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The image on the screen changed to a close-up of my tearstained face, and that intensified my climax even more, since I looked so perfect a picture of reluctant submission, of shameful, unwanted pleasure… my brow deeply creased, my mouth in a woeful pout of penitence too late. My eyes seemed to speak of my master’s rough justice, of his rightful conquering and my rebellion righteously put down before the victor took his pleasure.
Abruptly he held himself all the way inside me, the scratchy fabric of his pants pressed firmly against my terribly sore bottom. I let out a whimper as my climax began to ebb away. The picture on the screen changed again, to show my owner in a medium shot, in full possession of me by means of his gripping hands, his stance above and behind me like a rider, a trainer… looking down at me in cruel satisfaction. His expression seemed stern, his eyes hard and resolute.
“You’re just as tight as Candy, my dear,” he finally said. “They’ve taught you how to take care of yourself, haven’t they?”
I sobbed at this degradation, though I couldn’t suppress a surge of wicked pride at my master’s praise. The comparison to his AI concubine, his sexbot, sent a wave of heat to my cheeks, and whoever sat at the controls of the video screens didn’t miss the chance: my face came back onto the screen, revealing the rosiness Master Hendryk had brought with his humiliating words.
He let go of my hair, and I hung my head again, unable to look at the screen, or at Miss Charlotte, or above all at Master G. I knew, for there couldn’t be the slightest doubt of it given Master G’s expertise, that my training master had seen my brutal new owner had just forced more pleasure on me than he ever had.
My blush got hotter at the thought of meeting the eyes of the man who had introduced me to the fulfillment, joy, and peace that only came with my sexual submission. I knew I would have no choice but to acknowledge that another man—a man who seemed so much less skillful and less caring than Master G—could take me deeper into that submission than Master G could.
Master Hendryk pulled the little globes of my caned bottom apart, very roughly, so that I cried out. My head went up, my back arching with the flash of pain, but I kept my eyes tightly closed.
I felt his fingers dip into my aching vagina, gathering the wetness there. I sobbed, and lowered my head again in abject shame as he smeared the warm, slippery essence of my own need on my virgin anus. Slowly but very firmly Master Hendryk began to push what felt like it must be two fingers into my smallest place. I let out another sob, this one deeper, racking my whole body so that I strained against the belt holding me down atop the horse.
“Get those eyes up, Renee,” he growled. “You’re going to watch this on the screen.”
A murmur of approval came from the audience; the moment had become so still that I knew for certain I had heard those indistinct whispers. Well-heeled men and women had said to one another,Yes, make her watch her master deflower her ass. Just what I would have done.I obeyed his command: I raised my head and opened my eyes, and found I was looking straight into the answering gaze of Master G.
His eyes had narrowed, and at first I felt a wave of grief because I thought I read disapproval on his face, but an instant later I realized that I must have projected that onto him. Master G’s mouth had curved upward into a smile: his expression, far from critical or disappointed, was one of happiness, even of pride.
My lips parted, my jaw slackening. A thrill of happiness burst in my chest, but then I saw my training master’s face change, his expression transforming into the disapproving one I had thought I had seen at first. My joy grew very confused, and I felt my face crease back into my repentant, sorrowful pout.
Master Hendryk pressed his fingertips—his two middle fingers, I saw on the screen as I did shift my suddenly tear-filled eyes there—harder against the wrinkly little dimple. I bit my lip and let out a soft, whining noise at the sight of it: my well-fucked vagina, glistening with need but not to be satisfied anymore, for my master had chosen a narrower, darker place for his pleasure… the fingers, on that tiny flower, glistening with my own wanton juices, pressing until I cried out… those fingers entering, invading, inside me.
All Institute concubines had their anuses trained daily. Those who had already had anal sex before coming to the mansion got that, too, from their training masters. Anal virgins like me usually wore belts, fastened by our training masters, that held butt plugs inside us to get us ready for sale to a master or mistress who, like most dominants, would seek a great deal of pleasure in our bottoms.
