From mrspraycan.an@edtec.com Sun Jun 29 22:34:51 1997
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Subject: NEW STORY: "The Commissioner's Daughter"/MrSpraycan
From: <mrspraycan.an@edtec.com>
Date: 30 Jun 1997 02:34:51 GMT
--------



Disclaimer: Adults only, whatever that means wherever you are lucky enough
to be reading this. This is fiction. No resemblance to real or historic
persons, places, etc., is intended. The Supreme Court has just upheld my
right to be as nasty and vulgar as I please. Aren't we lucky?

Copyright (c) 1997 by Baton Rouge Thoughtscapes and its author, MrSpraycan,
who chooses to remain 'anon.' Do not repost, store on public sites without
permission or without this notice intact. No commercial use is warranted.
For personal use and/or entertainment purposes.

Note:  An 'older' [3/97, unposted] story. No apologies, but this features
lots of squicky imagery as the various parties here wank and fantasize
themselves purple in the face, etc. Sensitive luhhvvv-bug souls please take
note. This story lives somewhere in the Bermuda Triangle between spanking,
femdom and bondage.
	Feedback is welcomed.

		/aka MrSpraycan



THE COMMISSIONER'S DAUGHTER
by MrSpraycan


Life is like this, pretty much: Sometimes you get what you're looking for.
And other times, you can get lucky and wind up with a lot more. Take my own
case, for example.
	Halliburton Smullet is the name. I'm 25, a recently graduated MA in
English Literature, from a fair-to-middling mid-western college. I don't
want to teach or pursue careers in catering ("extra fries and a Coke with
that, sir?"). I want to write. Not marketing copy, not trade magazine
features on 'How to select centrifugal pumps.' Write. Real stories too, not
newspaper fodder.
	I considered what everybody else I know seems to have done: Move to
New York or Los Angeles and starve to death before getting real. That
doesn't appeal, so I've decided I'm going to make a writing career right
here at home in Erie,  PA. Seems implausible? Well, not in the era of the
Internet, it's not! And I won't have to resort to the petty humiliations of
being a waiter or parking cars to pay my bills in the meantime. I'll tell
people it's the "Venice Beach of the Great Lakes," a sort of Lausanne or
Montreux in the making. Who'll know any better? No one ever visits. And my
folks? I'll tell them I'm writing about centrifugal pumps...

	I post a relatively brief ad, to several Usenet groups. Once it
used to be frowned on, but face it, now they're nothing but ads. I head it
"Editorial Services." Nothing. A few days later I try "Custom Stories
Written." In the ad, I explain my background -- eng.lit., psychology minor,
a lot of experience of dream analysis, etc., in some detail. It's all
relatively honest, though the dream analysis is mostly futzing around with
the jerky, unrealistic sports- and film-star wannabe stuff of my fellow
students. Then I get to my irresistible sales pitch: I offer to write
erotica on demand, and to any taste, within reason. Yes, it's all been done
before. But my rates are competitive: We're talking $100 for a short story,
a bit more for longer ones. It worked for Anais Nin, didn't it?
	I get lots of trawls, a few 'good luck' messages, a few pissy notes
from grouchy old know-it-all losers who couldn't write their way out of a
wet paper bag, and who secretly recognize it. But all this 'nothing much'
doesn't happen real fast. A few weeks later, I am still waiting for my
first 'big deal'.
	Then, I finally get into a 'to-from' dialog that seems productive.
	It is with a woman on one of the big New York ISPs, who signs
herself Layla, and who asks to see some samples. I have a few short
stories, mostly brief fantasies about cheerleaders, my ex-girlfriend Daphne
(don't ask how, but she turned dike on me), and some longer pieces based on
imaginary seductions of some of the better-looking faculty wives. Pretty
hot, in my opinion. Layla isn't quite so impressed, I gather, but is
tolerant and receptive, and we talk back and forth for a while. A bit about
ideas she likes, concepts in clothing, what women think is sexy, what
isn't. If you're old enough to be reading this, you know how it goes.
 	Then, to my amazement, she finally says 'okay' to a $1,000 custom
job, but with one catch. She is going to buy me a ticket -- Greyhound bus,
strictly third class travel -- to NYC, so I can come see her. Because the
story line simply has to be discussed and refined in person. Well, why not?
