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NEW erotic bdsm story:
From... Force Me To Obey! By Lizbeth Dusseau

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Story from Force Me To Obey by Lizbeth Dusseau, 2002, all rights reserved.
For some hours, I lay in the dark, inside a cage made of wood and metal.
There was hardly room for me to move, and no way I could stand. I have no
idea how long I stayed there before I was released for other purposes. I
suspected that it was morning when the woman came with a plate of food, but
I really couldn't tell.
I relished every bite of bread and cheese she gave me, and ate the apple,
core and all. It hardly filled my stomach, but it was welcome relief from
the sour ache I'd felt all night.

"Is Preston Lockhart here, perhaps?" I tentatively asked, just as the woman
was about to take my plate away.

"I have no idea," she answered. Obviously, she didn't care and I decided
that it was unwise to question her further. In her eyes, I was reduced to a
status somewhere beneath the favorite house pet. A chore for her, one more
burden she didn't ask for.

I spent the next two days at the house being taught a variety of sluttish
behaviors, which I suppose Preston wanted me familiar with. I learned to
crawl in proper form, squat with some grace-apparently, my wobbly attempt
the first night had been noted. I learned to walk with submissive poise and
to spread my body wide, making it available for sexual use whether I was on
my back, or standing, or on my knees. I was worked for several hours at a
stretch, posed, stretched, pinched, clamped, spanked, whipped with floggers
and even made to run around a small pen in the yard of house, chased with a
buggy whip to correct every flaw in my form. I had no idea what 'form' I was
supposed to strike. As many times as I adjusted my pace or stride or stance,
it was never right, never perfect, never even pleasing to the men who worked

Each practice session inside or out was exhausting, and while the men
changed places whenever they were tired, I was forced to continue the
unrelenting practice until I could hardly move.

After nearly every session, I tried to pose one simple question about
Preston's whereabouts-speaking submissively but earnestly as I was returned
to my cell. If I managed to get my question out, the men who trained me all
acted as if they didn't know who Preston Lockhart was. I doubted that was
possible, but there was no way to extract information from these callous

I was never fucked for real. There were plenty of fake pricks driving into
my pussy and ass; sometimes both holes were filled at once and worked hard
and fast until I screamed. But I never had a real cock in my cunt; that
seemed saved for someone special-for Preston I hoped. I rather liked that
idea, once it became clear that the men were avoiding my body with their
erections. I saw them fuck several other women-and envied those women the
sexual pleasure. But it was Preston I wanted, not the nameless clones who
tortured me, who left me tired, and after two days, hardly able to feel
anything sexual at all.

Later on Saturday night-I'm just guessing the time of day, since it had
been some time since I'd seen daylight-I unexpectedly revolted. Almost
without warning, a wave of angry feelings came over me and I exploded my
pent-up rage and fear, feeling justly pissed that I'd been held this way.
Pissed that Preston hadn't shown his face, I rebelled.

I came to my feet after a succession of rods and canes and whips were laid
on my ass. I'd been tied over a spanking rail, had been screaming for them
to stop, and finally when the ropes were loosened, I bolted to my feet and
turned to the two men. One was Ryder; he'd been abusing me all weekend,
reveling in his attitude of superiority. I loathed him. At that moment, I
loathed any man I saw, and most especially Preston Lockhart, who was still
not present.

"Get me my clothes and get me out of here!" I stared Mr. Pretty-boy down
and growled my orders.

"What was that?" he asked, mocking me still.

"I'm not playing your game anymore, and you can tell Preston to go to

He answered first with amusement, then his face turned solemnly grim. "You
think this is a game?" He reached out and pulled me into him, pinching my
nipple and drawing me forward.

I tried to jerk away, but from behind me, the second man had my hair in his

"You've been misinformed if you think you have the right to leave of your
free will. You're property.

A slut. A slave. A cunt, a pussy, a rectum, a mouth, an ass and thighs, a
pair of breasts. That's it. That's all you are in this house, all you are to
anyone who comes to play here. You're a toy. Your job's to entertain. You
have a problem with that, too bad." His lip curled into a snicker. The
fingers that had been clamped to my nipple went for my pussy. "You know, I
honestly can't understand why you're having such a problem with this." His
thumb grazed my clit repeatedly, while another finger found my "G" spot
inside my vagina. "You're drenched, slut." He rubbed me a little harder, and
my entire body twitched, threatening to explode. I couldn't stand firm; I
was too weak. The man behind me began to massage my sore ass, reminding me
that the flesh was warm, and the sensation was biting and orgasmic. Ryder
rubbed more vigorously and promptly had me at the precipice of coming.
Knowing I was about to explode, he abruptly withdrew his hand. "See what I
mean?" his voice was thick with sarcasm. "Just a cunt and pair of breasts
and a tight round ass."

The two men pushed me to the ground, although they hardly had to lay a hand
on me. My body wilted on its own.

"You have any objection to your treatment or your status, you bring it up
with Preston, whoever the hell he is. We're just here to get our jollies."

Nudged by their Italian leather shoes, I crawled back to the basement cage
that had been my solitary home and my place of rest since I was put there
Thursday night.
I imagined it was Sunday morning when I was returned to the living room,
where my weekend began. The drapes were open wide, a bright sun steaming
through the windows.

I was naked still, entering a room where everyone else wore clothes. I
shouldn't have expected anything different. But after three days of torture
and abuse, I was numb and passive. Any rebellion in me had died. I'm not
sure it was Ryder's demonstration that convinced me. I hate to think that.
But it was obvious to me that my body loved what my mind still questioned
and my fears tried to hate.

