("`-''-/").___..--''"`-._ `6_ 6 ) `-. ( ).`-.__.`) (_Y_.)' ._ ) `._ `. ``-..-' _..`--'_..-_/ /--'_.' ,' (((' (((-((('' (((( K R I S T E N' S C O L L E C T I O N _________________________________________ WARNING! This text file contains sexually explicit material. If you do not wish to read this type of literature, or you are under age, PLEASE DELETE THIS FILE NOW!!!! _________________________________________ Scroll down to view text Archive name: ilene.txt (Fdom/F, sex-slave) Authors name: Rachel Perez (specpress@earthlink.net) Story title : Don't Misbehave Ilene ------------------------------------------------------ -= This work is copyrighted to the author © 1993. =- Please do not remove the author information or make any changes to this story. You may post freely to non- commercial "free" sites, or in the "free" area of commercial sites. Thank you for your consideration. ------------------------------------------------------ Don't Misbehave Ilene by Rachel Perez (specpress@earthlink.net) Copyright (c) 1993 Spectrum Press *** Ilene lives in an alternate existence where some are slaves and others are masters. She escapes from her mistress only to be tracked down and returned. Punishment ensues. *** My name is Ilene. I'm in a crevice at the foot of the mountain of white rock, huddling in the crevice, naked except for the iron slave collar that circles my neck. The sun is shining, but the crevice is in shadow and I'm cold. I've been here two days and two nights, every moment filled with misery, every moment unbearable. I've had enough; I've truly had enough. The rock in front of me gets wet in the evening, and if I lick the stone I can gather enough water to survive another day, and maybe another. No, I don't want that; I want to die. But then as this thought forms in my mind, I reject it as well. Are there people who accept death easily? I'm not one of them. I'm not yet thirty and too young to accept the nothingness of death. The black void of death is a total impossibility, unacceptable. But yet... Of course they'll find me. They'll find me and they won't force anything. They never actually force anything because there's no need for it. They know that. *** I slept awhile, and then I heard a noise. Now I hear it again. Oh yes, it's them. I hear the chopping sound of the helicopter. I can't see it but I can hear it. I've heard it every day, but this is the first time I'm certain they'll find me. Why? I don't know. It's possible they've looked everywhere and now this is the last place to look. They know all the places; they told me that and they never lie. Not about that, anyway. The helicopter again. I cringe as it passes directly over me. I'm afraid to look at it, afraid I'll see someone looking back at me. Instead, I huddle deeper into the crevice and start shivering again. Something moves against my foot. It's a tiny grey lizard with red eyes. The lizard turns its head to look at me. Then it scurries away and vanishes. The helicopter is landing. It settles down like a great metal creature fifty yards away. The dust flies as it comes to rest on a flat place in the scrub. The rotor blades stop turning and the dust settles again. And now they wait for me. A sea bird passes overhead, turning, gliding over us and then turning out to sea again. They wait for me and do nothing. I can make out two figures in the helicopter, but the distance is too great to see more than that. I crouch in the shadow of the crevice, but after a time I know it's useless, finished, and I rise and walk toward them. I walk naked toward the helicopter. The two figures are two women, both wearing sunglasses, both looking at me, their faces flat, expressionless. They say nothing as I arrive at the machine. I put my foot on the boarding step and one of them extends a hand to help me aboard. For a brief instant her eyes glance at my breasts and sex. Then I'm inside. The rotor blades are whirling again, the dust rising. I look in the sky for a sea bird, but I can see nothing. The sky is blue and so terribly empty. *** Michiko sips a glass of champagne as she looks at me. "Why did you do it?" She wears a white dress and white sandals. The room has only one chair in it and Michiko is sitting on it near the open window. I'm in the center of the room, naked except for my iron slave collar, squatting on my heels with my back straight and my knees apart. Michiko says: "Why did you do it?" "I'm sorry." She's not much older than I am, but the difference between us is as great as that between night and day. Or between master and slave. Michiko does not wear an iron slave collar. She wears a white dress and white sandals, and as I gaze at her knees I can think of nothing except the terrible need I have to push my face between her thighs. Her cunt is thick-lipped, the hair on her mons like fine black silk. Now Michiko rises and she walks out onto the terrace that overlooks the sea. She stands there a moment with her face lifted to the sea breeze, and then she returns to the room and she looks