It has been a long while since I'd visited the city, nearly two years. And
in the back of my mind, I'm wondering, like guys do, "what if she's cute?
What if...?"

	It's a damn long way on a bus, folks. But you do meet quite
interesting people. That's another story for another day, though. I sleep
quite a bit, listen to some tapes, work on a story or two.
	Well, I finally arrive in New York, and take a cab -- no more
public transport, my ass is saying -- to her brownstone building in the
upper East 80s. A ritzy kind of place. There's a doorman in a uniform, a
small elevator. If you're from Erie, places like this seem impossibly
exotic. Almost unreal, tagged with a subliminal 'this is the big time'
message when you see them in sitcoms and detective stories on TV.

	The elevator stops at the penthouse suite level, and I am met by a
gorgeous young woman. Well, I suspect she is gorgeous, anyway. I'm sure my
jaw is hanging open. She is dressed in full Arab babe wear, including the
flowing robes and one of those headdresses, a chador. I suppose what throws
me even more is that it is not in that grungy brown blanket fabric or stark
black, but in a very summery indoor peach and beige combination of colors.
Really rather attractive, almost seductive. How can I tell she is young?
Ah, it's a guess at this stage, based on the eyes, and the way she looks at
me. And, really the general ambience, the way she walks. Older women have a
musty, stiff sort of air to them, I find. I collect my thoughts quickly.
"Madame Layla? Let me introduce myself . . ."
	"No," I am stopped, quite abruptly. "I am not, uh, she. I am not
your client," she corrects me, in an accent so thick and singsongish it is
hard to understand without playing it back in your head. "Follow me,
please."

	I'm led through a lavishly furnished reception room and shown in to
a bedroom. Layla's in bed, nude. Or so I presume, anyway, seeing her bare
breasts above the covers. I'm completely tongued-tied at this, blushing
hotly. It's not what I'm used to. She's fortyish, perhaps my mother's age.
That's a later, tit-shape, dynamics-based guess. But it's hard to say,
because she's quite pretty, not overly enhanced with plastic surgery or
spread-on-with-a-trowel makeup. Not very Eastside, to my way of thinking.
	"Here he is," she greets me. "Right on time. Can I interest you in
tea?"
	Her accent when she speaks: Is it Dutch? Russian? Iranian? I've met
students from all those places, so I'm not theorizing idly. She has an
Asian cheekbone structure, so any of those are real possibilities, not to
mention other Middle Eastern origins, or for that matter, let's face it,
vanilla NYC. She beckons me forward, points to a chair at the bedside. The
young woman leaves. "Now, come over here. Sit down, you look
uncomfortable." She reaches for a packet, lights a cigarette, stares at me
for a moment.
	"You've brought your tape recorder?" she asks, then seeing my
shoulder bag, says: "Oh, and your laptop, too? Well prepared, I see. Good,
then we'll talk. Don't stare so, please. You've seen breasts before,
haven't you?"
	"Yes, ma'am," I splutter.
	"Not very often, though, hmmm?" she smiles.
	I can't respond. I'm too busy staring.
	"If you want to undress and get in bed with me, that's fine. No
sex, not unless I invite you, but you see I do know how you erotic writers
get your inspiration, young man." She makes a pumping up-and-down hand
motion.
	I reply, "Uh, thanks, but well, just for the moment let's
concentrate on the job, please. I've traveled come a long way, and I think
I should, uh . . ."
	"Alright, as you wish. But I can see that bulge in your pants,
young man. So don't pretend you're not interested, please. You know, that
would be quite rude."
	"Yes, no, I mean, I understand, and I'm not . . ."
	"Because, let me assure you, I've fucked more men -- and women --
than you've had, um, what? Not hot dinners, ha ha, because I can see you
are kind of round in the middle. But, really, it's no exaggeration to say
the numbers run into the thousands."
	"Oh, wow!" is all that I can say to that.
	"Yes," she nods. "And I get few complaints, so, some respect, s'il
vous plait. Don't pretend you don't find me attractive . . ."
	I nod again, my eyes focused back on her breasts. That's the
problem here, I do. She puffs on her cigarette.
	"Now, let's ask each other a few questions, shall we, my little
scribe? So, why do you do this, what do you get out of it?"
