President Slavegirl: Billionaire's Toy: Book Two of The Homouth Series Page 5

  Mark walked around MacCammon's body, now suspended from the fiendish sculpture in a raw display of female flesh, her only shelter the black leather hood that concealed the features of her upper face. He made a few minor adjustments to her, then reached down and did something to the base of the armature, and suddenly, it wasn't secured to the post any more, but lurched to one side and leaned crazily on the support. MacCammon's whole body clenched when that happened, but there was nothing she could do -- she was a part of the armature/sculpture now.

  Mark then picked her and the armature up by the handle in its top -- it looked like a handle because it WAS one -- then carried her and it to the front of the room where the chain dangled and laid her on the floor directly beneath it. Then he hooked the chain through the handle and walked over to the power windlass. He turned on the power and chain drew in the slack.

  The armature lurched crazily again, but then smoothly and elegantly rose into the air, pulled by the chain. In a moment MacCammon was suspended a few feet off the ground, spinning slowly and lazily.

  Mark stepped over to the door and fumbled around behind the curtains. MacCammon's eyes squinted shut as she was suddenly bathed in intense light. Track lighting assaulted her from three sides. Women didn't ordinarily subject themselves to light this intense unless they were in their bathrooms, primping, trying to catch any tiny defects before anyone else did. But MacCammon was suspended in the light, displayed in a way she would never have chosen to display herself, and there wasn't a thing she could do about it. Her helplessness was complete.

  God, she was such a whore now. How would anyone know differently, looking at her?

  "All right, lookin' good!" said Mark, giving MacCammon a hard shove to make her spin around faster, then mercifully stopping her and then giving her a tiny shove so that she spun around at a crawl. Barfing probably wasn't good for business.

  Mark brought her to rest facing the curtains, which hung mere centimeters from her nose. Then he pulled the curtains open to reveal that they were facing a glassed-in wall like a tournament racquetball court. Only not so high, since the room was only eight feet high. And outside the room was -- darkness. All the light inside the room made the outside dark. She could dimly see figures moving in the darkness there. But that wasn't what bothered her most.

  She could see herself, reflected in the glass as if she were looking at a mirror. She hardly recognized herself, though. The woman whose body hung in the air while displayed so flagrantly was a vision of pure, raw sex and lust. In fact, the way she was displayed was very similar to the way she imagined sinful women were displayed in hell, with the nudity, the mask, the staring eyes and the limbs splayed out helplessly, the clamps on the nipples, the clamped-open pussy where her mouth should be and the clamped-open pussy where her pussy was, all of it bathed in a harsh, unforgiving,

  unreal light. It wasn't her.

  Except it was her. The image of raw female sex that spun slowly in the reflective mirror that the lighting made of the glass was HER image, she was inside it, trapped and helpless.

  Mark had printed up a sheet on his laser printer in his office upstairs before taking her downstairs. There was a small stand sitting on the floor to one side of the room, next to the window. Mark slid the sign into the stand, so that it could be read by people looking into the room. MacCammon could read it easily, since it was clearly reflected in the window.

  The sign said, in big letters, "Fuckslut! Ten dollars for twenty minutes!" In smaller letters beneath it was the legend: "You can't untie her or hurt her and she can't move much. But you can feel her up any way you like and fuck any hole at either end. This fuckslut dares you to make her cum within her bonds!"

  "I'm sure you'll do me proud here," Mark said as he headed out the door. "Not that you have much choice in the matter. Y'know, I've had women working here with practically no self esteem, who were also butt-ignorant and stupid, but I never had ANY woman over a barrel like I got you, and you used to be the fucking President of the United States. This is just too sweet."

  He shut the door behind him, but it opened again almost immediately. Another man stepped in, removing his pants. Faces crowded against the window. Love juices trickled out of MacCammon's homouth. It was going to be a long night.

  * * *

  A month later, MacCammon was again hanging from chains, waiting for a customer to use her.

  To be fair, she had not spent all her time hanging from chains in the intervening month. She had been tied in a variety of positions to serve the appetites of The Swinging Jungle's customers. The one constant about her bondage was that the locking collar-hood she wore was never removed. Only the person who held the key to the collar-hood could remove it, and that person was Mark. Mark wasn't about to remove the collar hood because he feared, probably with good reason, that exposure of Eileen's identity would lead to an attempt to raid the place, either by her allies or her enemies. Mark didn't care much either way who might raid the place, he just didn't want The Swinging Jungle raided. However, he also liked the fact that every penny Eilenn made chained up with men in her body went into his pocket, totally legally. Plus, it was a bit of a thrill for him to have the former President of the United States as a nameless whore in his tavern.

  And the hell of it was, Eileen LIKED being used by the customers. It wasn't JUST the nanoset that made it pleasurable, it was the interminable boredom of the wait between customers. At first she had loved such times, loved the fact that she was being left alone even if she was naked and displayed in some obscene pose. She had gotten used to that.

  But boredom has a cumulative effect, she discovered. The weight of time and nothing to do eventually made her respond with pleasure at the sight or sound of a man coming into the alcove where she was displayed. The man might be old or young or fat or thin or muscular or weak. It didn't matter, any man could use her, and any man would, it was a thing she had learned about men, and the other thing she had learned was about herself – she liked being used by men generally.