at me again. "They've ordered me to whip you, but I've arranged to have one of the servants do it." I fall prone at her feet. "Please, only you!" "No," she says. *** And so I'm denied Michiko's punishment. Instead one of the servants will whip me. To be whipped by a servant here is the worst of all possible indignities. For the servants here are not masters; the servants are mere servants. When I first arrived on the island, I thought all the servants would be Nash locals, but none of them are Nash; the servants are Mallon, brought all the way from Mallosia, silent slender women with no expression in their eyes. Sometimes I think their tongues have been removed, for they never speak. No, that can't be; I've heard them talk among themselves. Are they cruel? I don't know if their cruelty is any greater than that of the masters. I've been whipped by both servants and masters and I think the masters are always more diligent. The problem is not the cruelty; the problem is the indignity, the absence of a master, the absence of Michiko's love. If Michiko would whip me, her love for me would be a solace. With a servant there is no solace at all; with a servant there is only the pain and the indignity of punishment by someone who is not a master. Two of them come for me and they attach a chain to my iron collar and they lead me away from Michiko. At the last moment I turn to look at her, but one of the servants pulls at the chain and my neck is abruptly jerked forward. Oh my love! *** This is the way they do it: I'm standing in the center of the whipping room, my arms raised above my head, my wrists bound and attached to a chain suspended from the ceiling. The chain has been pulled to bring my heels up and only my toes touch the stone floor. My neck is already tired and my head bends forward. The iron slave collar still has the chain-leash attached to it, but the chain drags on the floor behind me. I don't want them to lift that chain. I remember the one time I was whipped with the chain-leash and the pain was awful. No, they won't use the chain. I hear them behind me as they talk in their language, an easy sing-song interchange. They may not be talking about me after all; they may be discussing their next meal, or their next trip to the mainland when they have time off. Then one of them touches my buttocks and I know that something will happen soon. The only time the servants are allowed to fondle the slaves is when the slaves receive punishment from them. I should imagine they want to do more than merely fondle the slaves, but it's never allowed. I would reveal it. Or maybe I wouldn't reveal it under the right circumstances. I don't know because it's never happened; I've never been taken by a servant and I can't imagine it. Would the masters ever allow it? This room is dank, grey, the stone walls glistening with moisture. I've seen other whipping rooms that looked less forbidding. Is there any significance in my being in this room and not in one of the others? I don't know; I don't know very much. I know hardly anything, and at the moment I'm afraid because the degree of pain is always unpredictable. Even if they don't draw blood, the pain can be horrible. But first the fondling. They always fondle from behind, as if to avoid looking at my face, as if to avoid my eyes. One of them now slides her hands around my body, and as she presses against me from behind she puts her hands on my breasts. I feel the hands gripping my breasts, a hand for each breast, then the fingers finding my nipples and twisting them. As I bend my head further, I can see them, see the hands on my flesh. The hands are slender, feminine, and the first awakening of desire begins in my belly. But then her hands are withdrawn. Whoever she is; the Malay servant; the unknown. She moves away and I feel the other woman press against me now. This one wants something different from my body. Her hand pushes between my thighs from behind, her fingers pushing forward to find my sex. I feel the fingers parting the lips, pushing between them, pushing inside the opening. She says something to the other woman. She slides her fingers in and out of my vagina a few times, and then finally she pulls her hand away completely. Silence now. I hear them moving behind me, doing things, and my skin begins to crawl, the tingling feeling spreading across my shoulders and down my back to my buttocks. I listen. All my attention now is focussed on the sounds in the room. One of them speaks in their language. The other one answers, a guttural sound. I hear it suddenly, the sound of the whip cutting through the air, and the next instant an intense burning streaks across the skin of my buttocks. What orders have they been given? Will they mark me? Michiko promised I would never be marked, not like the some of the other slaves I've seen here. But maybe they were also promised; maybe the marking is simply another stage in the progression. To where? Where are they taking me? The whip strikes again. And again. After the