The Slave (60 page)

This was... different. Here, there was
nothing to connect her personally with any of these men, no reason
to think of them as dominant, or interested in her in any way, even
disguised as a boy. They had nothing to offer her, other than their
boots―they could not command her to perform sexually, they weren’t
even allowed to do more than assault her with words! But she had to
bestow all of her focus and effort to please them by cleaning,
polishing and yes, licking their boots, all day, if they continued
to come, in two-hour sessions interrupted by her enforced rest
periods for food, drink, and a moment of privacy to use the
bathroom.

Sweat dripped down her forehead onto the
boot under her lips and she moaned, licking up the droplets as they
fell. The warm hide under her lips was slick with her spit and
sweat and she almost slid over the surface too fast for the erotic
pace she was supposed to be setting. But maybe the guest didn’t
mind; he was already discussing something else he wanted to be
doing with his friend.

“
... string his balls up with
bootlaces and take turns pissing into the boot, what do you
think?”

Coarse, approving laughter. Robin didn’t
even hear which slave they had in mind. She switched to the other
boot to start licking and felt the rough thud of a kick against her
shoulder. “Enough of that, asswipe, I got better things to do.
Maybe you can lick my piss off the boots later!”

The two men left, and for a moment, Robin
was alone. She ground her teeth again and rubbed her shoulder, and
then turned to look at the vista behind her.

It was like something out of a porn
movie.

Muscledog was bound tightly in layers of
rope to the fucking frame, his ass getting walloped by a short,
thickset man wielding a braided cat. Clamps on his already
tenderized nipples were hung with black fishing weights which swung
with every thud of the cat against his body. The bondage couldn’t
keep him from jerking in pain, and the wide arc of the swinging
weights tugged at him mercilessly. There was a man standing over
his back, just running one hand all over the muscular form of the
slave, while he jerked himself off with the other hand. Luckier,
perhaps, were the two men standing in front of the new slave, both
of their cockheads squeezed into his mouth. Even at a distance,
Robin could see the gleam of light off the spit-slicked condoms.
Muscledog’s mouth seemed obscenely split open, and his eyes were
closed in pain or concentration or maybe even bliss.

In the Jacuzzi, two men passed a slave
someone else had brought to the party back and forth, slapping him
and shoving his mouth over their nipples or under the swirling
water, presumably on their cocks.

In the sling by the pool, a huge man, at
least six and a half feet tall and covered with thick, dark hair,
hooked one boot on Carl’s shoulder and yelled something at
him―encouragement? Commands? It was hard to hear over the thudding
music coming from the speakers all through the garden. But Robin
could see Carl moving, shifting, in response. It didn’t look like
he was using his cock―no. Carl was fisting the man in the
sling.

Robin groaned in erotic torment and cupped
a hand over Mr. Cushy, pushing the dildo inside her just enough to
make it twist. She’d never asked Carl to fist her, even though she
had learned to love it when Ken Mandarin was training her to take
it. His hands were so big! At that moment, she would have said yes
to his hand and probably was lubricated enough naturally to take
it.

Men walked in and out of the house in
various states of fetishwear or completely nude. She’d never seen
so many naked male bodies before, such an array of cocks. But the
leather, latex, and rubber were even more appealing, ranging from
tiny thongs to heavy chaps over naked asses. One man was only
dressed, if you could call it that, in liquid latex, painted over
his body in stripes and signage. His chest had a target on it,
under the tattooed word “TOILET” in black gothic lettering.

And along with all the sex and bondage and
play were men just lounging and sunning themselves in the
comfortable chairs, floating on rafts in the pool, and hanging out
in small groups drinking beer and cocktails, acting exactly as they
might at any other backyard party. One of the service slaves fired
up the grill and was finishing Raul’s chipotle-marinated chicken
wings and chorizo, the spicy, charred scent mingling with suntan
lotion, leather, sweat, and of course the sharpness of shoe
polish.