  Of course, the overwhelming pleasure that her nanoset-enhanced body sent crashing through her mind may have contributed to her newfound pleasure in being taken by any man, but part of it was that after being used by hundreds of different men she no longer had a problem with being used. She still was Eileen MacCammon, the former President of the United States, but now she knew that Eileen MacCammon, the former President of the United States, could be sexually used by any man with ten dollars in his pocket, or whatever her current price was. She didn't much care.

  The uses tended to flow together. It was always the same. She would hear the sound of a man entering her alcove. The she would hear a man talking to her, often in the low, steady way farmers talk to their livestock, and she would feel hands on her body, stroking it, feeling it, toying with her flesh.

  Her flesh invariably responded to the man's touch with waves of pleasure, even if he spanked her, which the men often did. She would find herself writhing in her bonds, her ass offering itself to the man shamelessly, stretching her vaginal lips wide for him if her hands were bound in such a way as to permit that (often, they were not). Then she would feel a man's cock thrust into her pussy or her homouth or sometimes her anus, and she would squirm in her bonds and make slucking sounds like the helpless pink animal she was, and the man would grunt and come inside her. Sometimes she'd come, sometimes not, but if she didn't come, it didn't matter, certainly not to the men, she was there for their pleasure. So long as she squirmed and moaned enticingly they were happy, and she always did that, it was her body's natural response to the touch of a man. Sometimes she wondered if she would be able to avoid squirming and moaning in a non-sexual situation with a man, given that she'd not been in a non-sexual situation with a man for a month or so.

  She'd had no idea men were so sexy. Or that she was, or that she could be. Then again, what choice did she have?

  Sometimes she came when the men used her, sometimes she didn't. It really didn't matter, if the first ma
n didn't make her come, the second one would, and then the one after that and the one after that and the one after that …

  Between fuckings she would hang or lie or kneel or lie in her bondage. She liked best to be spreadeagled on a mattress as it was the most comfortable position between uses, and also during them, for the most part. Her bondage was changed several times a day to keep her from getting injured by her bonds, and maybe also to provide some variety for the customers. A girl also came by periodically to wipe her butt down so she would not reek of spent sperm. Well, she did smell of spent sperm even after she was wiped down, but wiping her down kept it to a warm musky smell instead of a reek.

  Between customers she would often slip into reveries of better days, days when she had control of her arms and legs and bodily orifices, and also was President of the United States. Actually, the days she daydreamed about most were the early days when they were defeating the forces of sin and depravity and patriarchy …

  She remembered sitting in a conference room with plates of the usual rubbery chicken and rice scattered on the table. She and members of the Church of Propriety were meeting with members of the Women Protecting Women Alliance.

  “I know we have our differences,” MacCammon had said, “but we also have shared goals and interests. We both are vigorously opposed to human trafficking, prostitution and pornography. If we can pool our efforts, we can, I think defeat these scourges and make the world safer for all women. Surely we can overcome our differences with a goal as worthy as that in mind.”

  “I agree, it would be wonderful if we could,” responded Mindy Shermer, whose title was Most Equal Among Equals of the Feminists Against Patriarchy (aka “FAP”), “but there is an issue we are going to have to deal with. Your supporters and ours are diametrically opposed on the abortion issue. If our agreement leads to a victory for your side on the abortion issue, we will lose all support among feminists. If our agreement leads to a victory for our side on the abortion issue, you will lose all support among moral conservatives. Until we can find a way to deal with the abortion issue, we aren't going to be able to work together in any way.”

  “I have to agree with you,” MacCammon said. “Neither of us will be leading anyone if our base thinks we betrayed them on the abortion issue, or even if they think we honestly made a mistake on it. There's no room for forgiveness there. So here's what we can do: form a new group, say, the Feminist And Purity Party for Everyone's Responsible Sexuality. And that group's ONLY concerns are to be human trafficking, prostitution and pornography, the three areas we are all in agreement on. The group will have NOTHING to do with abortion, NOTHING to do with any other issue on which our bases disagree. We'll all encourage our membership to join and support the group, while continuing to oppose one another on the abortion issue in our relevant groups.”

  Well, that's an interesting idea,” said Shermer. “We create this special organization that deals ONLY with the issues we agree on, and is neutral on the issues we disagree on. That's worth thinking about. Sort of liked a 501c that's structured to address a particular disease, and no other disease.”

  “Exactly,” responded MacCammon. They were being much franker and more direct than usual because the fanatics on both sides had been carefully excluded from this conference. There would have been no chance of coming to an agreement if they had allowed the less realistic leaders of their respective groups to participate. And MacCammon felt very much in her element, cutting a deal, power sharing, and of course planning at every turn to betray Shermer and her friends on the abortion and birth control issues.

  The plan had been to gain power through the FAPPERS and they certainly HAD gained power through the FAPPERS – with the gender feminists promoting them from the left and moral conservatives promoting them from the right, everyone in the middle had joined in as well. It helped that those who patronized porn and prostitutes had been too cowardly to defend them. One of the men's rights activists they had tried to use to destroy the gender feminists (with some success) had had an interesting theory about that in a presentation she had seen.:.

