From: "mmo520" To: Subject: [XFNC17ff] New Fic: Remote Control Date: Monday, July 08, 2002 12:08 AM Title: Remote Control Author/pseudonym: PegE Email address: Feedback (pleeeeeeeez)to mmo520@yahoo.com Rating: NC-17 Pairings: Skinner/Reyes; D/R angst Warnings: Consensual BDSM. Spoilers: Oh, like it has a plot. Status: Complete Date: 7/7/02 Archive: Let me know where Series/Sequel: See notes at end. Other website: Summary: Skinner and Reyes have a relationship outside work, and he's still the boss. Disclaimer: These characters are not mine (good thing, or they'd be really tired right about now) and I'm not making any money off this. Notes: Gotta stop reading Anne Rice.... It is dinnertime on a Friday night and the lobby of the Monk House is packed with members and their guests. Master sits a few feet from me, watching me dance to the electric buzz between my legs. I am naked and bound to a rolling luggage cart. My wrists are fastened overhead. My legs are spread wide and shackled at the ankles. He holds the remote control to the vibrator now torturing me. The long, thick cock of it throbs inside me; a clear plastic "finger" extends to stimulate my clit. On: ecstasy. Off: torment. I have spent the last hour dancing for Master, but he refuses to let me come, just brings me to the brink of orgasm and turns the power off. A small crowd has gathered around to watch the show as Master works the controls. On: ecstasy. Off: torment, sweetened by our growing audience. The sight of them watching makes me shiver; my juices are running down my thighs. "Please!" I try to dance more suggestively for Master, but I feel awkward in the thigh-high boots and laced gloves he ordered me to wear. He likes the sound the bells dangling from my nipple clamps make as I shimmy and gyrate for him. He makes me wear the nipple clamps daily now, and I'm always afraid they'll be visible under my blouse. But every day, Master calls me into the office and unbuttons my blouse to check that I'm wearing them. Tomorrow, we're going to the country house. I will be paddled and turned over to the servants for their amusement, which means I will spend the morning and most of the afternoon sucking off the butler and the housekeeper and the groundskeeper and the two maids as they probe me with their hands and tongues and cocks and whatever toys or implements they can find handy. Saturday night I will entertain Master and whatever guests we have. On Sunday, Master will rub the white cream into my pussy to set my clit on fire, bind my legs together and leave me hog-tied in the backseat of the car as he drives back to Washington. He will laugh as I wiggle in torment until I can finally jerk my hips hard enough to make myself come. On Monday, we will be back at the office and I won't recognize him, the tall, stern assistant director in a crisp white dress shirt and silk tie. But at some point, he will call me into his office to torment me or to order me to pleasure him and then I will know who he is. Our audience claps as I swivel my hips and try to make my breasts jiggle and bounce for Master. With my hands bound, I can only shimmy my shoulders and work my hips and legs. "Shake it, baby," one of the members shouts and there's a chorus of laughter and wolf whistles. My face grows hot; my cunt grows hotter. On. Off. On the table next to his chair is a new anal plug he keeps threatening to make me wear. Fixed to the plug are long strands of soft black suede braided with tiny bells. When he wants me to dance faster, he picks it up and shakes it at me so the bells jingle. The thought of wearing it horrifies me. I can't imagine anything more degrading. Finally, he sets down the remote control and picks up the plug, turning it round and round in his hands as he stares at me. He pulls a bottle of lube from the table drawer and begins coating the plug with it. He gestures to a bellhop, who comes running. They confer, whispering for several minutes, then the bellhop advances on me, holding the plug and the lube and I begin sobbing. I can't stand the thought of that thing in my body. The crowd is roaring now and more guests are streaming in to watch the action. The bellhop recruits the doorman and the two of them turn the luggage cart around so that my back is to Master and the crowd gathered behind him. I see the doorman walk away, back toward Master, as the bellhop begins fondling and pinching the cheeks of my ass. Master chuckles at the sight and I sob harder, trying to wriggle away from the bellhop's grasp. After several minutes, I feel his slick finger flicking at my tight opening. His finger is well lubed and he slides it gently and slowly, inch by inch, up into my body. I am crying and shaking my head, but my protest is futile. The bellhop twists his wrist, opening me wider and I try to adjust my stance to the intrusion, but the shackles at my ankles hold tight. He twists his wrist again and I feel a second finger slide up into my ass and, minutes later, a third. This is not the first time Master has made me a wear a plug, but I cry every time, more from humiliation then pain. But as Master always gently reminds me, the humiliation is what I need, and that is why I am here tonight, bound and naked and tormented in front of a cheering crowd in the lobby of a Georgetown club. The first time Master brought me to Monk House, I was displayed in the dining room for the members' enjoyment. In accordance with club tradition for a slave making her debut, I was on my knees, legs spread wide so that my knees were fastened at either side of the narrow table, my body bent forward so that my head rested on a curved stand. The collar I wore was fastened to the stand so that I couldn't turn my head. My hands were bound behind my back and I was gagged, but not blindfolded. I could see the members approaching to fondle and torment me, but I couldn't cry out against them as they imposed their hands and mouths and cocks and tongues on my body. Until that night, I had consigned multiple orgasms to the realm of fiction. A sharp smack on my ass jerks me back to the present. The doorman has returned to paddle my bare bottom before