The Property

There is no name for the place. No sign hung over the brown, steel door. In keeping with its theme of anonymity there isn’t even an address number. A shiny speaker grill stands out amongst the drab colors.

I press the call button twice. They never answer the first time; some kind of dominant ritual. “Yes?” a metallic voice comes back.

“237651, Bishop,” I say.

The speaker buzzes in acceptance of my assigned password. In contrast to the stingy front porch, I step into a gaily-decorated hallway. Plush carpet, tender scent from a potpourri basket, soft overhead lighting which accents various paintings on both walls. All the art depicts the same motif; women bound, whipped and sexually used. I’ve never managed to critically assess any of them, my burning desire always overtakes me and shoves aside all reason.

A tall, good-looking woman comes through the nearest door. Early fifties perhaps. Germanic features, dark blonde hair done up to reveal a graceful, swan neck. Red silk dress that drops below her knees. No matter what time I show up; morning, noon or night, she’s always the one who greets me. Fresh, alert. Domineering. The iron fist in a velvet glove. She smiles.

“Good evening, young madam. You have decided, yes?”

My silence and bowed head is all the answer I can manage.

“Excellent.” Red Silk nods once and takes me by the hand. She leads me down the hallway to the third door on the left. “The attendants will be with you soon. While you wait, it might be wise to use the toilet.”

Her orders are always gift wrapped as suggestions. Even before she locks the door from the outside, I am hiking up my short skirt and sit on the commode in the corner. It doesn’t take long—a sign of my nervousness. Soon, I am up, pacing a tight circle.

How long have I known about this place? How long before I found the courage to come here? Two months, three? Who knows? Whispered titillations from friends allowed me to glean a general idea of this location. Then, a chance encounter at a party with one who’d been inside. A hastily scribbled note with a description of the door, and a signed referral slipped into my hand. At times I would drive by, my car at a crawl, as I circled the block three, four times, always telling myself I’d stop on the next go round. Finally, one night, I did. I petitioned for entrance and have been drawn back ever since, despite how they treat me. On my last visit I was given a proposition from Red Silk and one week to think about it. I knew then what my answer would be. Nothing has happened to change it.

Two attendants enter, a man and a woman. They act like they’ve been through this a thousand times before—alert to their job but clinical, interacting more with each other than with me. They may tell me to lift a leg or lower my head to make their job easier, but that is all.

My clothes are removed and hung on a steel bar over the commode. The man stands behind me and holds my shoulders so I may keep my balance. I step into a pair of stiletto boots, which are actually part of a skin tight leather suit. The leather is pulled up my thighs, over my hips. They direct my arms into two sleeves and the leather comes over my shoulders. All the time they’re talking about the latest movie, hit song or what to do after work.

A zipper slides slowly from just below my waist to halfway up my neck. I barely hang on to my self-control. I want to have them throw me down, the woman attendant pin my arms while the man takes me. Please, please, do it.

The woman senses my plight. “This one is hot.”

“Is she?” The man places his hand on my crotch. His fingers push past the slit in the leather suit. I am wet like a river.

Laces through small, evenly spaced rings on the sleeves of the suit weld my arms together behind me. I recall the pain when they first bound me like this. After all my visits, it’s no longer a problem.

The woman holds up a pump gag. As she tests it, the gag inflates to the size of a grapefruit in her hand. She turns a small knob and it goes flat. I’ve been silenced before, but not like this. Doubt fills me. I pull back my head.

“I don’t have time for games,” she says. The man holds my head and the limp rubber balloon is shoved in my mouth. A few pumps and my orifice is jammed.

A leather helmet encases my head. The gag hose is fed through an opening for the mouth and dangles against my chest. Twin little tubes fit perfectly in my nostrils to insure a clear air supply. Two pinprick holes artificially narrow my sight to tunnel vision. My dark hair spills out from an opening just above the rear laces. The man tightens them, jerking my head back with each tug.