	"Not so much yet, but I'm hoping to make some money from it," I
reply truthfully.
	"I'm sure you will, but money? Pah. Money is boring," she says with
the air of someone with so much, it's never an issue, "I mean, what do you
get out of it personally? Don't you like erotica as art?"
	"Yes, but..."
	She follows my gaze to her nipples, and looks up again. I'm blushing.
	"You seem a little, how should I put it? Uncomfortable with a
woman. I mean for a would-be poet of the pubic . . . A bard of the bedroom,
ha ha . . ."
	I shake my head, nod. I don't know what to say.
	"In fact, my first guess -- and you can tell me if I'm wrong --
would be that you aren't used to seeing women without clothes, at least not
showing themselves without quite a lot of persuading on your part. Am I
right?"
	"Uh . . ."
	"So, perhaps I'm so old and unattractive, I remind you of your dear
. . . mother? A favorite aunt, perhaps?"
	"No, no, that's not it. You're very beautiful  . . ." I protest.
	"Really? So why so shy . . .?"
	A long pause. She tilts her head. "You know, I think I've got it.
Ha, what took me so long? I think you are a submissive, one of those men
who are overwhelmed by women, and long to be told what to do by them . . .
well?"
	I swallow, "I, well, I do . . . uh, that is . . .I might, but  . . ."
	She nods, and says: "I'm right, I can tell. Well, happily for both
of us, my preference matches yours quite nicely. Most people call me a dom;
a dominatrix, if you know what that means?"
	I'm turning scarlet. Oh, I know alright, but I'd not counted on
ever meeting one. In Erie, PA, never. . .I won't say any more about it.
	She's looking at me with renewed interest. "Oh, don't look so
frightened, for God's sake. Don't worry, I'm not requesting anything, you
silly puppy. Not for now. Maybe never. I'm perfectly happy just to buy
writing from you."
	That's a relief, but somehow, now I've been teased and aroused, a
major disappointment. She grinds out her cigarette, exhales smoke through
her nostrils. She's amused by me.
	We begin to talk about some of my recent E-mails, quite restrained
in nature. But to my amazement it's not a couple of minutes before she
begins to stroke herself under the sheets, quite coolly. Another minute or
two, and she's pulling the sheets up and sniffing, giving me a pleased grin.
	"Smells good. Want to share?" she teases.
	"Ma'am?" I croak.
	She shakes her head and says: "Yes, you do." She slowly draws the
sheet down, and leans back on her pillows, so I can see her naked pussy.
	I'm lost for words. I don't know where to look. I can't look away,
that's for sure. Her pubic hair is a startling black, except for a couple
of greyish locks. She's slim, honey colored, and unwrinkled. It's hard to
say what makes me think this, but her pussy is beautiful, elegant even, in
a way that few of my girlfriends' had ever been. She combs the hair with
her fingers.
	"I'm hot. You don't mind, do you? No, of course you don't. Look all
you want. I don't mind if you stare. Fascinating, isn't it?"
	And with that she spreads her thighs wide. With a sigh she places
her hands there, opens herself up, shows me everything. Her vulva is pink,
glistening, inviting. She has my rapt attention. She begins to talk. "You
want to hear all about it? You want to knows how much my sex has been used,
is that it? Well, you don't have time today. I've been fucked so many
times, I've lost count. Believe me? You should. I think you can see what
this needs, can't you? Licking and sucking and fucking, until it's
dripping. That's what I like. Take a good look. See my hole? See how sticky
it is? Want to touch it?"
	 I've never heard so much filthy language from a woman in my entire
life.  I'm blushing, sweating.
	She pauses.
	"Yes you do. . .So, get in bed," she repeats hungrily.
	 Just then, the serving girl reappears carrying a tray with a
teapot, two cups and saucers.
	Layla snaps her fingers. "Explain things to this young man," she
says, "The nitwit seems to have lost his tongue!"
	I'm told, in that sing-song tone: "Oh, please. It's quite okay to,
Mme. Layla often receives people nude, but she only offers herself to those
she wants, makes no demands on the unwilling. And besides, isn't that where
you writers get your ideas?" She too makes that pumping gesture.
	"Fatima will take your clothes and hang them up," Layla says. "Oh,
and if you're shy, she'll leave while you undress. Lord, why are there so
many shy subs nowadays?"
