Legacy

After the performance, the golden slave was welcomed by the members of the Bitter Elm.

By all of them, one by one. Every master. Every mistress. Every slave. Some of them asked for a kiss: for her soft lips pressed against the polished patent leather of a shoe. Others asked her to take a few token strokes of the whip, the cane, the tawse, or some other implement of their choice. Some spat in her face or slapped her, or had her open her mouth and wait for their spittle. One took out his cock and asked her to drink every drop of his piss. She almost retched, but she obeyed. It took every ounce of her discipline, but she obeyed. In the end, the salty flood of his urine helped wash away the clinging film of lubricant in her mouth, not to mention the earthen disgust of the pale slave's shit. That was the only small mercy she received.

She'd thought her performance with the pale cunt would be the most difficult part of the evening, but she was wrong. After the show, sweat and oil began to cool on her nudity; her knees and her back ached more with each moment spent kneeling and waiting; and some little voice in the back of her skull began to berate her for everything she had done and all that she was still doing. What's wrong with you? it demanded. Why are you letting them treat you this way? If it all had ended with the climax of the evening, when everyone was cheering and clapping for what they'd seen, it would have been different. Now, the reality of her servitude was sinking in.

She was sinking. She was drowning in it. Drowning in shame and exhaustion, the last shreds of her sense of self being subsumed by the other. She had given utterly of herself, in both body and soul, and they'd devoured her. Now there was nothing left for her to be anymore.

She wanted to lie down and cry.

"Ask me to slap your face," said a man.

"Please, Master," she moaned, "slap this cunt's face?"

He did. She moaned and licked at the bruise inside her cheek. She tasted blood and fear.

"Ask for it again. Ask me to hit you harder."

"Please—" Her voice trembled. She swallowed and tried again: "Again, please, Master? Harder! The cunt deserves it!"

This time he split her lip, and she hung her head in shame as she tried to blink away tears. But it was too late. The next member had already seen her crying.

"Aren't you beautiful," the woman crooned, grabbing her face and forcing her to hold steady. The woman glared down into her tear-filled eyes. "I'll have to have you over to my place. For a week. Or a month. I'd never let you out of the dungeon. You'd never even see the sun. Why, you'd love that, wouldn't you, dear."

"Yes, Mistress!" Her voice was almost a sob.

The woman licked her cheek, letting out a growling moan as she did. What did she taste? Sweat and urine, tears and cunt slime, the dregs of the semen of no fewer than six different men. The woman held her tightly, forcing her to keep both her eyes open, and she licked one of them. And then she spat in it.

"Don't wipe it away," said the woman.

"No, Mistress—never!" she cried.

In truth, the golden slave hadn't even thought of it. She'd not even wanted to—not really—until the mistress said not to. Now it was the only thing she could desire, and she clenched her fists until her nails bit painfully into her palms, struggling against the urge.

The next woman humped her face, smearing her with what felt like congealing cum. The man after that commanded her to lick his asshole clean, and she did. She vomited in her mouth, but she obeyed. The furious voice in her mind berated her, called her a crazy piece of shit. The other voice inside her—the sick one—told her that she should be proud of having done what she did. How many slaves could lick and suck a stranger's asshole? it said. And she had no answer for that.

Another hour passed after that, and then another. Finally, only a handful of members remained: people who had been waiting to spend time with her, to speak a few words to her or to her handlers, to take their turn with a bruised and exhausted slave. Each one seemed to take longer than the last. It seemed they thought it was polite for the members with the hardest requests to go last.

A man approached with a slave by his side. The woman was shaved almost bald, with not even a half-inch of hair on her head. She wore a black eye and a broken nose, and her body was layered in welts, bruises, and scars. She'd been well-fucked tonight, having provided for the entertainment of many of those who were waiting to see the golden cunt. The slave looked at her in awe, understanding quite keenly that this beaten cunt had very much served in her stead this night, taking much of what must have been meant for her.

"This is my slave," said the man. "It hasn't got a name. What it has got is three holes filled with cum. I want you to eat it all."

The slave's belly tightened. She didn't understand. "Three, Master?"

The man produced a thick dildo shaped almost like a plunger, thick at the end and long and flexible. He forced it brutally down the slave's throat, grabbing at her broken nose and crushing it between his fingers so that she—so that it—couldn't hope to breathe. Seconds later, the inevitable occurred. The beaten slave vomited, spewing puke and piss and bile and cum into the air, down over her bruised breasts, and onto the floor.

The golden slave sobbed. She no longer tried to hide her tears. She shook her head as if to ask for mercy, her broken lip trembling.

The beaten slave's pain-filled eyes began to fill with sympathy instead. She groveled on the floor, pleading with her master to be allowed to clean up her own mess. Her own sick. Her own vomit. He kicked her, cursed her, and demanded that he be obeyed. It was the sound that the slave made when she was kicked—when it was kicked—that truly broke the golden cunt.

"No, please—I'll do it!" she said, breaking three rules in one breath. First, she had just asked for mercy, if not for herself then for another. Second, she had spoken of herself in the first person: as I. And thirdly, most fundamentally, she had breathed the word no. And now the man wore a wicked smile as he leered at her.

"Your training is far from complete," he growled. "You will learn. I will teach you, as I have this one. Its training isn't done either. Training is never done. But you will learn."

Already, the golden bitch was grunting, gagging and sucking, slurping and licking, swallowing the filth that had fallen to the floor. She was sobbing and tears fell from her face, but she was obeying as best she could. She was swallowing everything that had come out of the beaten slave. She would do even this if it meant she could spare the bald cunt further agony. Was that something she could feel proud of?

