lay there and waited while they circled me like big cats eyeing up their prey. The professor came first, pushing her dildo into my mouth, nudging the top of my throat, and I understood that I was supposed to fellate it. The other two sank onto the other sofa and indulged in a long, open-mouthed kiss. I did my best with the professor's tool, which was pink, veined and very realistic, and I soon has it coated with my saliva.

After the first minute or two I was beginning to detect a vibration, not so much in the dildo as below it, and I was beginning to wonder whether it had other properties. Perhaps it would suddenly squirt pseudo-semen into my mouth, for instance. That didn't happen, and it was only much later on that I learnt about the properties that all three had. The base was shaped in such a way as to push an "egg" into the user's vagina and to press lightly on the clitoral mount, and it incorporated a vibrator that responded to the pressure that was being exerted.

In the mouth, it had a limited but welcome effect. Once she was sure it was ready, however, the professor moved rapidly to the missionary position, and pushed the strap-on into my vagina. There she was able to thrust much harder, and the feeling in her own pussy was much stronger. The manufacturers of the device believed that, with enough experience, both "partners" would be able to cum together, but in this case she was about a minute behind me. By that time, much had changed.

Once securely inside me, the professor gave me a big kiss and then propped herself up with her arms, leaving space for Lucy to mount my mouth in the forward cowgirl position. Tulip was left alone to watch as I was double-teamed, thankful that I was being given the chance to practice with rubber instead of flesh-and-blood. When I was climaxing I did not have to worry about biting the dildo, but I did my best to avoid doing so, nevertheless. Presumably, sooner or later, it would be done with real cocks.

When Lucy bent right down over my face I couldn't see very much, but I could feel the professor's weight shifting, and I know now that she was bending down to push her mouth into the cleavage in front of her, seeking her lover's anus with her tongue. I have no idea whether she found it or not; much depended on the length of her body, for she could not adjust her position on mine.

When the professor had cum- I think twice- and I had done the same, weathering the storm without doing serious damage to the dildo in my mouth, another great change took place. I was pushed over onto my side and the professor moved behind me, pushing her strap-on into my bottom. It was very well lubricated, so it slipped in easily, but it still felt very large, and it dominated my consciousness as Lucy adjusted her position to penetrate my vagina, and Tulip joined us to occupy my mouth.

I had fantasized about being gang-banged, but the perpetrators of my imagination had always been male. I had never seen the point of strap-ons, at least for the wearers, but I didn't know about the eggs and the vibrators. It made sense to have women for my first experience, especially of anal penetration. My mistresses all know that I had never had more than a couple of fingers in there, so they all kept their movements to a minimum, pushing gently and enjoying the vibrations in their vulvas.

As for me, it certainly hurt when the professor began to sodomize me, but it settled down to a feeling of slight strain, of fulness, such as sometimes result from passing very large stools. It did not remove the pleasure I was getting from the dildo in my vagina, but it did modify it. The two, both of them vibrating slightly, interacted through the layer of tissue that separated them, and although my orgasm was slow to come, especially with the additional distraction of the one in my mouth, I could begin to see how they would work together when my asshole was more used to heavy traffic.

The three women did two full circuits of my body, and so took virtually all morning. I felt some soreness when I was sitting down at lunch, and Tulip asked me whether I would prefer to kneel on the floor, but Lucy brought a cushion and I chose to remain where I was. There was some discussion of the morning's performance, and I was interested to find that they all saw the gangbang as a training exercise undertaken largely for my benefit. They were not entirely sanguine about the outcomes, as they viewed their dildos as being relatively narrow in girth, compared to well-endowed male's full erection.

After lunch, they strapped me down on a table and experimented with a range of butt plugs. I understood from their conversation that they had been delivered before the morning gangbang, so they had known in advance that anal sex would be a strain. I wondered why they were in such a hurry. I hadn't caught any hint that they were planning an early encounter with males, but I had to suspect they were trying to break another record.