	She stares at me and shakes her head in wonderment. "In the
seventies in Manhattan, my word! There were thousands of them, quite
fearless and shameless. God, the stories I can tell you about the club
scene, the orgies. The Plato's Retreat stuff. Amazing. Some nights, I lost
track. I suppose a lot were fairies, or bisexual, and died of whatever.
What a shame. What a waste."
	Fatima tugs at my shirt sleeve and says, "Come on, take them off,
please. Yes, you can do it. Don't be so withdrawn. And don't think about
me. I've never been bothered by seeing men naked."
	I can't believe my reaction. In a trance, I do start to undress,
with the young woman observing closely, and taking my clothes from me, item
by item as they come off. I'm amazed to see her sniff my shorts, which I
confess might be cleaner. But what do you expect after a day of travelling?
	The two women exchange a few words in some throatclearing
turkeygobble language, some little smiles, glances at my equipment. I don't
have a clue, but I'm sure they aren't wondering if they forgot to get a
Lotto ticket, or who's on Damon Letterbox's midnight wank with celebrities
tonight. My clothes are carefully folded up and taken to a closet, outside
the bedroom door.
	"Now, get in. And let's get down to some serious discussion."
	I crawl between the sheets, but decide not to pull them up. What's
there to hide now? She's seen it.
	"Quite a good prick, reasonably thick. More important than length,
you know," she comments. "So, what are you waiting for? Play with it, I
don't mind. Just don't come straight away, please. And if you do, don't get
my sheets dirty."
	 I'm rather put out... "Do you think I'd. . .? Oh, please! I can't
. . ." I protest.
	"Oh, I know you can, and I can see you want to. I can size men up
very quickly, young fellow. Now, stop protesting and do what you are
thinking of already . . ." she laughs. "Wank for me, go on."
	Now, she begins to talk about her sheltered childhood, in Iran
(ah!). Her three or four sisters, close in age. Their elder brother. How
they'd often spied on him, when he thought he was alone. How they'd seen
him masturbate. How she, when she was barely a teenager, had watched two of
their female servants engage in oral sex together.
	Her father was an admiral, she had always thought. But really, he'd
been a secret policeman, with the Savak organization, one of those thugs
with a nasty line in torture. He'd fled in the 1978 revolution, quite
early. And like so many, he'd ended up in Washington (to be near his old
friends at the CIA?), driving a cab. And Layla? She was already here, at
Cornell, at the med school.
	Her fellow students had been well informed, especially those from
that part of the world. Yes, the Beardies were bad people, quickly
demonized by the US media. But the Shah's men had been nasty, too. However
you cut it, they'd been booted out by the will of the people. Her fellow
students knew enough to be able to tell her about what her Daddy had been
best known for. In Iran, with the press censored, he could make a pretence
of being just another government type, but here he was a known war
criminal, almost. There had been protests at the embassy in DC the previous
year, and his name had been splashed here and there. He'd even been
fingered by Amnesty International as a known player in suppressing dissent.
	Layla had hotly denied the possibility of any active involvement by
her father. But intuitively, she accepted it was possible. Maybe he'd been
right, she'd argued back.
	From a movement of pro-freedom student rebels, to bitter Islamic
fundamentalists, opponents of all and sundry, the downward path hadn't
taken long. The regime had just been trying to survive. But soon, she could
say with a straight face as the Shah fled from one place to another, oil
prices soared, and the traumatic hostage crisis developed: "Now who was
right? Look what's happened to the damned country!" An attitude that became
more accepted by everyone in the next couple of years.
	Their crimes mostly forgotten or devalued by changing events, the
refugees prospered. The money rolled in from, well, who knows? Daddy's cab
became a limo, and he wasn't driving it. Then there was an office supplies
business, a restaurant, then a chain of hotels.
	One day, she'd finally asked him: "Were you really with the Navy,
daddy? You don't ever show any interest in the sea, and, well, people say .
. ."
	"Oh? Come on, you're not interested, Layla, you don't need to
know," he'd said with a wave of his hand.
	"Oh, I do. They say . . .  the other students, at Cornell. That you
were a secret policeman. A, well, a torturer . . . Well, is that true?
Savak? Were you? Did you?"