the bellhop inserts the anal plug. Master always likes to see me properly spanked. He likes the cheeks of my ass to be a nice rosy-red as I wiggle and dance for him. Master spanked me the first time in his office. I had disobeyed orders to save John and nearly gotten killed in the process. Master, then only my boss, had lectured me sharply and, in frustration at my refusal to admit I was wrong, grabbed me and turned me over his knee. I knew exactly what was happening as he pinned my wrists with one hand and jerked my skirt up and then my panties and stockings down. I could only curse myself for breaking my own rule and wearing a skirt to work. Seconds later, his hand was delivering stinging smacks to my bare bottom as I wriggled and kicked under him. At some point, he abandoned spanking for fondling my ass. Soon after, he began stroking my clit. He made me beg before he let me come. Before I left his office, I had stripped for him and dropped to my knees to suck his cock. He kept my bra and panties and told me to come to his condo that night to get them back. He has been my Master ever since. Now the bellhop is lubing me again in preparation. I have to admit, the stinging from the paddling is distracting me from my horror of the plug. But in seconds, I feel the thick, hard tip of the plug pushing against my entrance. I cry out as the bellhop firmly guides the thing into place. I try to hold my hips still as he gives it a few turns, but I can't. The intrusion of the plug and the soft jangling of the bells and the feel of the suede slapping against the backs of my legs are more than I can bear and I'm crying again. Master has no patience for tears; neither does the audience. "Dance for me, slut; I want to hear those bells jingle while you shake that pretty little ass for me." The combination of fear, humiliation and keening frustration paralyze me. I imagine Master nodding to the doorman and within seconds, the paddle is descending on my ass again. Yelping, I begin swinging my hips wildly, barely hearing the crowd's laughter. Soon I settle into a rhythm as the doorman continues to paddle me, lightly now, and the crowd begins clapping along. I wiggle and shake my ass for several minutes for Master and the audience, sobbing in humiliation and desire. The soft jingling of the bells makes me cringe, but I keep dancing, willing myself to follow Master's directions as he tells me to speed up, slow down, wriggle right or left. Eventually, the buzz begins between my legs again as Master turns the vibrator on at its lowest speed. I can barely feel the vibration against my clit, but the muscles in my pelvis begin to tense in anticipation. I try to concentrate on moving, not wanting to be disappointed when Master flicks the switch off again, but within minutes, I'm panting with need, my hips working faster and faster. "Turn her around." The motion of the luggage cart leaves me dizzy for several seconds as I'm turned to face Master once again. His fingers stroke the controls again and the sensation against my clit intensifies. I groan and jerk my hips involuntarily and the doorman spanks me again on each cheek. Master knows it excites me when he speaks crudely of what he wants me to do, what he wants to do to me. "I want to see those tits move now, slut. I want you to make them shake and jiggle and bounce, just you like you did with your ass. And do it right or you'll be running in place to get away from that paddle." Red-faced, I comply as much as I can, shimmying my shoulders again, wiggling up and down in rhythm with the steady smacks the doorman is delivering to my poor ass. "Faster, slut," Master orders and I sob and begin almost jogging in place. The bells attached to my nipples are jangling loudly now and the clamps tug almost painfully with each step. "Shake those tits!" I dance and wriggle more lewdly and cry out as I feel the vibrator buzzing harder between my legs. I try to fight the building rush of pleasure, hopeless with the expectation Master will turn the switch to off again just as I'm ready to come. "Do it, slut," Master barks and the crowd picks up the chant. I arch my back to make my breasts even more visible and my hips begin swiveling involuntarily as the sensation builds. I am seconds away from coming, finally, and I watch desperately to see if Master's fingers will flick the switch again. I can't move any faster as I shimmy and shake in time to the crowd chanting, "Do it, slut!" and I'm struggling to breathe as I thrust my hips shamelessly toward Master and the audience. And then I'm coming, screaming and wriggling as the crowd roars its approval. I keep moving and dancing and soon another orgasm is washing over me and then another and another. The doorman is still spanking me. The sharp smacks of the paddle only intensify the waves of pleasure that are now wracking me as I sob with relief. Countless orgasms later, I'm barely able stand as the bellhop and doorman unfasten my bonds. The doorman swings me over his shoulder and carries me to Master's chair. Master gestures to the floor, and the doorman sets me in a boneless heap at his feet. Master lets me rest my head on his lap and strokes my sweat-soaked hair. "Tell me, Monica, how do you think John would feel if he saw you up there dancing like that?" I swallow, shamed beyond words at the realization that John would be horrified. I love my partner with all my heart; he is a good and honorable man and I would die to win his heart. But John can't begin to guess at, much less fulfill, the dark needs that Master has identified in me. Master lifts me up a little to unfasten the nipple clamps. He strokes my nipples lightly, rolling them gently between his fingertips. But I'm too wrapped up in thoughts about my beloved John to express my gratitude. Master knows what I'm thinking. "Don't worry too hard, pet," he tells me pleasantly. "We'll find out when he joins us tomorrow night." The End ------------------------------------------------------- So whaddaya think? Should I write a sequel featuring the blue-eyed god? (In case you didn't recognize it, that was a shameless plea for feedback.) Peace, PegE