Best Laid Plans

Tulip left the house in the mid-afternoon, to keep an appointment with a potential recruit who needed to meet outside working hours. Lucy and the professor were left, first to enjoy my body and one another's, then to feed me a Thai banquet, and then to sit me down to lecture me on my future. First, the professor put the question. "Do you understand that you're now our property? Nod or shake your head."

For a moment the air seemed to crackle with tension. What would they have done if I had shaken my head? They acted as if that was a possibility, but for me it never was. How could I have a real choice, when I was bound hand and foot, and rendered unable to speak? Under different circumstances I would have bombarded them with questions. Probably, I would have voiced my hopes and fears, and tried to impose conditions on their ownership of my body.

I don't think that, whatever the answers, I would have shaken my head. During the weekend I had experienced more sexual pleasure than I had in the whole of my previous life. There had been pain, of course, but it had always been followed by pleasure that was even more intense. Certainly, there had been times when I would have liked my arms to be free, but I still had to admit that bondage suited me. I had no decisions to worry about, and that applied to everything, from how hard to pinch a nipple to which career to choose. I nodded, and the two mistresses visibly relaxed. A few seconds later, Lucy was tapping her phone, and I guessed that she was sending the good news to Tulip.

Lucy and I then curled up together on the sofa for a nap, while the professor went off to "get things ready," presumably for whatever was going to happen to me tomorrow. About an hour later, Tulip returned home and took me up to her private room/den/dungeon. She stripped, kissed me, gave me her nipples to suck, and made me give her cunnilingus. She seemed to think that the others had given me sexual relief, and she ignored my futile attempts to convey my own neediness.

I was half-expecting to hang between her whipping posts, but instead she chained me face-down onto a padded massage table. It was only wide enough for one person, so I could not be spread out in an X-shape. My wrists were locked to a single chain at the top end, and my ankles to each end of a spreader bar that rested on the surface, my feet sticking out to each side.

The table was more sophisticated than it looked. The surface looked smooth, but it was stretchy, and when I lay on it the foam underneath conformed to my shape. I was not, therefore, lying on my breasts, and she produced a little cushion to support my face, whether I looked to either side or straight ahead. Then she gave me a fifteen-minute massage, using plenty of oil that was scented with Ylang Ylang. She kneaded my flesh very firmly, so I had no choice but to concentrate on what she was doing.

She worked her way right down to my feet, avoiding any contact with my plugged anus or my vulva underneath, but lingering over my buttocks. As she finished I was feeling very horny indeed, and I knew that fluid was dripping from me onto the table. I tried to relax completely and closed my eyes, focussing entirely on the fingertips that were digging into my butt-flesh.

I think I was in danger of dropping off to sleep, despite my semi-aroused condition. Certainly, she must have stopped massaging me for at least ten seconds without my noticing anything. Then I felt a sudden and sharp impact across both my buttocks, and knew instantly that I was being caned. The level of pain was probably about the same as that inflicted by the whip, but as she hit me again and again I realized it was different in character. She was not using quite as much force, but the wood drove deeper into the soft, fatty mounds of my bottom. Because it was thinner than the leather tail, and harder, I was convinced that it was doing more damage, although I felt confident that she would not draw blood.

After six strokes of the cane she did not change hands, but walked around the table to strike from the other side. I expected, and got, a dozen strokes, and took the last few with my eyes screwed shut and my hands pulling hard on the chain between my wrists and the end of the table. It helped to know how long it would last; was fairly sure that she would not change sides for a second time. When it stopped the heat began to spread through my body, and as she began to massage the soothing ointment into my buttocks she let her fingertips stray into the crack between them, and underneath to my vulva.

After a few minutes I was pulling my chain for a different reason; because she was subjecting me to a long series of all-consuming orgasms. It was the first time I'd experienced anything like that while lying prone on a firm, if padded, surface, and I was left winded and feeling battered. It was if, I imagined, I had experienced a head-on car crash and been saved by the airbag, although nothing like that had ever happened to me.

Tulip spent a little while pulling and pushing at my butt plug, as if she was unfamiliar with such devices and did not wholly agree with their use. Then she pulled up a chair and spoke to me. "Your bottom is well marked," she said in a very matter-of-fact tone. "I'm going to make sure that you always carry some sign of my ownership of you, in your flesh. I'm afraid you'll be a bit sore for a few days, despite the ointment. Now I'm going to do the formal marking."