fourth blow the burning is constant, hot, spreading up the lower part of my back like a slow fire. And between my thighs. At the next strike of the whip, I feel the heat in my sex, the first tingling. And again the whip strikes. I moan. My head hangs forward, my body slowly turning, a quarter turn to the left, a quarter turn to the right, only my toes touching the floor, and the ache in my shoulders intensifying with each movement. I lose track of the whip, the strikes, the number of blows. I hear moaning; my own voice. I feel a drenching wetness between my thighs; that too is my own. *** Michiko lies naked on her belly on the air mattress as I kneel straddling her legs. Is she sleeping? The window is open, the warm air carrying the sound of the surf beating on the rocks below. I dip my hands in the warm oil and slide my fingers over Michiko's shoulders. My hands mold the muscles, coaxing them, urging them to relax. As I work down her spine, I shift backward. I gently stroke her flesh with my fingers, rubbing, squeezing, stroking the oil of her perfect skin. My sex is wet. I want very much to rub it against Michiko's leg, but she'd be aware of it in an instant and berate me for it. Instead, I allow my hunger to continue, daring no more than a subtle pressing of my knees against her thighs. She moves. She stretches and arches her back in response to my touching her. She undulates her body, a lazy rocking movement, and then she lies still again. I slide my hands over her buttocks, over the firm flesh, the sweet globes. Is she breathing harder now? I feel the sweat rolling down between my breasts. Then her body stiffens as I grip her buttocks in my hands and begin stroking them with the warm oil. My palms roam over the twin globes of her ass. Nowhere has her skin been touched by the sun, but the skin of her buttocks is a lighter shade than the rest of her. Only in the groove does the darkening begin again. I shift backward. I raise my left knee and change my position so that now I'm straddling only her right leg. She responds by spreading her legs slightly, and then even further as my fingers rub deep into the valley between her buttocks. I take her movement as an invitation, a sign of permission, and now I lean forward and I graze the tips of my breasts over her ass. I slide my palms between her thighs and fill them with her warm flesh. My face pressed against her buttocks, I begin to gently bite the globes. My sex is on fire, my cunt ravenous and dripping as I move my lips over Michiko's skin. The heaviness is unbearable, the flames of desire leaping through my veins to the tip of my clitoris. I bite harder at Michiko's perfumed flesh. The musky scent of her cunt is now in my nostrils as I plunge my tongue deep into the crevice between her buttocks, searching, then finding the ring of her anus. I prod the opening, then hold still, waiting for a sign, waiting for Michiko's permission. She wriggles gently; her hips move; her ass rises to meet my mouth and a wave of happiness washes over me. Now my belly jerks with an unleashed frenzy. My body shakes as I push my tongue deep into Michiko's ass, my face pressed against the sticky groove, my chin rubbing her thick- lipped sex. She suddenly lifts herself against my mouth, and my tongue slips down past her anal passage to the wet slit of her cunt. Her taste inflames my senses. Oh, the marvel of it! What a wondrous feeling it is for a slave to dip her tongue into the well of her mistress and find the liquid evidence of acceptance and love! Michiko writhes as I push my head deeper between her thighs. She lifts her hips to roll her buttocks against my face. I plunge my tongue inside her anus again, and immediately she captures it and cries out, a soft cry, then another, the sounds of pleasure muffled in her throat. Later, when I try to rub myself against her calf, she kicks me away. "No," she says. My clitoris is a hard marble; my destruction is total. *** These are the Rules of Engagement: The slave speaks only when ordered to speak. The obedience of the slave is always complete. The punishment of the slave is never questioned. The pleasure of the slave has no meaning. I first learned them in New Cazzon when Michiko wrote them down on paper and taped the paper to my bedroom mirror. *** The chastisement for my attempted escape lasts three days. Each day I'm whipped in the morning and then again in the afternoon, always by two servants, sometimes the same women and sometimes others. The routine of the whipping is always the same: first the fondling of my body, fondling of various kinds, and then the whipping from behind, the blows on my buttocks and thighs. So far they haven't marked me; they've been careful not to draw blood. But I cry nevertheless. The pain is awful, and at the end of each whipping I'm a sobbing wreck, shattered, trembling, too weak to stand. Concerning damage: If the skin is brought to a deep red color by the whip, the color will fade in an hour. If welts are produced by the whip, the welts