Her Master Demands (Dark BDSM Erotica)

Her Master Demands

(Dark BDSM Erotica)

By Dan Bruce

Copyright Dan Bruce, 2013

Published by Firm Hand Books at Smashwords

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Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Please note: this is a work of fiction. Names, characters and
incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are
used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons,
living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

This ebook is for sale to adult audiences only. It contains
sexually explicit scenes and graphic language which may be
considered offensive by some readers. Please store the material
where it cannot be accessed by minors.

All sexually active characters in this work are 18 years of
age or older.

Please also note: this ebook is a modified version of Jack
Brighton’s ‘His Nemesis Demands’ – with the author’s kind
permission.

Chapter
1

Under a harsh fluorescent light that did her looks no favours,
Emily Johnson lay naked on a piss drenched floor, an exhausted heap
of fucked and fisted flesh. Her body was covered in the sweat of
fornication - it glistened on her pale creamy skin. More fluid
oozed from her gaping asshole – a cocktail of semen from the men
who had buggered her and fired their mess into her welcoming body.
Needless to say, it had been an eventful evening for the delightful
Mrs. Johnson, P.A. to the boss of one of Britain’s largest
companies, a piece of posh totty in most peoples’ eyes, and a right
dirty slut for hard cock.

Dazed and fuck-crazed, screwed to a pulp yet still yearning
for more, Emily was jolted to attention when she heard a door
close. The young woman shuddered, the sound of departure firm and
decisive, chilling her to the bone. A bead of sweat dripped from
her chin as a ghostly echo lingered in the bleak grimy washroom
that had proved eminently functional for what had recently
occurred. The noise persisted, defying the physics of sound. It
rang in Emily’s ears like a death knell: black; Catholic; certain
and profound. That exit had been more painful than any actual hurt
she’d endured. Once again Her Master had left her without a care
for her state or a parting word. But words aplenty were present in
Emily’s head: more ghostly echoes goading her psyche; memories of
the rough and violent sex she’d embraced; verbal abuse that was
still fresh in her troubled mind...

“Dirty, dirty, bitch!” Her Master had snarled as he had
brutally fucked her.

“Cock loving slut!” Her Nemesis had accused, spitting out the
words as he had ferociously banged into Emily’s already well
ploughed ass.

“
Cum guzzling whore! Piss drinking pig!” were some of the
other choice phrases the man had used as he vocally assaulted Emily
whilst he had slammed repeatedly at her aching butt, shunting her
along the bench on which they rutted – savage and raw like a couple
of animals, violent and all-consuming.

And it was all true. There could be no denying any of the
vulgar accusations. During her time in the basement, Emily had
gorged on depravity, debasing herself to a level she would never
have thought possible. She had been collared like a dog and crawled
on all fours, dragged by Her Master along the floor on a leash! She
had licked Her Master’s boots like a faithful mutt, cleaning the
leather with an adoring tongue! She had guzzled down cum having
swilled it in her mouth! She had been splashed by ejaculate deep
down her throat! She had drunk men’s piss and wallowed in the
bliss! She had been sprayed from head to toe in hot stinking urine,
rejoicing in the humiliation and her total subjugation. She had
been bombarded by a blitzkrieg of verbal abuse – words of
defamation that still resonated in her head...

“
You’re my dirty slave bitch, aren’t you Blondie,” Her Nemesis
Master had growled as he rode her. “And this spunk drenched ass
belongs to me. It’s mine to fuck and give to other men.”

That last one had stung like a wasp with a grudge. Emily
Johnson had become a whore to be pimped - that was the claim Her
Nemesis had made. And Emily had agreed; she accepted it as true.
How could she not, for the deed had already been acquiesced to by
the time the awful truth was spat in her face. Unlike the first
time when Her Master had taken her to the basement washroom to be
used and humiliated for his malevolent pleasure, on this second
occasion he had brought along another man – to observe... and then
take part!

This guest of Her Master had been a scary looking Italian – a
wealthy banker who looked more like a Mafia gangster. Hades, Emily
had termed him, in her typical Classics scholar fashion - the
harbinger of death seeming an appropriate title for this
intimidating client. Hades from Milan was a very well built man,
quiet and severe in a black suit, black tie and matching shades.
Lethal in appearance, he naturally possessed a fearful weapon: an
awesome fleshy spear sprouting from his groin; a massive cock to
match the man’s prodigious size; an enormous engorged phallus that
Emily was ordered to service.

At first Emily had been appalled – the shame of being
prostituted too much to bear. But she forced the issue because of
Her Master – it was something that apparently he ‘needed’ her to
do. And not surprisingly, the whore in her soon prevailed in the
presence of such virile finery and Emily overcame her prudish
sentiments. Knowing her place, obeying Her Master, fearful but
thrilled by the bulk of Italian meat that throbbed so invitingly
before her, Emily had first gobbled the man in a jaw aching stretch
then willingly offered up her cunt and her ass and embraced the
deep and brutal pounding she had taken in both those succulent
holes – so painful at first, but the ensuing pleasure equally great
as she was stuffed, fucked and buggered like never
before.

The Italian had screwed them both to an earth-shattering
climax – the sex unprotected, the risk not objected. Ending with
some anal, Emily’s guts were filled with a generous load of rich
Latino spunk – a volume so great it overflowed to form a creamy
pool of semen on the concrete floor beneath her. The next thing
Emily had known, the man was leaving – his lusty Italian passion
not fully sated, but sadly the man had a plane to catch, and a
family back home that needed a little of his time. He departed with
a promise to return quite soon, and enjoy some more of this very
obliging whore, earning the privilege with the promise of more
favours.

