Рот Уайт - 400 Days of Oppression

Constance nodded.

“And doms. If they pay enough. But don’t worry. Everything that happens here is safe, sane, and consensual. Even though a client pays, that doesn’t guarantee him or her someone to play with. The subs still choose who they want to top them. Sometimes people come here and all they get to do is watch, but they keep coming back.”

I tried to imagine someone paying hundreds? Thousands? To live out their fantasy of dominating a willing slave, only to be rejected by every submissive in the house. I would have been pissed. But I had never been much for spectator sports. I always needed to be in the action. That was the best thing about being a submissive. The true power, ultimately lied in the hands of the bottom, “topping from below” as they say. The dom could not do anything the sub didn’t want or allow to be done to them. And, usually, a good dom did everything the sub wanted, fulfilled every desire. If they were compatible, their fantasies and desires matched. When they didn’t match, there was always a safe word to abort the play. I wondered if I would get a safe word, other than the one Kenyatta had given me.

I put away my simple rags and Constance handed me my new “uniform,” a pair of black latex chaps, a red leather G-string, black, leather, open-cup, under bust, corset that lifted my breasts up to my collarbones. She gave me one of the thick, black collars everyone else I’d seen seemed to be wearing, and a long diaphanous white skirt like the one Constance wore. I wondered if she was similarly attired beneath her skirt.

Constance stood by to help me into my new clothes, applying liberal amounts of talc to keep the latex from sticking to my skin. After squeezing, tucking, and stretching myself into it, I had to admit, I felt sexier than I had in months. My breasts were pushed up, ass pushed out, and waist cinched in. All I needed now was someone to admire it all. Again, my mind drifted to Kenyatta, wondering if he was thinking of me and what he would have thought of me in my new outfit. I felt a pang in the core of me, a twinge in my heart. I missed him so much it was painful to think of him, and so, I determined to put Kenyatta out of my mind for as long as I was a guest in Mistress Delia’s home.

Constance gave me a head to toe appraisal, looking me over with naked admiration, a mischievous smile on her face and a salacious gleam in her eyes.

“You look wonderful. Really, Natasha. You do. I’d fuck you myself if I had a dick.”

I blushed like a virgin schoolgirl and let out an embarrassing high-pitched giggle that left me feeling mortified by my own stupidity.

“Thank you,” I mumbled.

Constance smiled, clapped her hands and rubbed them together then pointed toward the door.

“Time to go to work.”

I looked down at my outfit.

“What am I supposed to do?”

“You’re working in the kitchen with me today. Don’t get used to it, though. Tomorrow you’re out in the field.”

It was an odd outfit for kitchen work, but no odder than Kenyatta insisting that I scrub the floors in the nude. For every bit of historical accuracy Kenyatta insisted on, there was a complimentary dose of his own perversion and fetishism. I had to believe that even his decision to sell me to Delia was another facet of his own fetish. The idea of me at Delia’s mercy was a turn-on for him somehow, an extension of his control. Like the slave I was supposed to be, I was his property to buy and sell. If he didn’t exercise that power, it was wasted, merely hypothetical. In order for it to be real, for this entire experiment to be more than another perverted sex game, Kenyatta had to sell me. I had to be another’s slave. I understood this intellectually, even though it was breaking my heart.

The kitchen was the size of those in the average restaurant, and equally well-equipped. Everything was stainless steel with Sub-Zero and Jenn-Air appliances. In the adjacent dining room, two young doms were drinking wine and talking loudly about the subs they wanted to fuck. Fucking was usually the last thing that went on in these types of places. You played, and if you couldn’t get off by whipping or being whipped, then you didn’t belong. I knew, because I wasn’t sure I belonged. Whippings and paddlings were nice, but I needed a stiff cock or a tongue to get me off.

Constance gave me a big thirty-six quart stainless steel soup pot to cook chili in. I filled it with shredded steak, black beans, and hatch chilies, stirring it with a huge wooden spoon while the two young doms leered at me and the two other girls Constance had brought in to cook with me. One, the head chef, was a tall, voluptuous, Swedish girl with wide hips, large full breasts, and a boisterous smile. She was dressed identically to me, as was the little Filipino girl with the hard, athletic body who was doing all the prep work.

The Swedish woman cooked like she was having the time of her life, that joyous smile seldom leaving her face. Her huge breasts wobbled in the open-cup corset. Her nipples were the size of gumdrops and I couldn’t stop staring at them. They were the most beautiful nipples I’d ever seen.

“You can touch them if you like,” she said, still smiling with her perfect white teeth.

“W-what?”

“My tits. You like them, yes?”

“They are beautiful.”

She turned to face me, thrusting her huge perky breasts toward me. I could see the two men seated in the dining room stir out of the corner of my eye. They were both young Wall Street types. The kind of reckless investors who’d brought the entire economy down risking everything to get rich. They were smug and confident and ogled every woman that passed them. I doubted any of the subs here had allowed either of them near them. Their inexperience radiated like an aura around them. They were the type that went too far and ignored safe words. The kind that would apologize after leaving permanent scars. The kind that secretly hated women. If it weren’t for the S&M scene, they would probably have been beating up prostitutes.

I purposely stood in front of the statuesque Swedish girl, blocking the two amateur dom’s view as I caressed her perfect breasts. They felt marvelous. The woman smiled and nodded as I squeezed her massive mammaries.

“Your nipples are great,” I said.

“You can suck them too,” she replied, nodding enthusiastically.

“Really? We won’t get in trouble?”

“It’s okay. It’s okay.”

I leaned down, still holding one of her huge mammaries in my hands, and sucked on the big pink nipple. I rolled it around with my tongue and flicked it, feeling it stiffen in my mouth. She moaned softly and held the back of my head, pushing my face into her big, soft, tits.

“Bite them,” she said, and I bit down on her nipple. She let out a moan and tilted her head back.

“Harder!”

I bit harder until I felt like I could taste blood.

“That’s good. That’s good!”

She let out a deep, husky moan. Her body tensed and shivered and she mashed my face harder against her breasts until I was practically suffocating. It took me a moment before I realized she’d been masturbating the entire time I’d been sucking her massive tits. Her hand was between her legs, rubbing her clit with quick, aggressive motions, as if she was punishing herself rather than pleasuring. She sighed, a long satisfied sound, then let go of the back of my head. Her body slumped, relaxed, and she smiled down at me, grateful.

“Thank you,” she said then turned and continued working on the slab of beef ribs she was seasoning.

“Don’t mention it,” I replied as I went back to making the chili.

“What’s your name?” I said.

“Suzanna,” she replied, still smiling.

“My name is Natasha. I think you owe me one, Suzanna.”