	A shrug. "It's history. Yes, maybe, but it was just a job."
	"No! You mean, it's true? You did torture people? No!"
	"Me personally? Only a few, a very few. Ones who deserved it. It
was a job, a business, it's over."
	"Girls, too? Communists!? Students? You mean, you admit it? You did?"
	"Oh,  not very many. but . . .yes . . ."
	She was shocked, raging. "Father! They say that girls were treated
horribly. Stripped, whipped, burned, all sorts of things, even raped! Did
you do that? Please, say no!"
	"No, then." A long silence, growing anger from both sides. "But,
listen, child,  try to understand. In such times, you do what you have to
to induce candid conversation, and, well . . . But my dear, might I suggest
that your interest in this seems rather odd, this long after . . . "
	"I want to know!"
	"Maybe. But why? To me it seems, well, prurient, obsessive,
macabre, for a sweet thing like you . . . go and get some fresh air,
please."
	"You're a monster. Totally evil!!"
	"Aaah, that's the decadent West talking, Layla. Be realistic."
	But she'd run from the room that day, and soon after run from home
for good, and not come back.
	She wouldn't speak to him after, for several years. Even by phone.
But, she tells me: "I think that was a turning point. My fascination was
always there, but the thought that someone in my family . . . Well, it put
the whole thing in place."
	She scratches, sniffs her fingers, licks her fingertips. "My
obsession, if you will, just grew. In case you're wondering, young man,
it's mostly domination of young women that I like."
	Quite calmly she began to talk about her progress from a few casual
lezzie dom relationships in DC to 'more serious' things. Spanking, bondage,
she found were, well, 'Blah.'
	"No, I was looking for ownership. Like I have with Fatima, " she
admits, looking very pleased with herself.
	"Oh! Is she, uh. . .?"
	"Oh yes, she's a slave, of course. What do you think she is wearing
under that outfit? Why, nothing! She can get it off in five seconds."
	 Layla presses a button on her bedside phone. Fatima answers. She's
called, and asked to confirm her status.
	"I'm a slave, yes."
	"And what are you wearing, my dear?"
	 Her nakedness is demonstrated. I shouldn't be surprised, having
seen as much female flesh as I have already here, but Fatima does take my
breath away for a moment. She's very slim, extraordinarily attractive. And
yes, she sweeps her robe off to reveal complete nudity, in one gesture. But
the nothing she's wearing is punctuated: the highlights include big gold
rings through her nipples and labia, and a blue squiggle-language tattoo
across her shaven mons. There are also ugly, fresh whip marks, scratches,
and dark bruises.
	"Now, what do you think of that? Do you believe me?"
	I nod. How could I not? I try to get this under control. I'm in bed
with a naked woman, rubbing herself. By my side stands another naked woman,
whose body is cruelly marked. And I'm naked. And, yes, by now I'm rubbing
myself quite shamelessly too.
	"Okay, yes. Of course I believe you, Layla," I tell her. "But now,
can we talk about our story?"
	"Sure, let her get in with us, though," Layla gestures. "There's
lots of room, and she won't take up much room, the skinny bitch."
	 Which she doesn't.
	Layla looks at me, and gives a little smirk. "Now, let's focus your
efforts on producing my kind of story, please. Possession, humiliation. If
you need inspiration, I think you should base it on her, Fatima. Yes? You
can describe her carefully, now you've seen her properly. Take a good look
at her. Tiny tits, but a nice ass. And her pussy is very appealing, you'll
find . . ."
	She nudges Fatima. "Open up, dear, and show him." A beautiful pink
vulva is displayed to me.
	"Can you smell her? Juicy slut, isn't she?" she asks. "Now, let's
think, shall we? What if you write a story where she is a modest student,
some little tightass prude who's been arrested for, oh, helping the losers
at the American embassy? What would the evil beardies do with her? Fuck her
asshole and hang her, I expect. Hmm, but perhaps they'd flog her first. Or,
no, maybe it should be about something before the fall of the Shah. And
she's a commie, handed to the female head of the secret police
interrogation department. One who really knows how to wring information out
of prisoners. Like my daddy?"
	"So it was true?"
	"Yes, of course. I should have finished telling you, shouldn't I?