I had no idea what that meant, but there was nothing I could do but wait and see. At least there was no brazier in the room, or anything that looked like an electrically heated branding iron. She made sure my feet were well secured to the spreader bar and that my soles were clean, She wiped them with tissues impregnated with isopropyl alcohol, and affixed to each a ready-made pad which must, I assumed, have been delivered that day, despite its being a bank holiday. As she went along she explained what she was doing. I did not need to know, of course, but perhaps she liked talking, and perhaps she thought I should know that my marking would be permanent.

Rather like an old Polaroid film, the self-adhesive packages released a cocktail of chemicals onto the skin of my soles. There was acid to etch the necessary information, and that was what made the permanent marks- including two QR codes- that were clear enough to be photographed and recognized by a computer. That process would have been very painful, but the package included a local anaesthetic, plus antiseptic and rapid healing agents.

For a couple of days I would have to wear soft slippers, and I was obliged to show my soles to anyone who asked to see them. It was taken for granted that only those in the know would make such a request, but if I was kidnapped by a foot-fetishist I could explain that they denoted membership of a very secret society. In a way, that was true.

Despite the anaesthetic, the process was not painless, and for about fifteen minutes I experienced a sharp, burning sensation in both my feet. With nothing further to do, Tulip tried to comfort me by fingering my pussy, reaching her hand under my crotch to get as far as my clitoris. It helped, but I did not cum again. When the pain subsided she removed the packages and replaced them with pads that contained mostly painkiller, with some antiseptic and healing agents added. I would wear those overnight, until my morning shower.

The etching of my feet did not in itself take me by surprise. I had read about the process in porn novels, and was learning every day that they contained as much truth as fiction. Some owners of slaves saw their brands as objects of pride and beauty, to adorn a thigh, a buttock or even a breast. In Pauline Réage's Story of O (1970) the heroine was branded on both buttocks, the hot irons held against her skin for no fewer than five seconds. I was fortunate, I suppose, that my owners wanted my body to be free of visible and permanent marks.

Afterwards, Tulip moved me to her bed, with my wrists once more behind my back and my ankles hobbled. On the very soft mattress my bottom felt tender but did not hurt all the time, and she was freer than my mistresses usually were with the wine. She made sure that I remained compos mentis enough to understand what was, in effect, a briefing for the next few days, delivered mostly with her hand between my legs, just nudging into my slit.

"You are indeed going home tomorrow," she told me, "but you will remain under our control, and we will always know exactly where you are. You will observe certain protocols that will be written down for you, and which can be modified at any time via the messaging service that we use. You will be provided with all the equipment you need to carry out our orders, including an enema machine, a douche and a chastity belt. Your sex life when you're on your own will be strictly regulated. You will be permitted enough orgasms to maintain your mental health."

She paused to drink some wine and to give some to me, and I wondered whether she had finished. I wanted to know when I would be allowed to return to them, or what other services would be required of me. She took her time, but eventually continued.

"I expect you'll be back here at the weekend, but you'll have visitors during the week, and you'll serve them as they require. Obviously we'll warn you when one of us, or anyone else, is coming, and you'll have instructions on how to prepare. I expect that very little will be completely new to you. You'll have read stories about live-at-home sex slaves, and most of them are based on real events. We won't be filming your every move, however. Most of our people appreciate privacy. You'll be told whether and where to place the cameras we leave with you."

It was increasingly obvious to me that my mistresses were working their way through a well-worn protocol, doubtless modified to suit the requirements of the moment. The question in my mind was; how predestined was my fate? Did my mistresses already know what my long-term future would be? Would my behaviour change it in any way?

It was a night of passion with Tulip, and I don't think I got more than about four hours' sleep. In the morning, however, she left early, and Lucy and the professor attended to my breakfast and ablutions. I still had no real idea what was going to happen, and exactly when, but I was looking forward to a bit more freedom. People have arms and legs for a reason, and after four-and-a-half days, constant bondage can begin to seem oppressive, however sexually charged the situation.