  “Men tend to be moral cowards but physically brave, whereas women are morally courageous but physical cowards,” Karen Strawman had said. “It goes back to the fact that men are generally larger and physically stronger than women, so they generally feel that they can get their way by beating women and other men up. Women almost never have a physical advantage in a disagreement with a man, so they have learned to win their battles through persuasion, which in many cases includes moral persuasion, for example, “it is morally wrong to beat up women” or “It is morally wrong to settle disputes through simple physical strength.” Women have developed moral courage because it was all they had that would work. Physical bravery worked for men but for some men much more than others, and when guns became much more effective than weapons that put a premium on strength, like swords and spears, physical bravery worked less and less well. A rifle bullet does pretty much the same thing to a big man's head as it does to a small woman's head, and requires no great strength to fire. But millions of years of conditioning doesn't change overnight, so we still see men engaged in violence, and women showing more moral courage than men. That's why men don't defend their interest in prostitution and pornography – they have no moral courage. Even when it's something they really like, they will only take advantage of it stealthily, secretly going to prostitutes at night or secretly downloading porn from the Internet, but the bulk of them never supporting those activities publicly, just with their money, in secret. It's why, despite the tremendous appeal that these forms of sexuality have for men, women have been able to get them outlawed, and keep them outlawed … women have the moral courage, so we win. If men had the moral courage to say, “We like porn, we like prostitutes, we like sex with women generally, whether in a committed monogamous relationship or outside it, and we're not going to allow you to define our sexuality” then it wouldn't be so easy to get prostitutes and pornography sanctioned by society. That weakness is what gender feminists and moral conservatives exploit when they go on censorship drives. And preying on masculine moral weakness is what makes these movements strong.”

  Strawman's talk had interested MacCammon because Strawman's evolutionary biology take on the topic oddly paralleled that of many moral conservatives, who believed that men were morally the weaker sex in general, and needed the help and guidance of strong, decent family women to get them to do the right thing. Most men by their God-given natures, just did not have the moral strength to resist the blandishments of prostitutes and pornography. Strawman took it strictly from an evolutionary biology perspective: larger, physically stronger men took advantage of their strength to force their will on others, whereas women, lacking strength, had to rely on persuasion and their role as mothers of the men's children, some of whom were male.

  What MacCammon found objectionable about Strawman's approach was that it was morally neutral. The sexes were constructed thus due to the happenstance of evolutionary development, hence there was no point in blaming either sex for their nature. “Well,” as one of her fellow moral conservatives had said after listening to the presentation, “where's the fun in that?” Both versions ultimately arrived at exactly the same point, morally strong women must guide morally weak men in navigating the complexities of morality where sex is concerned. Otherwise, who knows where you might wind up? That was the important point.

  Now MacCammon knew where you might wind up … naked, swinging in chains, making disgusting slurping noises as a man stuffs his cock into your homouth, literally a helpless puppet of evil male sexuality. And … loving it. That was perhaps the worst part. She knew the neurocytes they'd put within her were responsible for her voracious libido, but she also knew it wasn't ALL the neurocytes. She remembered the sexual feelings she had fought from the onset of puberty, and they were there, they were surely the basis for the feelings that the neurocytes sent raging throughout her mind.

  It was her, the woman she w
as, that was the root cause of the sexual feelings. She had those feelings, it was her at some level that sent her spreading her legs and raising her butt toward a man when he approached her from behind, that brought those desperate moans of pleasure burbling from her homouth even as a man ravaged it with his cock.

  It sure wasn't the attractiveness of the men. The clientele of The Swinging Jungle were men of every age, weight and inclination. They tended to be older and more overweight because men who had money beyond Basic Income tended that way. The men had thick cocks, skinny cocks and long cocks. It didn't matter. They were men, they had cocks and they knew where to put them, and most of them know what to do with their cocks once they were inside her. All of them could reduce her to a whimpering, squirming animal writhing in her bonds – an animal that was enjoying every bit of her use.

  It had occurred to her at some point that the women who worked at The Swinging Jungle might be helpful to her in getting word out about her location so she could be rescued. She'd been disappointed in that respect. The women who cleaned her up and who led her to the bathroom and back to her bondage station were not at all interested in talking to her. (The eye holes on her hood were always closed when she was led from one room to another, presumably to hinder escape attempts on her part.)

  About a week into her time at The Swinging Jungle one of the women who tended her, a dark haired, very Southern woman named Lucinda said, “How you doin' today, slavegirl?” as she scrubbed MacCammon's butt.

  “Mmph,” MacCammon had responded. She was ALWAYS wearing the homouth at the Swinging Jungle, because there was a tiny device on her hood that emitted a constant signal on a radio frequency that caused her mouth to change to a homouth, if it was not already a homouth. Mark had laughed about it when he told her how he had found the frequency that controlled her homouth on a website, where it had been posted by the people who had “put the homouth on her” as he phrased it. Apparently, the bioprogrammers had missed that bit of programming.