Chapter 6 part 2  A Submissive Female of New York City

Chapter 6 part 2
 A Submissive Female of New York City


"How do you like being spit on, bitch?"

"I love it, my lord."

"Why?"

"I told you, master. I love being used and abused."

"Let's do it then." He put his hand in the street, signaling a cab.

"You're paying for this cab, cunt," he said loudly as they got in.

"Yes, dear."

The driver looked at them quizzically through the mirror, seeing the spit on Sue's cheek. She looked coolly back, making a kissing motion in his direction. They headed for the sex shop.

"This looks like something," said Sue, pointing at a paddle.

"Nope," said Phil. "Spanking is for kids. This is what I want." He pointed to a nylon whip. It was at least three feet long, a thick handle leading down to a fearsome-looking lash.

Sue looked scared. "This one?"

Phil was scanning through the instructions on the back of the package. "We don't have to get it if you don't want to," he said.

"Do you want it?"

"Yes."

"Then I want it," said Sue bravely. Phil grabbed her and planted a smackeroo on her lips right then and there. His hands started to maul her ass—

"Do you mind paying for your stuff first?" asked the salesman, annoyed.

1987 it was. Fall.

Maybe high school wouldn't be so bad after all, Phil thought. He had been determined to make as many friends as possible, going out of his way to talk to as many as he could.

It hadn't always gone well, more than once he just seemed to find himself on the outside of conversations, listening to others talk about TV shows he'd never watched, music he didn't like, or sports he wasn't interested in. But he persevered.

Today a teacher had assigned him to a small study group with Michelle and Tricia. That latter name excited him; she was a bright-faced blonde, a lovely angelic face that he often thought of late at night.

It didn't take long for the girls to start yakking among themselves, talking about any subject under the sun except, of course, the assignment they were supposed to be working on.

He tried to figure out a way to contribute. "My mom wants me to go to bed at ten," Tricia was complaining. "I mean, who the hell goes to bed at ten o'clock?"

"I do," said Phil tentatively.

Tricia stared at him as if he'd said something deeply offensive. "Well, who cares about you? You're ugly."

Phil didn't send Sue to his hotel, but the one across the street. The bar had only a light crowd. She sat by herself, looking nervous but extremely sexy.

Phil came in, boorish, loutish, and horny. He walked up to Sue like he owned her, leaned in, and kissed her hard on the lips.

She didn't kiss him back. Her body stiffened, her eyes shut.

"That's right, whore," he jeered. "Lie back and think of England, they used to say."

He grabbed at her breasts, squeezing them, pulling them. Her body did not belong to her, it belonged to him. His property. His cock rose in anticipation.

He put his hand up her skirt. What drove his passion hardest wasn't the softness of her skin, the sexiness of her body, nor the scent of her perfume, delightful as all three were. It was the emotion on her face, the helplessness, as if she was a real slave. Phil owned her, so only his feelings mattered. The sense of liberation that gave him was extraordinary.
It was belied by how wet her cunt was, a wetness totally at odds with the expression of fear and pain on her face. He fingered her, far from gently, pulling on her clit, rubbing it, invading her with his fingers. And, sure enough, her face began to soften.
"You have to cum right here in the bar," he ordered. "Quietly, bitch." His fingers began rubbing her clit and g-spot, catching them in a pincer motion.

Squeeze. Rub. Squeeze. He couldn't tell what was arousing her more, the motion of his fingers or the cruelties from his mouth.
"I'm going to use you, bitch. I'm going to finger-fuck you here, then I'm going to take you home, I'm going to whip you, and then I'm going to rape you. Do you want that, you — you stupid white whore?"

"Yes, master. Yes," she said hotly, her body shaking. Sue's breath was coming in rapid puffs, her cheeks pink as paint. "I'm your slave. I love being your slave. I wish you could beat me and rape me all night long... oh...oh..." She knocked over the Diet Coke she'd been drinking, but managed to keep her head motion to a limited jerk.

Phil snapped the collar around her neck and attached the leash, then dragged her out to the street.

"Strip to your underwear."

Sue's eyes flitted around nervously, realizing she was about to expose herself like never before.

"What if I get arrested, master?"

"Underwear is not illegal, you stupid bitch."

Very slowly, frightfully, she took off her clothes. She had on red lingerie, a flimsy red bra and a tiny square-shaped thong, its back strap as thin as a pencil.

A crowd of onlookers was gathering. Thankfully, there were no children among them, but plenty of men and teen boys with lecherous grins and evil eyes. Several had whipped out cameras or camcorders.

"This girl is my slave," said Phil loudly. "Isn't she a whore?"

The crowd hooted in appreciation.

"Anyone want to cop a feel? Put your hands anywhere you want."

Phil could barely see Sue for a few minutes after that, so many were the hands squeezing her tits, yanking them, grabbing her ass. Phil had only said hands, but lips and tongue were at play as well, some gentle, some not. Sue didn't open her mouth, but tried to keep her lips pointed in the right direction. One laughing man licked her arm from elbow to shoulder.

Finally, Phil had enough. He used the leash to pull his slave away from the crowd, dragging her across the street. Men stamped their feet, whistled, and cheered.

To be continued