It was frustrating, therefore, to be left bound on the sofa in the living room all morning. The professor went out on some unspecified errand, but I guessed it probably had something to do with the university. Lucy was pottering about, doing some gardening and some work on her laptop, but just before lunch she came to me for cunnilingus, and when she had climaxed she fingered me to an orgasm.

She then fed me my lunch, saying virtually nothing that was unrelated to the food. Twice I attempted to speak, and although my range of sounds was larger I could still not enunciate words. "Don't strain yourself," she told me. "It'll be tonight, or tomorrow morning, before it comes back properly. You'll be home by then."

That was reassuring. At the end of the meal Lucy was getting more affectionate, kissing me repeatedly and squeezing my breasts. "I've never met anyone who took so well to bondage," she murmured, almost into my mouth. "You'll be a bondage slave, spending your life in ropes and chains, always helpless. I almost envy you."

That was less reassuring, I suppose, and tugged at my locked wrists to remind myself of the freedom that I had lost. Tulip wanted me to be her painslut, but the professor had not specified any kind of role. Perhaps I would be her anal slave? My bottom twitched on the plug, feeling the hardness of the metal against my sphincter muscle. I wondered whether I could have expelled it, but did not dare to try. They had told me that a locking version was available, and in a way I was surprised that they hadn't used that straight away. Lucy was kissing me again, and I was lost in those broad, luscious lips.

No Place Like Home

Vivian- the professor- returned just as Lucy and I were deeply immersed in a long snogging session. Although it was a disappointment to have to separate from that adorable mouth I was relieved to get off my sore bottom. It was time, apparently, to take me home, and there was surprisingly little ceremony about it.

Their little collection of vehicles included a small van with seats- but no windows- in the back, and for me that was another clue. It was white with the livery of a company (which I later learnt was fictitious) that transported urgent and perishable medical supplies. The implication was that it carried body parts for transplants, and it was unlikely to be stopped, or its progress hindered, by the police. I was to be transported, still naked and helpless, in the back, concealed by a fabric screen behind the front seats. I was travelling blind, but in this case it didn't matter, as I knew the area well enough and we did not have far to go.

I eventually realized that, during a weekend sortie, one of my mistresses must have reconnoitred my house. The professor, who was taking me home, knew where it was, how to get there, and that it would be possible to unload me in total privacy. The place was unusual, situated on a private estate and in a woodland clearing, so most of the inhabitants of the neighbourhood were probably ignorant of its existence. I had always appreciated the seclusion, although with no car I had to cycle to the university in all weathers.

The cottage was small- little more than a "two up, two down," although it had a cellar and a garage. It had a small garden, and the whole plot, including the drive, were surrounded by a thick hedge, with tall remote-controlled gates to admit vehicles. The landlord had told me, when I viewed the house, that it had been renovated for a family member who was virtually a recluse, and who had since died. Because of the isolation, the dated furnishings and the general air of gloomy mustiness (soon dispelled by keeping the windows open) the rent was very reasonable.

The professor was able to help me out of the van and lead me, taking short, shuffling steps, into my house and living room. There I expected her to release me from my bonds and take her leave, although I would have been happy to eat her out to send her on her way happy. Instead she made me lie face-down on the sofa, It was time for another "first," as she pulled my ankles up and locked the hobble-chain to my wrists, forming a strict hogtie.

Readers might be surprised to know that they hadn't done that to me over the four days of the bank holiday weekend, and it was a kind of helplessness that was subtly different to anything I had so far experienced. Stretched out on the bed, or between poles, I had certainly been immobilized, but by attachment to inanimate objects. Now I was attached to myself, and my mind began to dwell on other forms of bondage that I'd seen on the internet; bodies contorted and confined in masses of chain but without any external attachments. My mistresses had only just begun to plumb the depths.