A thick collar with many rings encircles my neck and is locked to the helmet in back. Wide leather straps wrap around my upper body and buckle tightly in place. Both attendants’ hands run over my new skin, smoothing out any wrinkles, adjusting my breasts to a pleasant arrangement. My hardened nipples rub against the teeth of the zippers that run diagonally across each one. I squeal inside my helmet but neither attendant cares. In fact, they make sure my nipples press right against the metal teeth.

The woman clips a leash to my collar and leads me out, past more doors where I faintly hear others being prepared or perhaps coming back from who knows where.

Sobs pass through the last door on the right. Not of grief or sorrow, but of release. I cried after my first time too. The tears burst forth and Red Silk wiped them away without a word, her sympathy all in her hands. Is she in there now, wiping away the tears again? Or does the crier have her own version of Red Silk? We move on and the sobs fade.

The hallway curves to the right. At the end is a pair of dark oak doors, figures of bound women carved into them. Red Silk waits.

I am surprised. Red Silk sees me only when I arrive and leave. But then, this night is different.

The attendant hands my leash to Red Silk who gives me a look of approval. “You’ve been needing this a long time. When I first met you, I knew where you’d end up.”

The doors glide open, the wooden figures part in welcome to their bound sorority.

My increasing heat mixes with confusion at Red Silk’s words. She doesn’t turn to check on me, the leash in her hand her only acknowledgement of my presence. Our twin steps echo in the hallway.

Instead of stopping at what I call “the lobby”, where the doms gather and one selects me, Red Silk leads me on, deeper into this secret realm. My pace slows in uncertainty but without missing a step herself, Red Silk tugs on my leash. I stumble forward, a leather robot who, for a moment, isn’t sure of its new programming and dutifully fall back into step.

We pass through a heavy curtain into a wide, circular room. I tilt my head back. A high, domed ceiling rises to twenty feet at its apex. From the center a black, steel cage hangs empty.

“Bring it down,” Red Silk orders and the cage descends.

“A special night for you,” she says to me. “You’re going to be the jewel in the crown.”

I scream inside my hood. No, no! I didn’t come here for this. Not to be viewed as a museum piece. I want action!

Red Silk gives a short laugh. The devil herself can read my thoughts. “What we want isn’t always what we need.”

Two pairs of strong hands grab me from behind and I’m forced into the cage. Four steel bars form the support for two steel plates welded on the floor of the cage. My feet are placed on the widely spaced plates. Steel bands, also welded to rigid bars, encircle my ankles and thighs. My collar is removed but another one of steel, attached to the cage behind me, surrounds my neck. Within its unforgiving restriction, I can bend my head forward only slightly before the hard edge meets my chin.

Red Silk gives a nod and the cage ascends. It swings a little in response to my struggles but that is all. The steel bands hold me tight, the leather encases me, my mouth is useless to voice any protest.

Large equipment is set up below. A torture rack, two spanking horses, another, smaller earthbound cage and several whipping posts. People start to arrive. Men dressed in tuxedos, women in evening gowns, and other women who wear only cuffs, ropes and blindfolds. The clothed people revel in the wealth of options as to what they can do to their victims. Then they look up and delight crosses their faces. A few steps nearer the center of the room, their eyes upturned and I lose sight of them as they look up at my exposed cunt.

Inexhaustible cries of wretched, whipped females float up to me, like prayers to a god who will not, or cannot, intercede on their behalf. The cage slowly rotates and I watch more than one bound slave made to sexually satisfy her master or mistress. Hunger and frustration grows with each act I witness.

Red Silk is down there too, now wearing a long black cape. She leans back in a chair and spreads her legs. A master commands his slave to please her. Red Silk wraps her hands around the slave’s head, drawing her down into her beauty. She looks up at me, a knowing half smile on her lips. As she achieves climax her eyes close and her mouth opens in silent satisfaction.