He finally admitted it all, in a book, published in Farsi only. Wholesale
torture, and not a word of regret! There were even pencil sketches! He
threatened to include some photos, but the publisher chickened out on that."
	Fatima sighs her regret.
	Layla continues. "Oh, he was really cruel, too. With women, he used
to have standing orders. A woman was to be stripped immediately on arrest,
for maximum humiliation. In the street, in front of her friends and family,
whatever was necessary. Then she'd be driven to his HQ and processed.
Literally. Strapped and clamped into a wooden framework, arms stretched
out, legs opened wide, so that there was no doubt what was intended.
There'd be dozens of women in custody at any given time. His idea was to
make sure each would be worked on, constantly, around the clock. Like an
assembly line. So efficient, so American! They were loaded on trolleys,
shipped from room to room, place to place, from one jail to another, passed
back and forth among torturers, loaned to police barracks for communal use
as fuck toys, just treated horribly, day after day, until they snapped."
	As she's telling me this, she's pulling on Fatima's tits and pussy
lips, and scratching her. I've stopped jerking on my dick, for now, and I'm
scribbling notes. I can't consciously approve of this nastiness, but
something, somewhere in me does. I have a huge boner. Why?
	Layla is in full flight now. "They were big on electric shock
techniques, on constant nudity and mocking of the girls. Merciless
floggings. They really believed in pussy torture, didn't they Fatima!? Oh,
god yes. Stretching and expanding, lots of pins, heated things . . . . oh
oh ooooh!!!"
	With that both women come, shaking the bed, groaning, panting. A
long pause. I'm scribbling like crazy as they gasp for breath.
	They kiss and cuddle for a while, ignoring me. Fatima offers both
of us a cigarette, and this time all three of us light up.
	Layla speaks again. "Or maybe we should wind it back, let her be a
16th Century courtesan caught cheating with a man. Yes? And then handed
over for punishment to the palace guards. Something gross and medieval,
something involving lots of chopping and slicing and burning, ugh. Or no,
she's a dishonest merchant's daughter, and is to be ridden nude through the
city, publicly branded on her tits? Or . . . oh, my word, there are so many
things we can do with a piece of ass like her, yes?"
	She drops Fatima and turns on me.
	"Let's hear your ideas, you filthy pig. Come on."
	Her half-smoked cigarette dangles for her lip. She's rubbing,
getting herself hot. Ash falls on her breasts, and she just ignores it.
Fatima's rubbing herself too, it's a very fragrant, uninhibited scene. They
reach for the ashtray, which I'm monopolizing.
	They both turn hungrily on me, and start to work. Fatima is sucking
my dong, Layla is talking and touching.
	"What would a man do with a slut like her? If she was powerless.
Come on. I don't want just some stupid squirty, hole-fucking tale. I want
something mean, something nasty. Think! What if I gave her to you? Told
you, 'Have her. Do whatever you want. I don't care. No limits?' Don't lie."
	"I'd fuck her, then, uh . . ."
	 "Oh, puh-lease, don't be so softhearted! Just because you're a
sub. Can't you identify, or is there such a big physiological difference?"
	Fatima says, "Look, he must be having lots of ideas, look at the
way he's wanking. Oh, may I touch it? Please? I like to jerk men off."
	She's told to cool it.
	"Maybe a double penalty, hmm?" Layla continues. "Imagine Fatima and
her lover, namely you. She's underage, and you're both caught, in the act.
Bare asses, cock in her hole. No way of denying it. Now, what to do? It'd
all depend on the era. The crazy Beardies? Uh, what did I say? Yes, they'd
flog you both, then hang you both. I think your assholes would get it, too.
Hers first. Before, under the Shah, nothing much, I'm sad to say, so
scratch that idea . . .
	"Ah, but historic, medieval, now, that's the real stuff!!" She
claps her hands in delight.
	Fatima says something in Iranian. Actually, for all I know, it
could be in Unix. But it grabs Layla's attention.
	"Yes, lots of opportunities for nasty public torture . . .Set the
two of you up so you can witness each other's end . . . maximum severity.
Right. Impaling and lots of flogging and flaying, slicing and chopping, a
real butchers' shop for her. And what about you, wanky boy . . .? A team of
oxen on each limb and a slow roasting over an open fire? Something with
boiling oil, molten lead, maybe. We'll think it through, won't we? And
everyone present happy and amazed, laughing and joking, getting excited,
except for the two stupid unfortunate lovers being ripped apart like roast
chickens at a glutton's banquet . . ."