So to accept Master Hendryk’s fingers there shouldn’t have represented anything new. I should have had the ability to relax and to let him prepare me and enjoy me as he saw fit. Something about having to watch him probe and stretch me with his fingers, though, brought a tension that I couldn’t seem to push away. I bit my lip and moaned with the discomfort of the invasion as I felt him lubricate me with my own need.
I tried desperately to remember the proud expression on Master G’s face, telling myself that he had changed it only because of my failure to look at the screen as Master Hendryk had instructed. I refocused my eyes on the upper corner of the screen, where the image showed only black. I took a deep breath through my nose and tried to hold it, but a flash of pain from the pushing, pulling, stretching fingers made me let it out with a gasping sob.
The fingers left me, and I felt my master stand up straighter. My gaze shifted involuntarily back to the middle of the screen, to where the huge, hard cock menaced the cringing little hole, slick with the wetness my owner had applied to ease his shameful way.
I whimpered as he put the crimson head of his erection against the untried flower, the forbidden little ring of my most private place. He had his rigid manhood in his right hand while with his left on my cane-striped left cheek he continued to pull my bottom open so he could see his possession of me there. He pressed his hips forward, a grunt of pleasure escaping his chest as he began to claim me fully.
I cried out at the feeling of being opened that unnatural way, impaled on my master’s cock. My whole body shuddered atop the horse. I felt his hand move to the back of my neck, felt him grip me there. I heard a whimpering cry come from my throat, as if from another girl.
“There we go,” Master Hendryk murmured, his very voice seeming dark to me, colored by his obscene pleasure. “That’s just what an ass should feel like.”
CHAPTER7
Hendryk
I thought I could feel every part of Renee’s lithe, gorgeous body—her soft, pale skin… the taut muscles beneath it—respond to my degrading words.
Those assessors don’t kid around, I thought, remembering the dossier again,and they don’t get it wrong.
They had said the girl would respond to humiliation from her new owner in a way her Institute trainers couldn’t get out of her.
Renee has a fascinating quirk in her submissive orientation,the executive summary had read,in that the setting of the mansion, which has brought her need to submit into focus for her, cannot despite all our resources provide the level of domination she will require to reach full self-actualization. The mansion provides too much stability. In such cases, which occur in ca. 7% of Institute recruits—a figure that has remained stable, year to year, over the past twenty years, and thus one in which we have high confidence—rather than attempting to implement some alternative, less institutionalized training our standard practice is to offer the girls for sale with the condition that bidders qualify at seven or above on the Lourcy dominance scale, and consent to an additional monitoring protocol.
My Lourcy score, which Selecta measured these days on a continuous basis thanks to my having acquired Candy, stood at 8.2 out of 10. Dominants who fell lower on the scale, formulated fifteen years ago by an Institute researcher and maintained by Selecta’s data-mining arm, tended to say it was bullshit, but the Institute’s assessors swore by it.
The measurement parameters and the technology used in gathering the necessary data, of course, as with all such Selecta trade secrets, remained shrouded in mystery. As a Selecta executive myself I knew with absolute certainty, though, that the Lourcy scale must at least describe some set of characteristics of great importance to understanding dominant sexuality.
Selecta’s vast corporate empire depended on good data. There was no room for bullshit, because bullshit would get in the way of business—except, obviously, for the outward-facing bullshit called ‘marketing.’ As the head of the Education division, I was lucky enough to have access to the internal workings, even if I didn’t get to drill down into the analytic areas that I probably wouldn’t have understood anyway.
So I felt what seemed to me a bit of justified pride in my Lourcy rating. The more so because the one thing the dominants of the global elite knew about the scale, a rumor that I happened to know Selecta had started themselves as, yes, a marketing ploy, was that Selecta measured it based on subconscious actions. Every attempt by a billionaire to raise his Lourcy score through treating his concubines more harshly than his actual dominant orientation drove him to do in pursuit of his sexual pleasure had ended not in a rise in the score but in a warning from the Institute to knock it off.