While I lay adjusting to my new situation, the professor made a quick but thorough inspection of the whole house, including the garage, the cellar and the garden. I was aware, then, that she was talking to someone on her 'phone, but I could not hear what was being said. Finally she joined me on the sofa for about an hour, first caressing my breasts, then kissing me, and then making me give her cunnilingus. That was easier than it sounds. She just spread her legs with my face above her crotch, and gravity helped me to drop onto her clit.

To enable me to get my tongue deep into her vagina she would have had to raise her bottom, possibly by putting a cushion underneath. She was content, on this occasion, to have me work on her bud, and I was ideally placed to suck on it, to lick around it, and finally to put the weight of my head behind my tongue and lips, just as she was starting to cum. Then it was a bouncy ride, but she used her hands to keep me in place, pushing me down when she wanted more pressure.

She didn't bother to wipe my face afterwards, but she did give me some water to drink through a straw. I waited in vain to be released, even from the hogtie, realizing now that my homecoming was not going to be what I expected. Nor could I ask her about it, for my voice showed no sign of returning. The professor was getting ready to leave, but before she did so she sat down again to have a word with me.

"I know you didn't expect to be left here hogtied," she told me, "but it'll be for no more than a few minutes. You're having a visitor, and you'll be excited to know it's a man. He'll probably expect you to give him a blowjob, but he'll give you a few treatments as well. He's quite a talkative chap, so you might learn some things that'll help you in the future."

She kissed me briefly and left. I was not exactly panicking, but I was very anxious. To be left alone in bondage was always a serious thing; to be hogtied was surely a breach of any safety protocols that existed. I did not know, of course, whether or not they did exist. I had a hazy idea of some shadowy body that supported my mistresses and others, but whether it imposed rules and regulations, I had no idea. In retrospect, I'm not at all sure that I was ever really alone. The walls of the cottage were very thick and the windows were triple-glazed, so not

hearing a car starting meant nothing. I suspect now that she met the newcomer on my drive, and lingered to talk to him for a few minutes. It is also obvious in retrospect that some radical rethinking of my future had taken place in the few hours before, and I have never known who was responsible for that.

Hogtied on my own sofa, I just tried to relax, with limited success. I would have liked a few days of freedom, but I now understood that they would be denied to me. I was not overly concerned to learn that my first visitor would be male. I did not think that men were more cruel than women, and whoever it was, he probably be less so than Tulip with her whip and her cane. I was already resigned to inevitability of my body being used for men's pleasure. For me the world was no longer divided into men and women, but between free and unfree persons. I was not sorry to be one of the latter, and felt a sudden frisson of excitement as I heard the front door open and close, and could just about hear footsteps crossing the hall and entering the living room. Then he was with me, and I was struggling to get a good look at him.

He was older than I expected, looking about fifty, but handsome and distinguished, so he carried his years well. I liked his face; clean-shaven with flashing eyes and a ready smile to his full but pale lips. He was also getting undressed, revealing a slim, athletic body that was, to my surprise, entirely hairless.

The few men I'd seen naked in my past life had sported thick bushes of pubic hair, concealing the roots of their penises and making it difficult to assess their exact size. This one was fully visible and very erect, and from my limited knowledge of such things I guessed it to be slightly above average in length, and of average girth. His hardness I ascribed to some kind of mechanical or chemical assistance: now I know it was both. Then, in my naïveté, I underestimated the time it would take for the sight of a nude and bound woman, less than half his age and with very large breasts, to have that effect on him.

He undressed quickly, but once sitting with me on the sofa he seemed in no hurry. He remained in my line of sight; whether deliberately or not I could not possibly tell. I was on my side by then, for although the professor had left me lying on my stomach, feet and hands above me, I had managed to flop over to improve my view of the room and take the weight off my breasts. He stroked my face gently and outlined my lips with the forefinger of one hand, and then he began to explore my breasts.

With one resting on the other, I wasn't at all sure they were being shown to best advantage, but he seemed very interested in them. He lifted the upper (left) boob and held it between both his hands, kneading it slowly and carefully, and finally pinching the nipple. He seemed to get something out of it, but he said nothing and I knew it was too soon for it to be drinkable milk. Then he held the upper boob up with one hand and turned the lower one with the other.