will be gone in a day or two. Soreness produced by a beating doesn't last; the tissues heal themselves within two or three days. Blue marks are the worst; they last longer and they look ugly. I don't like them. *** After my three days of punishment, I'm allowed to rest for two more days, and then Michiko tells me I'm to be used by the masters again. "You'll be called in a few hours," she says. "Make yourself ready and come back to me." The room where I sleep is in a wing added to the main building some years ago. The stone walls are whitewashed and the wooden floor is covered by a worn rug. I sit at the small dressing table and prepare myself for the evening. I work a long time on my makeup, my eyes and lashes, my cheeks and lips. When I have the coloring of my face just right, I apply rouge to my nipples and then just a hint of it to the outer lips of my sex. After that I pin up my dark hair in a chignon and I clip pendant earrings to my earlobes. I turn my head from right to left and back again in front of the mirror. Yes, it's fine; it's the look that Michiko favors. After that I rummage through a dresser drawer to find a red French cache-sexe. It takes but a moment to put that on, to adjust the thin strap in back between my buttocks and the triangle in front so that it completely covers my pubis. I find a pair of red shoes with spike heels, and I put those on and inspect myself in the mirror. What I see is a naked woman wearing a black choker necklace. Except the necklace is made of iron and it's a slave collar. *** "Yes," Michiko says. She has me stand in front of her as she looks at me. She wears a white evening dress and her beauty is so exquisite it makes my hands tremble. She tells me she's flying to a party in Athens this evening. She won't be on the island while I'm being used. The idea frightens me, makes me desperate, but I do my best to conceal it. One of the servants is waiting to escort me. "Don't misbehave," Michiko says. She waves a hand and I'm dismissed. *** The fact is I feel alive only when Michiko is angry with me. If Michiko is not angry with me, then she must be thinking of other things and I'm not the center of her existence. When Michiko is angry with me, all she can think about is me. Nothing else is on her mind. I adore that; I adore Michiko's anger. But this evening, Michiko is in Athens. *** This master has not told me her name. The room is sparsely furnished, but a thick lamb's wool rug covers the floor, and in the center of this I squat on my heels in the usual position, my back straight, my knees apart, naked except for the red cache-sexe and the red heels. She manacled my hands as soon as I entered the room, and now I'm finding it difficult to maintain the posture without discomfort. Against the far wall is a bed, the mattress covered by a white embroidered counterpane. I know the riding crop is on the bed, but I don't want to look at it. I don't want to look at anything, least of all that. So far she hasn't said much. She speaks English with a British accent, but I don't think she's British. She's been sitting in that chair for the past ten minutes and all she does is look at me. She's about forty, strong looking, wearing a dark blue suit, a red string tie, a white shirt with a bit of lace at the sleeves. She has short dark hair and green eyes and a cruel mouth. I suppose if I saw her on the street or at a party I would say she was beautiful. Here that doesn't matter; the only thing that matters here is that we both know she'll soon be very nasty to me. Michiko says I can always trust them to go only so far, but I'm never certain of it. Maybe this one will be an exception. Finally she speaks to me. As she sits with her legs crossed, she tilts her head to the side and she says: "I like your breasts." Is it my rouged nipples? I feel the heat in my face as she gazes at me. I'm afraid to look down at my breasts for fear I'll see my nipples erect. I want Michiko. I feel abandoned, lost, unwanted. Will my love return? Now the master rises and she begins to undress. She does it slowly, methodically, removing each piece with care, her jacket draped over the back of the chair, her tie untied, pulled out, draped over the jacket. She continues to gaze at me as she removes her clothes, no expression on her face, no way to read her, a great threat because when they don't talk you never know what to expect. But then she says: "I'll flog you first. And then we'll try some other things. Have you had any experience with alligator clips?" "Yes." "That's why you've painted your nipples, isn't it? You want them attended to." "Yes." "That's fine." Meanwhile all her clothes have been removed and she's now naked. She has square shoulders and small firm looking breasts, the brown nipples unusually long. Her pubic tuft has been clipped to a narrow triangle. She walks to the bed and she picks up the riding crop. Now I'm forced to look at it, forced to see my punishment rod. "Over here," she says. "Kneel on the bed." It's not easy to rise