President Slavegirl: Billionaire's Toy: Book Two of The Homouth Series Page 9

  “She's ready,” the salon woman said, and Talena nodded and they both walked out of the room.

  For the next twenty minutes she just sat there watching the other slaves prep the room for whatever event was going to occur. She knew they were slaves because they wore collars, cuffs, shackles and sleek black leather bodysuits that seemed to have been poured over their bodies, from which furry tails incongruously sprouted. MacCammon knew how they were attached. To go around in public like that, willingly … MacCammon just did not understand how they could do it. Feeling that thing in your ass, appearing in public, knowing others knew how it was attached … and that you were wearing it voluntarily … it was too much.

  She heard a few respectful murmurs and she could tell from the tone in which they were pitched that somebody important was in the room, another useful skill from her politician days, which now seemed so far way.

  “Mr. DeFabio,” she heard someone murmur and she realized suddenly that it must be Art DeFabio, head of Urbank Inc., one of the most successful and predatory investment banks in the world. And one of MacCammon's most generous backers from her Presidential days.

  Suddenly, there he was at the door to the room she was in, Art DeFabio, in an elegantly tailored gray suit, his close-cropped brown hair framing his rough features … he had always looked more like a goon than a financier to her. But that rough face concealed a very keen mind by all accounts. She had always found him to be more goonish than keen, personally. But he was a generous contributor to her campaigns, and allies with money were the best allies of all in politics.

  “Hello, Mrs. President,” DeFabio said in the booming voice of his, peering at her intently. “Excellent job, Talena, she's looking very much the President even in her present, ah, situation. Now I'd like some time alone with President MacCammon. And with … ah, you there, the redhead,” he said.

  Yes, Master DeFabio,” Talena said in tones very different from those she used with MacCammon. “627, accompany Master DeFabio.”

  DeFabio stepped into the room with a gorgeous redhead close behind him. He pushed a button and a recessed door smoothly slid shut behind him, and the instant it did so all the sounds of the people outside the room went away, leaving the room silent indeed.

  “Bracelets,” DeFabio said, and the woman known as 627 turned her back to DeFabio with her hands crossed. DeFabio, with practiced ease, linked her wrist cuffs and then gave her tail a playful yank. “Kneel and serve, slave,” he said.

  627 murmured “Yes, Master,” and turned to face DeFabio. She easily dropped to her knees with her hands cuffed behind her back and unhesitatingly took DeFabio's cock into her mouth, gazing up at him with a worshipful expression that MacCammon assumed was properly slavish, and began enthusiastically sucking his cock, making lots of happy little noises deep in her throat as she did so.

  MacCammon was very surprised. In all of her previous encounters with DeFabio, he had been a very buttoned-up, proper banking type. He tended to speak directly, but it was always about debt instruments and credit default swaps and so forth. She'd never paid much attention, on money issues she went with whatever her backers proposed. Money was important, but it wasn't important the way morality was important.

  DeFabio said nothing, just stood there watching his cock slide in and out of 627's mouth. It was soon nice and hard. And MacCammon felt a trickle of drool escaping her homouth as she watched. It was turning her on. O f course.

  “Enough, 627, now leave,” said DeFabio.

  “Yes, Master,” said 627, and she rose and walked over to the door and punched a hidden switch with her nose, walking out with her hands still cuffed behind her back, her backside having a nice little sway to it.

  As soon as 627 was out the door Defabio pushed the button 627 had nosed, and shut the door again. He was alone with MacCammon, and she was chained down and helpless. Without hesitation, DeFabio grabbed her head and held it still while he easily slid his engorged cock into her homouth and down her throat.