Let me down, let me down! I want to shout. Tears spill inside my hood, wetting the leather against my cheeks. My nostrils fill also, threatening to cut off my air supply. I force myself to remain calm. They can’t leave me up here forever. But it seems like forever as the crowd continues to mingle and play amongst themselves.

The cage lurches, then begins a slow descent. Masters, mistresses and slaves peer at this faceless dark angel who has come into their midst. Red Silk is there also, one hand on her hip like an arrogant queen. A small semi-circle of people stand around her, like a royal court.

“I know this one has been lonely. Put her on the triangle,” Red Silk says.

The steel bands are removed and I am escorted to a spot near the curved wall. Through the tiny holes of my hood I see what Red Silk means by the “triangle”.

Awaiting me is a large, padded wooden frame, nearly waist high. Three joined beams create the triangle effect. The support legs angle down and outward, giving the thing rigid stability. Leather straps hang at strategic locations to secure multiple sacrifices.

Already affixed to it are two other women, clad in leather like myself, cunts open. But their mouths are free so they may mewl or whimper at will and their helmet eyeholes are not small like mine. I have seen them from above, but no one has touched them yet, except with whip or paddle. When their tormentors walked away, the women had called to them to come back to finish the job, but their pleas fell on deaf ears. They were made to wait for me.

I bend over the last, vacant spot. My legs are pulled apart, strapped to the support beams at the thighs, calves and ankles. Another strap across the back of my neck forces my head down to view between my legs. My pink flesh is thrust out, exposed. My cunt lips drip with anticipation. For all intents and purposes I am just a cipher. No name, no face. Just another cunt. Open, wet. Hungry for cock.

People mill behind me. A hand or two tests my readiness. A finger travels up to lubricate my asshole with my own juices.

Several zippers sound at once and soon I get what I came for, as do the other two women. Their moans are punctuated by short pauses of gasping breath when they have no one inside them. Because of my gag, I can only manage deep-throated growls.

I take four cocks in a row. I’m certain of the number not just because of their different sizes, but how each one strokes me. They fill me beyond my capacity and I watch the overflow of their essence drip to the floor. Each attempts to extinguish my sexual fire, but instead they only fan the flames. I need more.

The two women who were here before me are taken away, replaced with two new eager holes. The one on my left is silent while she is strapped down. Perhaps this is her first time here and fear of the unknown renders her mute. The other one moans. Not in pain, but in hope of fulfilling an urgent need too long denied.

The next round starts and I’m taken up the ass twice, my cunt once, then my ass again. Soon, there is little difference between the two, both are wide open, drip with cum and beg for more. But then comes a sudden change.

“Turn it around,” Red Silk commands.

The straps come off and I face outward on my knees. A spreader bar is fixed between my thighs.

I twist my head around to find Red Silk, my anchor and tormentor, but I can’t see her. Her red nailed fingertips flash past my tiny eyeholes. She turns the silver knob and air hisses as it escapes the pump gag. My jaw is finally able to relax as the deflated balloon is pulled out, wet and shiny with saliva. I swallow to clear my throat, the taste of rubber still on my tongue. Red Silk’s hands return to shove a wide, plastic tube between my teeth, forcing my jaw even wider than before. Snaps around my mouth hole secure the tube in place. My tongue flicks out around the edges, like a creature just awakened from an enforced hibernation. It licks across Red Silk’s fingers as she slips them into my mouth, checking that the passage is clear.

The two other leather-clad women are made to kneel on my left. We form a rough line, myself last.

The masters act like they are well versed with this phase of the evening. One by one, they line up in front of the first woman who delicately licks their cock and balls. When fully erect, they move to the second woman who suckles the cock like a starved animal. Then, with an almost pained expression, they step over to me, holding back their essence until they can thrust their manhoods in my cavity. Some barely make it before their hot liquid jets into the back of my throat. I try to swallow, but it’s difficult with my mouth jammed open by Red Silk’s tube. It doesn’t matter since their combined cum fills me so fast it overflows from the tube and drips off my chin, splashing against the leather on my breasts. The ammonia smell threatens to overcome me, but an occasional, small squirt of water from Red Silk washes it away. So kind of her.