There was a handsome black man who must have
been one of Eric’s model friends, dressed in brief rubber shorts
and a body harness that caressed his lithe body so elegantly he
made the garments seem almost formal. He was conferring with
another, younger man, with Raul on his knees before them, listening
and perhaps offering suggestions. The three of them vanished into
the house, the black man taking hold of Raul’s collar with one hand
while he walked. Raul, so calm, so strong and dependable and so
very cool, stumbled after them, half on his knees, trying to keep
up.

Well, he wanted to get to
play,
Robin
thought. She groped between the chairs for her water bottle and
sucked some down, lukewarm and tasting absurdly sweet in the heat
of the afternoon. The acrid taste of polish and oil mingled with
the water and she felt light-headed again. How could she stand a
whole day of this? And what about the night? What would happen when
the sun set and there was no use for a bootblack any more? No one
had even hinted at what her duties would be after all of this
cleaning, polishing, and bootlicking.

Someone smacked the back of her head and she
yelped.

“
No peeking at what you can’t do, little
boy,” laughed her newest pair of boots. He heaved himself into the
chair and
slammed his
harness boots down onto the upright supports. “Jesus, what are you,
six-fucking-teen? No wonder they got you tucked away back here.
These animals would fuck you to death if you were out there buck
naked.”

Robin nodded―and ducked her head. And then
she reached up to bring his jeans up over the tops of his boots and
start, once more, the only job she was allowed to do.

* * * *

Muscledog made it back to his chair, his
ass and back covered with welts and his lips already slightly
swollen. Jimmy clipped a chain from the slave’s collar to the base
of the chair and unhooked Robin’s chain, jerking a thumb at the
house. “Half hour, bootlicker, then get your skinny worthless ass
back here.”

Robin bowed her head to the ground in
acknowledgement and took a few deep breaths before trying to rise.
Muscledog grinned at her as a man scrambled into the chair in front
of him. “Hey, slavemeat, you guys get to use the little fag?” the
man asked, bracing one boot against Muscledog’s massive chest.
“Unlike the rest of us?”

“
Sometimes, master! When we’re very
good.”

“
Yeah? Is he any good?”

Muscledog grinned even wider as the man
twisted his boot over his already sore nipple, and he growled with
appreciation. “Not yet, master! But we’ll get him in shape so he’s
good enough for you gentlemen, maybe the next time?”

Robin couldn’t help but sigh as she heaved
herself to her feet, the laughter of the guest chasing her all the
way to the house.

* * * *

The bacchanalian antics were as frenzied and
erotic indoors as they were by the pool. Giant cocks and asses
cavorted on the projection screen TV in the main living room, and
right in front of the screen, Eric was shoving his cock down Raul’s
throat while the black man who had taken him inside earlier was
fucking his ass. For some reason, Robin felt almost embarrassed to
see this, and tried to look away, only to see a young slave,
perhaps only slightly older than she looked, being trussed up to
the suspension chain, his ankles locked into an impossibly wide
spreader bar. Another slave knelt outside one of the guest
bedrooms, anonymous in a latex hood, the word “FLUFFER” printed on
his chest in magic marker. Two men were energetically fucking in
that bedroom, the door wide open, and the sounds of spanking
mingled with the grunts and groans. The slave on his knees outside
the door arched in his bondage, wrists high behind his back, and
licked his lips.

Robin hurried past the other open doors of
rooms set up for play, and past the slaves’ bedroom into their tiny
bathroom, where she could lock the door behind her for a few
minutes and take inventory.

The locks on her bondage belt
were real, but the key was up here, in the medicine chest. No one
wanted to be bothered to unlock her if she needed a piss
break!
Not
that there’s much piss in me,
she thought, letting what little there was go. She
was soaked underneath her layers of costuming, and she stripped off
as much as she could to wipe herself down with a cold washcloth.
Her pussy ached with the intrusion of the dildo, and she hated
putting it back in, despite the fact it needed no additional
lubrication. The air conditioning and quiet time helped get her
courage up to put everything back, from the dildo to Mr. Cushy to
the jeans, chaps, and bondage belt. The chaps were a mess, from
kneeling on the grass and from the soles of boots planted on her
thighs from time to time. Her shirt also bore the marks of treads.
Aware of her time running out, she brushed her teeth, and ran more
styling gel through her hair to keep it framing and half-covering
her face. The mascara, thank goodness, seemed as waterproof as its
advertising promised.