	By now, I'm aching, despite these sickening images. I snuggle
close, kiss her breasts, let her know in my tongue-tied puppyish way that
I'm overawed by her. I beg her: "Please please, let me."
	"Let you what?" She laughs. "Jerk off on me? Or is this the old,
'Layla, you got me on my knees' routine?"
	I lick her nipples.
	"You want to be dominated, is that it?"
	I nod. She's mocking me, but she's more than interested. Even with
Fatima watching, she will take me up on this offer. I know it.
	"Okay. Yes, you know, I might go for that, even though I do prefer
mistreating girls. Let's see your backside. Turn over, punk. So I can look
at your butt. Spread your cheeks. Yes, let me put my finger in. Whoa, nice!
Really tight too. Tell me, have you ever been fucked there?"
	I shake my head, speechless at what's happening.
	"Um, well, you're about to be!" she sneers. "You're a pretty, fat
boy. The sort the Turkish sultans handpicked as eunuchs. Though lucky for
you, you still have your jewelry nicely intact. Very attractive to men as
well as women, little pudges like you. Tell me, are you queer too? Sure?
It's possible, isn't it? Well, I may make you go that way before I'm
through with you, sweet boy. Give you to some greasy guys I know who enjoy
having little tubbies to fuck and mistreat. But first I want to try my own
hand at you."
	I'm sucking on her nipples, looking up at her with passive eyes.
 "Yes, you like it. So what shall we do? Like, whip your big ass, maybe?
And then we'll talk some more about a nice juicy femdom story, shall we?"
	I gasp: "Yes."
	"Yes, a story about a fat boy, a filthy slut, a cruel mistress, and
a very busy time for his backside. . . . Come on up here, Fatima, you dirty
bitch. Now, hold his face between your thighs and grab his wrists tight.
Good. Now, hold him tight. I'm going to slap his ass a little, then we'll
take turns with a dildo and fuck him nicely. Then, we'll see what else he's
up for . . . Is he licking you properly? If he bites, let me know . . ."
	Fatima has a good grip on me. Layla hits me, hard, with the flat of
her hand. I yelp. "Oh, very nice," she chuckles. "But we need to put you in
a better position. Up you get."
	"Where's he going?" Fatima asks, holding tight. She's in no rush,
with me licking at her.
	"The library," Layla announces. "Isn't your spanking stool still
set up there from this morning?"
	"Yes," Fatima says breathlessly
	"It's strong enough to hold him, isn't it?"
	"Oh, definitely."
	"So, do you approve?"
	"Yes, ma'am!" Fatima sighs.
	"Shall we take turns beating him, too?" Layla prompts.
	"Please!"
	"Good, then we shall. And what does he deserve, Fatima?"
	"A thrashing. Fifty strokes." The young girl is holding me tight,
pressing my face into her fragrant sex. I'm licking, gasping for breath.
	"So gentle?" Layla chuckles.
	"More then. With one of those rattan things. The long ones the
Saudis use for punishing drinkers, heretics."
	"I have one of those, yes. But it's very mean. That's why I haven't
used it on you."
	"It's right for him."
	"That's true, darling. Very cruel though . . ."
	"He needs it. Look at his hips moving. And he's got his tongue
right in my crack . . ."
	"Fifty each, then . . ." Layla chuckles, spanking me again.
	"More. And then we'll fuck him . . ."
	"Still tied up, of course . . ."
	"That's right. Leave him tied hand and foot, like you do with me."
	"Grease him?"
	"Maybe. Let's see. We may need to. Quite a big dildo, that's what I
have in mind . . ."
	"And we may want to apply the whip to his back and his thighs too .
. ."
	"Will he be able to stand it?" Fatima gasps.
	"I think so, so long as he has our delicious sloppy pussies to
lick. What's his tongue saying to you, after all?"
	They both laugh happily.
	Layla gives me another couple of hard slaps, and encourages Fatima:
"Hurry up and come, you little slut. I want to have him lick mine while you
cane him . . ."


Copyright (c) 1997, MrSpraycan.




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