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“No, don’t touch that,” Master Damon snapped. “You’re just a come bucket, slut. You should be honored that your Master shot his load on your face and your tits. Leave it to dry.”
Heat washed over Ellen’s cheeks. An outraged retort rose to her lips at his crude and insulting words. At the same time, her sex, still aching from her aborted orgasm, clenched and moistened. The dirty girl that lurked deep inside her moaned.
He held out a hand and she took it, allowing him to pull her upright. She wobbled a moment in the heels. He kept his hand on her until she recovered her balance. Then he reached out a finger and scooped a bit of semen from her breast. Eyes hooding, he smeared it over her lower lip.
“Lick it off.”
Face still hot, Ellen snaked her tongue over her lip and tasted the salty, slightly bitter goo.
“Like it, slut?”
It was a complicated question. While she didn’t especially like the taste of semen, she did adore the submissive aspect of swallowing her Master’s seed.
“I love it, Sir,” she said truthfully, if not literally.
“Dirty girl,” he murmured in a low, sexy voice. Then, “Wait right there. Don’t move.”
He rushed from the kitchen, returning a moment later with her sleep cuffs and clips.
“Hands behind your back.”
Moving behind her, he placed the cuffs around her wrists and clipped them together. Then he took her leash in hand and headed for the playroom, Ellen following on her clicking stilettos. Her stomach clutched in nervous anticipation as he brought her to the punishment horse.
She was well-acquainted with the diabolical torture device from her days of slave training. This horse was identical to the one they kept out on the veranda at The Enclave. She had endured several painful predicament training sessions on that horse.
The main plank of the wooden sawhorse was positioned so the narrow side of it faced upward, perfect for wedging painfully between labia or testicles. The horse could be adjusted for the height of the person forced to ride it.
“Straddle the horse so I can gauge the height,” Master Damon directed as he unclipped her leash.
Ellen was glad he didn’t also remove the collar, even if it was just a cheap dog collar. She loved the snug feel of it around her neck and the implied ownership, however temporary. She loved the beautifully crafted, individualized collars Master Brandon had made for The Enclave slaves. They were as binding and intimate as any wedding ring. She’d been allowed to take her training collar with her when she left The Enclave and she often wore it when alone in her apartment, its embrace comforting.
It was a challenge to position herself over the horse while in the stilettos, her hands cuffed behind her back, her movements further constricted by the confining corset hugging her body. Fortunately, the equipment was low enough to the ground that she was able to hobble forward and straddle it without having to lift her leg over the top.
Even so, the sharp-edged center plank nearly touched her labia. She waited nervously for Master Damon to crouch down and adjust the height of the torture device.
Instead, he said, “Kick off your heels.”
Girding herself, Ellen managed to balance on her right leg as she kicked off the left shoe. Lifting her left foot onto its toes, she barely held herself above the plank as she awkwardly kicked off the right shoe.
Before she could slam down against the unforgiving wood, she managed to lift both feet onto their toes. How long she could remain that way was anybody’s guess.
Master Damon’s sensual mouth lifted in a cruel smile “I should make you put your feet flat on the floor so that narrow plank wedges hard between your cunt lips. But I think I’ll wait and see just how long it takes you to do it to yourself.”
Easily a foot taller than she, he stepped over the horse so he was facing her, the plank between his thighs. Reaching into the pocket of his pants, he pulled out a pair of clover clamps.
He caught a nipple between thumb and forefinger, pressed open one of the clamps and let it close over the base.
Ellen drew in a sharp breath through her nostrils as she struggled to process the sharp pain. Without missing a beat, he clamped the second nipple. Lifting the chain, he touched it to her lips. “Hold this in your teeth. Don’t let it go until I say so.”
Ellen took the chain, wincing at the added pressure to her breasts. The clover clamps hurt far more than the alligator clips had, and the tension from the chain only pulled them tighter around her tortured nipples.
“You look like such a total slut in that whore getup with my come drying on your tits and your face. That’s all you are, you know. Just a dirty, filthy fuck hole.”
Ellen lowered her head, at once thrilled and debased by his words.
A hand on her chin forced her to meet Master Damon’s gaze. “Say it, Ellen. With the chain still in your mouth, tell me that you’re nothing but a dirty, filthy fuck hole.”
“I’m nothing but a dirty, filthy fuck hole,” Ellen managed through clenched teeth, her words garbled by the chain. Despite her humiliation, or partially because of it, her perverse cunt flooded with her own juices.
