Hi, I’m the submissive called Molly’s jenny. My Mistress and owner is Moll Flanders, Queen of the Moll Flanders Bondage and Discipline Empire. A few years ago I was working for her as a song stylist in her North Beach BDSM club where I sang torch songs as background to live action bondage performances on stage.
At first I was shocked at what was happening to those poor young men and women. I mean, it looked like those poor kids were being tortured. All bound up and helpless they were being spanked, whipped, paddled, cropped, caned and then brutally fucked. But then again, afterword they seemed so . . . fulfilled? So languorous, so content.
I thought there was something wrong with them because . . . well it was obvious that no one could enjoy being treated that way . . . could they? They sure looked like they were getting off. And they sure kept coming back for more.
The really confusing thing was my own body’s reaction to it all. I would find myself sexually stimulated to the point of soaking through my panties. At the end of the show my pussy would be swollen and dripping with fuck-me froth. I would go home and need to masturbate just so I could go to sleep and even then I would have dreams that were disturbing to say the least.
But I was making really good money there and I certainly needed it, having just graduated from music school at Berkley where I’d studied voice. I had some huge tuition loans to pay off and this gig paid better than any other I’d found.
But it was beginning to scare me. I noticed that the hotter I got the more emotion I was able to put into my singing. The audience noticed it too, as did Molly, my boss, who started giving me half the tip jar in addition to my rather generous salary.
I liked the extra money but the scene scared me just the same. So, after I’d worked there for a while I tried having it both ways. One night I left a piece of tape on one of the emergency exits so that I could sneak back in after everyone was gone. My intention was to clean out Molly’s office safe. I’d seen how much cash she kept on hand. I think it was five years of her accumulated tip jar money. This was going to give me enough to pay off my college debt and get me well out of town.
I guess I wasn’t cut out to be a criminal. For when I was just getting the safe open, using the combination I’d got by looking over her shoulder, she stuck her sawed off 12 gauge double barrel against my spine and whispered, “Gotcha!” into my ear, making me wet myself.
She shoved me down on my face and told me to hold still. I did as I was told. I knew that shotgun would blow a hole through me you could toss a half dollar through. She knelt on my tailbone and kept me from struggling by putting the barrels against the back of my head.
She chuckled then and offered me a deal. I wouldn’t have to go to prison for several years and she would have a sex slave to keep her bed warm for a month.
I had seen what this little woman did to her sex slaves on stage and to tell the truth I’d wondered at how it would feel to have someone tie me up and sexually stimulate me to the point of orgasm. The part that made it most exciting was the public humiliation of having it done before an audience. I’d always been kind of an exhibitionist and bi-curious but had never actually had sex with another woman. (Or that many men if you want the truth) Watching the performances I’d come to appreciate just what this little pixie could do to and for a helpless slave. And while the submissives rarely got away without a few welts, they didn’t seem to mind all that much. She had a stable of pain sluts waiting in line to perform on her stage.
But she wasn’t talking about a couple of hours on stage in front of fifty witnesses, she was talking about 30 days in hopeless bondage, being the woman’s private sex slave.
I took the deal, I lay still while she locked a well worn pair of handcuffs on my wrists.
Then she rolled me over onto my back and shoved the shotgun into my mouth. She locked eyes with me, smiled down at my bulging cheeks and pulled both triggers. The twin hammers made what is sometimes called a two pound click. I lost the two pounds right them and there. She made me clean it up, too.
By the end of the month I was hooked on the little woman’s brand of tantric, all encompassing, all subsuming sex. I had never known such excitement, such pleasure, such fulfillment, such happiness. For the first time in my life I knew the passion of submission, the feeling of being driven into a wonderland of pleasures so intense I could not have dreamed them before they happened to me.
As for my money problems, they were solved when J.B. McHumphry, a billionaire fundamentalist preacher, tried to kidnap the two of us and keep us in his mountain fortress as his personal sex slaves. When a friend of ours rescued us and exposed the hypocrite to the world, our lawyers cleaned out his bank accounts even before they sent him to prison.