  “You have NO idea how often I've wanted to talk to you like this, with my cock in your mouth, MacCammon,” DeFabio said as he began ramming his cock back and forth, sending it probing deep into her throat with each thrust. “For all the listening you did, I might as well have gotten a little something out of it. We told you, 'don't go after the customers when it comes to porn and prostitution.' We told you over and over again and YOU NEVER LISTENED!” DeFabio growled, thrusting his cock hard to emphasize each word. “Financially you were PERFECT, you went with our program all the way, we never had a problem with you while you were in office. But you had to go and BLOW IT ALL by scaring the shit out of the voters with you CRAZY ASS laws and get yourself tossed out on your ASS. And now LOOK AT YOU with my cock and ANY MAN'S COCK rammed down your throat at will. You ASKED FOR IT, don't you understand? You're a TOOL, that's all you ever WERE!” he said. “While YOU and your stupid OPPONENTS were fighting about who could fuck WHO and whether or not you could WATCH somebody fucking somebody ELSE, we were using BOTH of you to do the IMPORTANT stuff, which was getting all the MONEY! Liberal, conservative, Republican, Democrat, it doesn't MATTER, it never MATTERED, only the MONEY matters, you dumb SLUT!”

  MacCammon was horrified. This was someone who had known her as President, an ally. If Sam had told her that the person who'd purchased her was DeFabio, she would have assumed he had done it to rescue her.

  Somehow that made what DeFabio was doing worse than anything that had happened to her at the Swinging Jungle (though not what the Sisters of Mercy had put her through) because it was personal. DeFabio had known her, the real her, as a person. He'd attended her daughter's wedding. And now he was telling her she'd been nothing but a tool to him, all that time.

  And yet, at the same time as she was drenched in shame, humiliation and betrayal, she felt her body responding to the feel of the cock in her homouth, arousing her. She was moaning as DeFabio rammed her throat with his cock, and she was moaning in both sorrow and pleasure.

  “If you are going to mess with power, you have to OBEY the LAWS of POWER,” DeFabio continued, looking down at her tear-streaked face as he spoke and fucked her homouth.. “People like you think you USE power, it's not true, ever, for anyone. POWER USES YOU! If you want to KEEP power, you have to do what power WANTS you to do, whether you like it or NOT. Even ME! I'm having to tell my political ERRAND BOYS to implement fucking BASIC INCOME! I HATE basic income, giving a bunch of goddam SLACKERS money for NOTHING is SO FUCKING STUPID! But it's what power wants, and I HAVE TO do it, like it or NOT. So I'm DOING it. YOU never got that! You never understood that you could NOT prosecute the CUSTOMERS, and you DID IT anyway, and power DESERTED you, and now look at you, chained, POWERLESS and SUCKING MY COCK, like it or NOT, you STUPID BITCH!” he said, coming in her mouth as he spoke.

  He shuddered as he came, and MacCammon felt his cum in her throat, and she moaned in dismay and sorrow and pleasure, all at the same time.

  DiFabio looked down at MacCammon kneeling there with his cum and various other bodily fluids leaking out of the bottom of her homouth and coating the bottom of her chin before it fell in long strands to the floor.

  “Damn, that was worth every fucking penny,” he said before zipping up and walking out of the room, leaving the door open.

  One of the outside slaves came in, a light brown woman with big eyes, big lips and a snub nose. She gazed at MacCammon a moment, then took a look around the room, then walked to one side of the room and pulled out a recessed drawer. She removed a towel and a makeup kit and walked over to where MacCammon knelt, tears steaming from her eyes and other stuff oozing down her chin. She quickly and expertly wiped off MacCammon's chin and face.

  “You are going to have to stop that crying girl,” said the slave as she pulled out the makeup kit and began working on MacCammon's face, “it's ruining your makeup. I mean, I know Masters and Mistresses sometimes say and do hurtful things, but really, if you can't handle that, you shouldn't have taken the job. Remember, it's
all pretendy-play, when you go home you can be yourself, not what they want you to be. Today I'm a slave, but four days a week I'm the queen of all I survey, because I got a fucking job. Literally!” she added with a giggle. “So cheer up!”

  Brushing off MacCammon's face, she put the makeup kit back in the drawer and dropped the towel into another drawer after cleaning the floor with it, then slipped out of the room, leaving the door open.

  MacCammon knelt there, still pinioned, still helpless and still crying. She had thought DeFabio was her friend, or a supporter of her cause at the very least. She had always understood that politics makes strange bedfellows, that not everyone who supported her was necessarily all that enthralled with her personally, just her policies. At least she understood it rationally. But everyone was always so nice to her when she had been President, it had been so easy to take their niceness at face value, that they really were pleased and impressed with her as a person.