"He can't keep you, you know," said the man who held the bald slave's leash. "Your master? He'll sell you. You'll be auctioned, because your price will be far too high for him, and I will purchase your service. And then, when your détente is complete, when the members have all enjoyed you, then you will belong to me alone. Then I will dispose of this one. By then, it will have nothing left to give me."

And now the golden slave was crying for another reason: because she knew that it was true. Her master wouldn't keep her. She would be sold. She would be homeless, unwanted. She would be passed around and used and sold again. To whom she couldn't say, but the fear of it—the looming specter of it—was almost too much to bear. The weight of her decision, to come here this night, to offer herself, had become all too real for her. But it was too late now.

The golden freak steeled herself and stopped her sobbing. She scraped the last disgusting smears from the floor with her tongue. And with a tear-stained face she turned to the bald and beaten slave and said, "Give me the rest."

The bald slave knelt and pushed her cunt forward. There was a little cum inside her—perhaps one or two loads—and some that had dried, sticky, on her thighs and in her pubic hair. The golden slut kissed her softly before scraping the drying cum out of her bush with her teeth, and lapping the sticky remnants from her thigh, and suckling the last drops from her sex.

The golden slave knew what would come next. She knew that the bald cunt would turn and offer her asshole, and that she would taste shit and cum, and that she was expected to swallow both. She tried to prepare herself. She shut out that angry voice in her. She listened to the proud voice instead, determined not to cry anymore.

She was wrong.

The beaten cunt squatted and reached with two fingers into her spread and blistered asshole. Then, to the golden slut's astonishment, she began to draw out a chain of used condoms, each tied to the next, each filled with a bubble of cum. As each globule of semen pulled free from her anus, the chain grew longer and filthier. Longer and more obscene. Longer and more dreadful. The final result was nearly as long as the slave was tall.

"There," said the man. "Now, eat it. Chew it well. Make sure you break open every sack with those perfect teeth of yours. Make sure you swallow every drop and every condom."

"Oh God..."

The words came forth unbidden, and she tried to silence them, but the man heard them nonetheless. He laughed at her, and he kept laughing, and it seemed that he would never stop as she struggled to complete his request. She was bathed in sweat by the time she finished. Her stomach was unsettled, constantly churning, revolting against the awful things she had swallowed. She was pale and shaking, weak and wavering. And there were still seven members to go.

"What is your name?" said one.

"My... its... name?"

"Yes, your name."

"I—the cunt... The cunt's name is..." It was a trick question, wasn't it? "It has no name, Master."

"Of course you do. What do your parents call you?"

A smashing tide of nausea washed over her. She shut her eyes tight, clenched her fists around her thumbs, managed just to fight it off. Her voice was weak and raw, but she answered him. "Dakota."

"Dakota what, dear?"

She swallowed. She panted. "Rossi."

"Hmm..." The man stared at her another moment. Then he shrugged. "Perhaps I was mistaken."

The last was a woman. She commanded the slave to kneel with its back arched, with its breasts uplifted toward the sky. "Be still, and do not cry out!" she commanded. She then wielded a dressage whip, raising it overhead almost like a sword and bringing it down again and again. And somehow the slave did not cry out. It jerked and twitched with each impact, but it did not move. Blood pearled in three places where the tip of the lash had broken her skin, but she remained silent. She remained still.

"Hmph!" said the woman. And she was gone.

Only her master remained.

He reached out to her, cupped her cheek. She flinched, pulling away on instinct. He caught hold of her hair and wrenched her forward, bringing her to him. She mewled and let out a gasp of fear and pain, letting it out of her, trying to make room in herself for more. He let her lay her cheek against his thigh. She didn't want to, but she couldn't resist: her smeared cheek pressed against him, staining his trousers.

"He's not wrong," said her master. "And I did warn you—I can't keep you. Maybe no one really could."

Her lip trembled. She wanted to ask why. She didn't: she bit down hard and didn't ask. She didn't understand, but she didn't have to.

"In the end, it's just as well... I could never use you properly. Fully. As I would wish to. You would yearn for it, and you would be disappointed. But you are my own flesh and blood, and there are lines that I won't cross—even if others might."

She swallowed. Her bruised throat ached.

"But tonight you are mine."

"Please, Master," she said, shutting her eyes tight. "Please, use this slave. Use it as You see fit."

"You're tired. You're hurting. It's late. Your training continues early tomorrow morning."

Why did those words hurt more than all the rest? More than the knot of latex that lay in her stomach? More even than the bloody weals on her breasts? After all she had endured tonight, that was the one thing she could not: that the man who had welcomed her would not use her!

"Your slave is young and strong," she said, trying to find that promised strength within herself. "It will endure, Master."

He stood over her for a long time. His grip slackened in her hair, and she stole the chance to lift one eye toward him. He was tall. His hair was like the gold of grain, ready for the harvest. He caught her looking and smiled.

"There is something I must tend to," he said then. "Go and vomit. Purge yourself of those condoms, at least—find another slave to help you, if you must."

"Yes, Master," she said, her voice a bare whisper.

"After that, return here and wait for me."

"Yes, Master."

"I won't be quick," he warned. "If you are able to wait for me—if you're still awake, still kneeling when I return—then I will use you. If you wait for me."

"I will, Master." She was almost too exhausted to notice her slip.

He smiled at her little mistake. "We shall see."