Then, with a deep breath, she unlocked the
door and went back down for her second shift.

* * * *

She never could place the exact moment when
the chore turned into an act of eroticism. She thought it started
when a man’s hand lingered as he gave a gentle cuff against her
cheek in thanks for her brilliantly popped spit shine; she kissed
the lingering fingers out of instinct at first and then moaned at
the taste of his hand and lashed her tongue against the three deep
creases in his palm. He laughed and patted her cheek, saying,
“Down, boy! I know you must be dying for some cock about now, huh?
Well, give those boots another swipe instead like a good boy.” And
he pressed her head down, where she eagerly dug her tongue against
the warm leather.

That was when he dug his cock out of his
leather shorts and started to lazily jack it off, watching the
scenes at the pool, and occasionally jerking a boot up to command
her to lick harder. The rasping of her tongue seemed unnaturally
loud, as did her breathing, as she bent to the task, and she felt
her hips needing to jerk in the release of pent up sexual energy
between her legs. This time, there was some amount of drool mixing
with her sweat as she licked.

He came on her back, and in her hair, and
chuckled as he shook himself, milking the last drops.

“
Keep it up kid and you’ll be one hell
of a cocksucker,” he said. “Fuck, I’d borrow you just for my
boots.”

Or maybe the exact moment was when she
finished off her bottle of water and realized she wanted the taste
to be more earthy, more like the shoe grease that evoked primeval
forests and ancient loam. More like the slick surface of the patent
leather stovepipe boots worn by the man in the soft leather cavalry
uniform.

But without a doubt, she knew that true
moment of joy, the discovery of pleasure mingled with pain, shame
and delicious hunger, when the man in the ten inch Danner uniform
boots planted one foot right over her button fly and ground it down
over Mr. Cushy.

The jolt of near orgasm shook her like an
electric shock and he grinned around the fat cigar in his
mouth.

“
Keep working, punk,” he growled with
a genial, sadistic sort of glee. And she did, her hands shaking on
her spray bottle of water, the rags and brushes unsteady all of a
sudden. This would hurt, too, she dimly thought, and groaned as low
as she could, horrified to find it sounded more like a
whimper.

“
Nothing more worthless than slave dick,”
said the man, twisting the toe of his boot. “Especially little
slave dicks. Am I right, cocksucker?”

Robin nodded with an eagerness
to please that made her dizzy again. “Yes, master,” she rasped. She
couldn’t help it; the intensity made her flush from ears to toes,
and she shifted her hips. The pressure on Mr. Cushy angled just a
little with her awkward shift and―Y
es! Yes!―t
he dildo inside responded to the pressure
and angled forward right against her G-spot.

The man in the chair rocked his
foot, snickering, as her arms gr
ew weaker. “I said keep working, you lazy
punk-ass boot-slut. You’ll never do anything but this if you don’t
learn to focus and make your masters happy.”

It was a desperate struggle. Robin found
herself almost crying with the effort to maintain her concentration
on the job. What came next? Were the boots too dry? Did she spray
some water, or not? Where were her rags? Where was the ball of
panty hose she used for buffing?

Where are my wits,
she asked
herself.
Jeeze, girl, pull it together!
Sweat dripped down her back and over
her ribcage, and the wetness of her pussy now started to seep down
the insides of her thighs and along her asscrack; she felt
drenched, drowning. The scent of ejaculate in her hair seemed
overwhelming now, and she licked her lips, tasting the salt of her
own perspiration and layers of boot grease and polish.