He seemed very interested in the way the two globes of flesh interacted with one another. I could understand that mammary firmness could be assessed by the extent to which the upper boob either rested on, or wrapped itself around, the lower. Bimbo's had been at the former extreme, but hers were almost self-supporting even when she was lying on her side. Mine were about half-way between; firm but not unnaturally so, and I gathered that the aim was to keep them that way.

Perhaps the most remarkable thing about those few minutes was that I was not having a panic attack. I was naked and very strictly bound, with a man who was a complete stranger, his hands on the more private parts of my body and his penis hard and ready. I could feel an enhancement of the usual prickly feelings in my chest, but what I felt most was anticipation. I didn't think that his visit was going to be brief.

Since with me hogtied, his option were limited, he chose intermammary for his first relief, but he introduced some lubrication by licking the inner surfaces of my breasts, tweaking both my nipples as he did so. Then he moved up my body, placed his shaft in the cleavage, and thrust into the tunnel that he made by pressing both my breasts together.

I would obviously have preferred him to release enough of my bonds to have vaginal sex, but I was still surprised by how much I enjoyed it. The episode made it more obvious than it had been before that my breasts were more sensitive than before, as well as significantly larger. There wasn't much I could do to cooperate, although I tried to reach my head forward to put my lips against his body as he moved up and down mine. He gripped my boobs firmly but did not dig his fingertips into my flesh, and I could just about see the tip of his penis popping up from between them with every upward thrust.

I did not expect him to take very long, and I had assumed that he'd chosen intermammary for his initial relief because it guaranteed quick results. He did not rush it, however, and it was about five minutes before he spurted; his jism landing on my throat, chin and mouth. I had never allowed any boyfriend to cum during fellatio, so I deliberately let some of the drops inside, and licked them off my lips. I wanted to be used to it when he used my mouth, and I didn't find it unpleasant. I also hoped he would get an extra kick out of watching me relish his semen.

I got a further taste when he made me lick him clean afterwards. There was, actually, little or nothing left, but he seemed to like being in my mouth as he went soft. I was fairly sure that was voluntary, and that he had the means to remain erect if he wanted. He had decided, however, that he wanted to both talk to me and administer some treatments, so afterwards he released the hogtie- which was a relief- and sat me up against the back of the sofa. My wrists were still locked behind my back, and my ankles were still joined.

At first he said almost nothing to me. He fetched a glass of water with a straw, and told me to drink it. Then he brought a black bag, resembling those used by doctors, and gave me several painless injections. A syringe gun, held to my right buttock, then gave me a tremendous jolt, and he explained that I now had a tracker implant deep in the fatty tissue of my bum. Perhaps he thought I would hardly notice when he held a smaller device to my throat. I think I knew immediately that he was renewing the treatment that prevented me from speaking. Having finished his chores, he became more communicative.

"I suppose you were expecting more freedom, now you're back at home," he said, and I was brave enough to nod, probably looking mildly indignant. I had definitely been given that impression.

"Decisions have been made," he went on. "Records have been broken. Your mistresses have decided that you should go on breaking records. Protocols will be devised to make sure that you do not lose muscle tone or joint functionality, but basically, you will be in bondage for the rest of your life. You will die in chains."

At that point I shivered and shook so obviously that he noticed, and placed a hand on my thigh, as if to calm me down. "You're probably wondering how long that will be," he went on. "Sixty more years, perhaps? You're also wondering how it could possibly break any records. Surely other slaves had lived and died in chains? Do we even know? What about the Romans, or the ante-bellum Americans?"

He paused then, as if to let me consider the possible answers to his rhetorical questions. Then he continued, in a very even, matter-of-fact tone. "None of those people had the treatments from which we now benefit. You probably think I'm about fifty, but I'm actually sixty-five, and I'll look very much the same in another twenty years. You might have read in The Bible that The days of our years are threescore years and ten, but you can forget about that now. Expect to serve in bondage as a sex-slave for a hundred and fifty years, and be useful in other ways for another twenty or thirty. We don't know exactly how long it'll be, but we do know that it'll be a record."