That was the true beginning of the Moll Flanders Empire. Now, while I remain her sex slave, I am also her business partner. We run a worldwide bondage business with clubs, resorts, cruise ships and internet pay per view entertainment that doubles in revenue every couple of years.
Last month Joshua Brimstone McHumphry got out of prison, having served five years of his nine year sentence. I guess he hasn’t learned his lesson for here I am, once again his helpless prisoner.
It all started last night. Molly was off overseas looking at the new club we are planning to open in Kyoto. I was seeing to the California operations, supervising the six clubs, two resorts and the cruise ship we have here. I must have gotten careless for I was driving all alone at night, something I almost never do. I was going up to the castle we have in the mountains above Lake Tahoe. Usually I have one of the beefcake staff with me but not last night.
El Jeffe, our corporate security chief, the guy who rescued us the time J.B. kidnapped us, is in Mexico, hunting down drug lords and putting an end to their murderous ways. El Jeffe is not a cop. This makes him very, very effective. And his predations have been doing some good. The resulting drug cartel wars have multiplied his head count. Men are seeing the wisdom of taking their fortunes and getting out of Mexico.
El Jeffe is not doing this for money, or even fun, he is avenging his dead mother.
Anyway, I was all alone last night. It was rainy and slick so I wasn’t going very fast. After coming around a sharp curve I saw a large tree down across the road just ahead. I slammed on my brakes and slid to a stop. I looked around and did not see anything wrong. I got out, seeing if there was room enough to drive around it.
A noiseless shadow came up behind me and a black canvas bag came down over my head.
I screamed once, then the drawstring on the bag jerked tight and I quieted right down.
There came a busy time that I don’t quite remember but shortly thereafter I was as you see me, shackled, collared, butt hooked, ring gagged and with chopstick clamps on my tongue, nipples and clitty.
I never had a ghost of a chance.
When he, at last, removed the hoodwink from my eyes, I was glad of the cork up my ass. It saved me losing another kilo. Joshua Brimstone McHumphry was my captor, my Master, my tormentor, my executioner, my godhead.
The single pair of chopsticks on my nipples are the worst. Closely connecting my nipples together, the two sticks make my titties look cross-eyed and hurt like the devil. The one on my tongue is also painful, plus shaming. The one on my clit is not so bad now, now that it’s gone to sleep.
I’ve been his prisoner about five hours now. He’s making me walk, my steps hobbled by a short wooden bar tied between my knees. Suspended from this bar, clanking merrily between my lower legs, is a cow bell. With my every lurching cattle prodded step I ring that damned bell. He is dressed in the camouflage he was wearing when he got me. I am naked and defenseless, just as he has wanted me since the race track so long ago.
My car and the tree are gone, chained together and pushed over the cliff. The canyon is deep forest right there, it might be weeks before anyone spots it.
“All right, time for a little drink of water.” He says, stopping me with a grip on the chain between my wrists and collar.
I turn my head to see if it is just another of his cruelties but He has his canteen in His hand. He grips my hair and bends me over backward so that He can pour a little water into my propped open mouth. I sputter and choke, but swallow as fast as I can as well. Five hours of uphill hobbling and stick gag drooling dries a girl out.
While He has such a good grip on me He reaches down and wiggles the clitty clamp, striking pain like sparks in my groin.
“Ok jenny, start walking again.” He says, capping his canteen. “We are nearly there.”
A small pleading noise escapes my resolve to remain silent.
As always the cow bell clanks when I feel the cattle prod poking my ass. The fact that it fails to spark makes no difference. I start walking. He is my Master, I MUST do as He wishes.
I hurry up the hill, clanking and drooling, butt hooked and farting, pussy lips swollen, pink and dripping.
He follows, the cattle prod now loaded with fresh batteries.
When at last we reach the top of the foothill I find a perfect little hunting camp, complete with bunkhouse, latrine and deer pole. Hanging from the deer pole is Molly, rigged up just like me, only upside down.
Payback’s a bitch, ya know?
I hope to Hell El Jeffe gets back from Mexico soon.
.