Yet another master steps up to me. The eighth? Tenth? I quail and avert my head.

Red Silk is behind me, her familiar hands take control.

“Reluctant?” The zippers open, my tits pop out, twin peaks against a black background. Red Silk pinches each sensitive nipple, digging in with her nails.

“Just twist these little things,” she advises the waiting men. “She’ll come around quick enough.”

The next man grabs both my tits and I scream. To stop the pain my head swivels up of its own accord to drink his gift. Others follow and, whether I willingly accept them or not, my breasts are fair game for each.

Red Silk remains behind me. When my enthusiasm wanes with each new load shot into me, she tilts my head back, her hand lightly on my throat. Not until she feels my gulps is she satisfied I’ve fulfilled my duty. A quick pat on the head, then I’m readied for the next master. Her hands are a vise.

“It gets a little bashful, but don’t mind,” Red Silk tells one of the masters. “It really wants to please you.” The master doesn’t reply, he simply plugs my cavity.

After endless explosions, I’m allowed to collapse on the floor. The spreader bar is removed. How long I lay there I don’t know. The passage of time is marked by the lessening of sounds around me. People leave and take their party noises with them. A small residue trickles out of the tube and a sticky spot forms on the floor next to my head. A master picks me up and uses my cunt from behind. I am a rag doll but I manage to give him a squeeze. When he cums I don’t make any sound. He drops me on the floor, like a discarded toy.

Through my fog, I slowly become aware of voices above and behind me. Red Silk and a young master discuss my merits.

“I’m certainly impressed with it,” the master says. “Its stamina is a strong point.”

“It’s still raw,” Red Silk replies.

“Refinement will come with time and training.”

“I don’t know. I’ve gotten fond of it.” Red Silk squats next to me and pats my ass. She slides a finger up my cunt. A casual gesture. “All right, provided you bring it back whenever I ask for it.”

“A permanent loan?”

“You could call it that.”

Red Silk removes her finger and two pairs of strong hands bear me away. My exhausted head hangs down, my leaden boots scrape across the floor. Back in the small room, they strip off the leather, cleaning the debris from it. I’m left in a quaking pile in a corner, ignored. The fire inside is quenched. At least for now.

I’m still naked when a man enters the room. He strides in like he owns the place. Tall and severe, he appears in his fifties. An expensive suit compliments his well-proportioned frame. A wide mouth with thin lips holds a lit cigarette. He takes it out with a long exhale, its noxious fumes threatening to choke me. His dark eyes narrow.

“My name is Mr. Palmer. I work for Mr. Rose. If you choose to live at his estate he makes one promise to you: You will be used simply as a piece of entertainment, at his bidding day or night. You’ll be shared with whomever he decides. Like a piece of property. My guess is you won’t settle for anything less. Do you accept?”

I nod my head once.

“Good. I’ll have a car sent to your location tomorrow.” He takes another drag of his cigarette and exits. The nauseating smell hangs in the air.

I sit in my car, the drizzle on the windshield has long since dried away. The myriad tiny speckles obscure my vision of the steel door across the street. The first rays of dawn battle with the grey overcast of clouds and I realize my life has changed. No longer will I decide when to come back here, if at all. That decision now belongs to a man whose willing property I’ve become. One who promises to use me as I demand—his complete slave. What I’ve always sought since I first walked through that steel door.

A car approaches from the opposite direction. I recognize the familiar slow down, the turn of the female driver’s head as she passes the anonymous address. Yet another supplicant.

The drizzle returns. I start up my car and return to my twilight existence. At least for a short time. From now on, nothing will I count as real, unless I am kneeling at his feet.