Having bid his ‘friend’ good-bye, the Nemesis Master had taken
his turn, riding Emily’s cum drenched ass before raising the stakes
with a brutal fisting! He had done it with Emily kneeling on the
floor. It started slowly, Emily’s Master showing some rare
consideration as he allowed his obedient toy to acclimatise to the
mass of flesh inside her. But it didn’t take long before Emily was
begging for more and the man was literally punching his balled up
fist into Emily’s guts, making her come again in the
process.

Thrown onto her back in the position she now lay, Emily’s
Master had then mounted her again.
There
had been no resistance to the violent entry he’d made, and little
friction as the man had thrust in and out of Emily’s ravaged butt.
Not much was needed; the man came within a few minutes: the thrill
of his domination taking him home.

As the man had spewed out his mess into Emily’s guts, adding
to the spunk that was already there, Emily threw her arms around
him, smothering her face in Her Master’s butch hairy chest, lapping
at the flesh, clutching him close – her surrender total and
complete. They had lain still for a moment, Master and slave in
stationary copulation, feeling wonderfully spent in a foul smelling
place. Emily was in agony, but she felt at peace, holding Her
Nemesis with every part of her body. She held him for the minute
that the man allowed before he prised himself away, cleaned his
soiled cock, dressed then left – the closing of the door so firm
and decisive, the curtain drawn on another mind-spinning
encounter.

There were no parting words. None were needed. Everything had
been said. All was clear and mutually understood. This beautiful
young sophisticated woman, who roosted on the top floor, strutting
around and displaying her feathers, would return to the basement,
obedient and contrite, for more abuse and humiliation whenever Her
Nemesis demanded.

Chapter 2

Suddenly alone, Emily felt the shame try to creep over her and
make its indignant claim. But she wasn’t crushed by the snapping,
poison-spitting disgrace, as she had been after the first time
she’d been so totally debased – a time when so many prejudices and
supposed taboos had been broken along with her will to resist.
Having endured a repeat, and soared during the raw and vulgar
treatment, her base depraved nature had been nourished by the acts
and was growing stronger, challenging her prim and proper
facade.

She was too fucked to care, too buggered to give a damn, so
Emily didn’t try to rationalise it as she lay there on the hard
uncomfortable floor. But would do so later when safe in her home,
and be shocked by the honesty of her conclusions... For a woman
like Emily, shame was cerebral – ingrained from the cradle through
upper class breeding, public school ethos, and the elitism of
Cambridge. For Emily Johnson the roots of shame were deep, finding
adult nourishment in posh London bars and elegant restaurants in
the City and West End. Shame cried its claim in exclusive locations
surrounded by her arrogant snooty friends – false acting prudes who
would be horrified by Emily’s whorish depraved behaviour should
they come to hear of it or sniff its vulgarity. But shame for Emily
had no stinging rebuke, no vigour to flay her ego like a whip – not
in the washroom of an office block basement when she was lying on
the floor all alone, with her body so alive, electrified by sex,
cum dripping from her asshole, the memory of the abuse she’d been
subjected to still stirring her new found passion.

Minutes passed. Emily knew she should move – get up off the
filthy floor, clean herself and dress. Her husband Les would be
waiting at home, getting dinner ready even though she had text to
say she’d be late – Emily’s normal domestic life was still there to
be lived as long as some wool could be pulled over the willing
Welsh eyes of her doting husband - eyes that would prefer the bliss
of ignorance, to the awful, heart-breaking truth. But Emily
couldn’t find the strength or the inclination to move – that normal
life based around propriety now seemed so dull compared to this
degradation and depravity.

Absently Emily’s hand drifted between her legs and her fingers
touched her bloated pussy. Both men had fucked her, but not enough
– she still yearned for more cock inside her, inside her cunt,
pounding away. She yearned for Her Master who had made a promise –
hours of hard rutting, but only once she’d earned it. Apparently
putting out for the Italian stallion hadn’t been enough. What more
must she do before he delivered against that promise? And when
would she get the chance? Soon, he had said, but not soon enough –
Emily needed him right now!

Drawing on the most recent memory of him, Emily drifted her
hand down to her ravaged asshole. It was puffy from the fucking,
and even more so from the fisting – raw and tender, wonderfully
sensitive. Emily gently caressed the bloated flesh, and purred as
she recalled a harsher touch and the two wonderful cocks that had
serviced her there so well. She could feel the spunk dribbling out
– it drizzled down her crack to swell the pool on the floor. It was
the spunk of Her Master and the spunk of his ‘friend’ – the man he
had graciously shared Emily with. Emily collected some of this
cocktail of semen. She brought the soiled hand to her face;
hovering it a few inches above. A dollop of the smeared cream
dropped on her cheek – instinctively Emily’s tongue lashed out in
attempt to capture this waste. It was out of reach, but Emily was
not to be thwarted. She stuffed the sticky, cum drenched fingers
into her mouth and slavered up the mess. It tasted foul. Emily made
an involuntary retch; yet still she hankered for more of the
discharge. Again her hand was at her asshole scooping out another
potion of the ejaculate mixture. She gobbled it down, feeling
repulsed – tasting Her Master, tasting the Italian, tasting herself
and the flavour of her rectum. Consumed by the act, she feasted on
more – gathering, slathering, a cum glutton whore. There was no
command from Her Master bidding the action – this was all for
herself – her base depraved nature laughing in triumph as she
gorged on the gift that had been deposited in her
bowels.