from my knees with my wrists manacled behind my back, but I try to manage it without being too clumsy. When I'm on my feet, I walk to the bed while avoiding her eyes. Climbing onto the bed while not using my hands is not easy either, but I manage that too. Now my head and shoulders are down on the counterpane, my ass up, my knees spread. Of course she can see everything. I've seen Michiko's photographs of me kneeling like this and I know what I look like. She says nothing. Then I feel something graze the inside of one of my thighs. It's the tip of the riding crop. It moves up and down slowly, and then it moves upward to make contact with my sex. She gets the rod between my labia and she spreads them. Is she looking at me? When I first arrived here, I thought they would shave me completely but they didn't. Only the lips are shaved, and I'm thankful for that because I think having some hair in front is attractive. I've seen several slaves here who are shaved completely. All of them are blonde except one English girl who's a brunette. The master is still prying my cunt open with the riding crop. Now she moves it again and I feel the tip entering the outer rim of my vagina. She holds it there, moving just the tip of it to produce a tickling sensation. It's almost like the tip of a finger, but not quite. Am I wet? I suppose if I'm wet she can see it clearly. But she says nothing. It's maddening. I feel my belly quiver and I try not to move. Now she withdraws the tip of the riding crop from my vagina and she slides the length of the rod between my buttocks. "You've been flogged recently," she says. "Yes." Then she pushes the tip of the riding crop at my anus. "And what about here? Do you like it here?" "Yes, if the master wishes it." She chuckles. "I'll draw some stripes first." My belly is quivering again. I feel the riding crop sliding in the groove between my buttocks, and then a moment later it's gone. I remain motionless, waiting. "Now," she says softly. And the next moment I hear the sound an instant before I feel the stinging pain across my buttocks. "You're a lovely bitch," she says. She hits me again. And again. She whips me with a measured pace, each blow causing a great burning pain across my buttocks. She continues whipping me until I groan. She says: "Yes, that's better." She whips me again. Then three more blows with the riding crop and she stops it. I hear her toss the riding crop away, and then I feel her fingers unlocking the manacles that bind my wrists together. When she has my wrists free, she pulls the manacles away. "Turn around," she says. "Sit on the edge of the bed." I turn my body and take the position she wants, glancing at her, fixing my eyes on her sex, on the dark narrow triangle. Will she be rough with me? I gauge my vulnerability. She comes forward with an easy stride, approaches me close enough so that her legs touch my knees and the dark tuft sways only inches from my face. "Go on," she says. I touch her mound with my mouth, stroke the triangle of hair with my lips, exciting myself. The smell of her sex fills my nose as I lean forward to lick her. She arches her back, pushing her pelvis forward, pushing her cunt against my upturned mouth. Michiko likes to tease me about the way I suck a cunt. She says I have a gluttonous mouth and I look whorish when it's covered. Oh my darling, where are you? The master remains motionless as I move my head from side to side. I forage in the groove with my nose, find the stiff clitoris and begin rubbing it as my tongue flaps against flesh below. Suddenly she begins to move. She takes control of me. She holds my head between her hands as she moves her loins back and forth. Her wet cunt slides over my mouth. Her thrusting becomes more determined, more brutal. Will she come? My mouth is filled with her. She holds my face in her hands as she slams forward again. I hear the noise of it, the slurping noise of her cunt on my wide open mouth. The pace increases, her pelvis ramming, ramming again, and then abruptly she stops and groans and she begins coming, coming into my open mouth while she grips one side of my head and my chin with her strong hands. She strokes my throat with her fingers as I swallow her thick syrup. "Thirsty little whore, aren't you?" I suck her dry, and when it's finished she pulls her cunt from my lips. "Stand up now," she says. When I rise, she lifts my breasts in her hands and she looks down at them. Then she takes hold of my nipples between her thumbs and forefingers and she pinches them. "How much can you take?" "I don't know..." I'm afraid now. She's a total stranger and I have no idea about her capabilities. I have to trust them; I have no choice but to trust them... ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ Please keep this story, and all erotic stories out of the hands of children. They should be outside playing in the sunshine, not thinking about adult situations. ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ Kristen's collection - Directory 13