  She calmed down after a couple of minutes of cyring and was able to see that guests were at the reception now. You could tell the guests because the men were wearing very nice suits and the women were wearing very nice clubbing outfits. Some of the clothes they were wearing were revealing or kinky or just plain bizarre, but none of them looked like the serving slaves … that would have been embarrassing. A definite faux pas. She knew a lot of them. They were the sort of people she had thought of as “her people” when she had been President. Now she wondered.

  One of the women walked toward her niche. She recognized her. She was.Marilyn Wellington, the daughter of a powerful Republican who had backed her legislation even before it had been obvious her party was the Next Big Thing. She was a political commentator herself, but there had always been a huge asterisk over her name among MacCammon's crowd because she was an out lesbian.

  And she walked right into MacCammon's niche and closed the door behind her. She was dressed in a black strappy dress that left large swathes of her figure revealed, and was very tight, ending just below her crotch. In her public appearances, she had always worn very conservative dresses that revealed little or nothing of her body, as befitted a conservative woman, lesbian or not.

  “Mrs. President,” Wellington said, smiling an evil little smile, “so nice to meet you under these circumstances.” As shed spoke she pulled her dress up over her hips and MacCammon was able to see her very bare vagina. It was plump and fleshy and had a ring set in it.

  Wellington then picked up the remote and pressed some buttons, and she felt the bench beneath her shifting again. This time the pads and backing (that she had thought were solid) slid away at the middle and rotated around her torso to meet again at her back, while the “legs” to which her ankles were shackled rotated forward. Then the whole assembly descended to the floor and she was lying on her back with her legs spread, staring up at Wellington, her eyes bulging with surprise, once again fortunate that her homouth was not capable of falling open.

  “You know,” Wellington said, standing over her, “most of my gay friends and lovers just HATED your Presidency. And I had to listen to them and pretend to be sympathetic. I mean, your policies DID cause a lot of suffering among the Basics, you know, but I knew they would never touch me or anyone I cared about, but still, I had to listen to an awful lot of it. And then I had to go to events and talk with you and your people and pretend I LIKED your policies when I was pretty sure they were pure crap from the beginning, but of course there was no percentage in saying THAT so I spent a lot of time smiling and nodding while you and your friends spewed pure garbage. So I spent a lot of time doing and saying things that were definitely NOT what I'm all about during your administration. So I thought … now that I have the chance … I'd show you what I'm all about. I have a homouth too, you see. Best thing ever for lesbians, as you are about to find out.”

  With those words, Wellington stopped talking and her mouth transformed into a homouth, her eyes gazing down at Wellington with a certain, and by now to MacCammon, very familiar “I'm going to get mine now,” expression. Then she walked around so that she stood over MacCammon facing her feet, and slowly lowered her naked butt and ground her vagina against MacCammon's homouth. As she did this, she pulled up MacCammon's very nice gray dress until all of it was bunched around her waist, exposing her vagina. MacCammon, of course, had no underwear on beneath the dress. The Presidential outfit was all for show, underneath it she was still a slave.

  MacCammon squirmed helplessly under Wellington as Wellington lowered her homouth to MacCammon's vagina and began working it expertly, even as she expertly worked MacCammon's homouth with her vagina.

  MacCammon was not gay by inclination, but since the homouth and its attendant nanoset had been put on her, she found that any kind of physical contact stimulated her, and that her clit was ESPECIALLY sensitive. And Welllington knew how to exploit that sensitivity. She worked her homouth clit against MacCammon's vaginal clit with obscene skill, and she pressed her vagina against MacCammon's homouth and nose, her butt seemingly a living organism of its own, mating with MacCammon's homouth. MacCammon struggled to move her homouth out of the way, but Wellington's vagina was implacable, unstoppable, and irresistible, its slick wet warmth and strong smell of female arousal filling MaCammon's mouth and eyes and nose. MacCammon had some success at turning her head to one side to avoid MacCammon's vagina, but she was totally unable to keep her vagina away from Wellington's questing homouth. Very soon she was a squirming, panting, writhing animal lying beneath Wellington.

  Slowly, slowly MacCammon lost conscious control of her body. It responded directly and naturally to Wellington's probing homouth and vagina. Her arms and legs instinctively strained against her bonds, not to escape, but to embrace Wellington. MacCammon's homouth stopped avoiding Wellington's vagina and sought it out, meeting her every thrust like a hungry baby nuzzling a nipple.

  Soon MacCammon's whole being was engulfed in waves of pleasure, squirming and writhing, transformed into a pink squirming beast by Wellington's expert use of her body. She had been used by lesbians, or women who were willing and happy to do lesbian things to her during her initial captivity by the Sisters of Mercy and their friends, but their focus had been more on punishing her than in giving her pleasure, or getting pleasure, at least, the direct visceral sexual pleasure that might come from using her body well.

  Wellington was all about getting off, and getting MacCammon off, and she expertly did both. Shackled and helpless, she felt the orgasm approaching, and there was nothing she could do about it, she was like an onlooker on the shore, frozen at the sight of an approaching tsunami, watching the wave swell and crest, growing larger and larger, only MacCammon was less in danger of drowning than said onlooker, though suffocating might be an issue, the way Wellington's butt kept pressing into her face. The twin inputs of ecstasy from the clit on her homouth and the clit on her vagina swamped her brain.

  The orgasm arrived, it crashed over her, she lost all consciousness, her body simply responding to Wellington's ass and homouth, which were locked in a reciprocating motion of desire. MacCammon cried out in ecstasy as she came. She could not help it. Fortunately her cry was muffled by both her homouth and Wellingtons' vagina, which was pressed tightly over her homouth and sliding all over it at the time, so it was tiny sound, barely a mewl of surrender.

  Wellington either did not hear MacCammon's tiny cry or ignored it. She continued to writhe atop the helpless former President of the United States with lustful abandon, her hips grinding into MacCammon's face, her homouth feeding on MacCammon's helplessly spread cunt like a starving hound on a pork chop. And another tsunami quickly arose and overwhelmed MacCammon, one orgasm wasn't enough for Wellington, Wellington's writhing body demanded, and got, an entire succession of them, leaving MacCammon's mind all roaring, hissing and foam as the waves of ecstasy swamped her again and again, with barely time for a breath between orgasms.

  When Wellington finally rose from the squirming beast that has been Eileen MacCammon, MacCammon we
nt slack, just lay there in her bonds, her face and genitals a sticky mess. She didn't even look up at Wellington, not because she was ashamed, but because her eyes were rolled back in her head, and a little bit crossed, she was that relaxed. Small blubbering sounds issued from her homouth as she sighed.

  Wellington opened a drawer and cleaned off her face and genitals with a large scented towel then tossed it to the floor and pulled her own dress back down.

  “THAT'S what I'm all about,” Wellington said, looking smugly down at MacCammon's splayed-out body. “I could tell you were having a good time down there. You probably think it was the nanoset I heard they put in you. Everybody knows all about it, by the way, it's been all over the Internet. We don't censor any more, you know. Anyway, the nanoset can only amplify the feelings that are already there … they can't put any new feelings in for you. Think about that.”

  And with those words, Wellington walked out of the room, leaving MacCammon lying there in a daze with her dress rucked up and the door wide open. MacCammon did not notice..

  A moment after Welllington left a slave popped in. She did the same clean up routine as before, except more extensively.

  “You been rode hard and put up wet, 401,” she said as she fixed MacCammon's makeup. MacCammon just stared blankly.

  “You OK, 401?” the slave asked.

  MacCammon nodded slightly. She had not been HARMED by Wellington, but her presence of mind was absent.

  The slave nodded back and left the room after restoring MacCammon's dress to its normal position and returning her to a kneeling position via the remote control.

  A minute or two later Talena popped in. She looked hard at MacCammon, who was still dreamy-eyed and limp. Talena shut the door behind her then touched the remote and MacCammon felt her mouth returning to normal.”