I was collared, leashed and crawling, taken to the center of the room and
left to wait. Sitting up, I rested my ass on my legs behind me and held my
thighs open wide, while my hands were clasped to opposite elbows behind me
as they had so often been since Thursday night. Several men around me spoke
quietly, while they drank fresh orange juice and champagne. The smell of
breakfast-eggs and bacon and coffee-filled the room, wafting in from the
door beyond where the cook was fixing the morning meal. I waited, my stomach
growling. I don't remember when I'd been last been offered food, but it
seemed like a century ago. Around me, the men were discussing whatever men
discuss at such a gathering. It might have been sports, stocks,
sailing-maybe how to whip a woman without bruising. I wasn't listening; I
wasn't even trying to listen. I was swimming in my senses-my ears heard
sounds, my nose drew in the fragrant smells of food, and my skin felt
ruffled by the drafts air tickling me lightly. I felt with all my senses,
but my rational mind was in a daze, and there wasn't a thought in my brain.

There were several men to my right and three men standing to my left.
Others were sitting in chairs and I couldn't see their faces. When the three
to my left turned my way, they noted my presence as if they hadn't been
aware of me before. The whole aura in the room suddenly changed, and I
shivered inexplicably. Expecting to be toyed with again, my body reacted
with a jarring spasm in my groin. Then the three men shifted their stance,
moving aside enough to show me that my master, Preston Lockhart, was sitting
in an easy chair, casually sipping coffee. My heart instantly responded with
excitement, while my sex moistened warmly. Seeing me stare at him, he put
his cup down.

"Skye." The voice was the same cold ruthless one that thrummed my clit
before. It seemed especially cold now and parental. He pulled from the chair
and strolled toward me, looking down critically. "What's this I hear about
your wanting to leave?" He grabbed for the chain around my neck and jerked
up tight, lifting me from the position, high on my knees. I nearly choked.
He pulled me to him, so that my nakedness touched the smooth fabric of his
pants, close enough that I could feel his legs underneath. And at head
height, the heat of his crotch poured out on me. He tugged the chain with
one hand, with the other grasped my chin and forced it up. "You want to

"No, sir," I said without thinking, because that's what I figured he wanted
to hear.

"But that's what you told my friends. Can you explain that?"

"They caned me hard."

"And that's a problem for you?"

"It was then," I admitted.

"And why was that?"

I could feel my body tremble, with something angry churning in my gut.

"I wanted you, and you weren't here," I suddenly snapped. "I expected you
and you left me to these wolves."

He slapped my face. Stunned me. The sting radiated outward from where his
palm struck flat against my cheek. He jerked the chain again, pulling me
tighter, higher toward him.

"You owe these men an apology for being so rude."

My gut wrenched at the thought.

"I can't!" My voice, wracked with emotion, broke.

"Gentlemen," he addressed the room of waiting men. "It would seem the slut
needs a lesson in humility." I flinched scared as a frightened rabbit.
"Bring me some spice oil."

A green glass bottle and stopper appeared in seconds, just as Preston
yanked me to a large leather hassock and threw me over the thick cushion. He
tied my hands to the far legs, raised my ass high with several pillows under
my groin, and then tied my legs and feet as far apart as my body would
stretch. Standing behind me, he sat in a chair and worked my asshole,
roughly thrusting his fingers inside. When he seemed to have it loosened to
his satisfaction, I felt the oil pouring inside, warm and greasy. It took
just a few moments before I realized what 'spice oil' implied. The substance
melted into my flesh, into the porous tissue inside and the tender surfaces
surrounding my anus. A fire ignited within and without, turning what was
just warm to blazing hot in seconds.

Then from somewhere behind me, I heard the snap of latex gloves, and felt
my master's hand driving deep into my rectum, spreading the spice oil far
inside. He fucked me with his hand until I thought I would incinerate.

As hastily as he'd conducted the dreadful scene, he ended his part in it.
Ripping the gloves from his hands, he handed them to one of the men. Then he
leaned down so I could hear him-just a private moment, with his hand firmly
on my neck holding me fast, "Get used to it, Skye.
You're not your own woman anymore. You're mine, and you perform for me."

Letting go of my neck, he stood up straight and backed away.

"Use her, gentlemen, as hard and as long as you like," I heard him say. I'd
witnessed the scene from the corner of my opened eye. Once he gave the
instructions, I watched Preston leave the room and me to the groping hands
and fleshy cocks of these strangers.

I gather some men liked my fiery portal, as they fucked me with naked
cocks. Others preferred to wear condoms to protect their precious skin from
the spices in my rectum. It didn't matter to me how they screwed me from
behind, each one just spread more hell, taking me to the limit of my
endurance. Though I wasn't counting, I don't believe I missed a prick that
morning, except for Preston's-which was notably absent.

After using my ass, they let me go, untied my weary limbs, shoved me to the
door. Someone said, "Exit out the door you came." I was too numb to walk, so
I crawled from the room. I suppose they wouldn't have let me walk upright,
but I'll never know that. I also wasn't sure what they were ordering me to
do, but the answer was soon clear. The unnamed woman of Thursday evening was
there to take me to the servant's door down the corridor. My clothes were
there hanging on the hook where I left them. "Could I use the bathroom
before I leave?" I asked.

"Through there," she pointed to a washroom behind me. The hot sensation in
my ass had subsided, leaving a warm glowing feeling in my behind. But I was
a sticky mess, and it took some time to clean away the traces of cum and
spice oil. My anus had been stretched so wide that I wondered if it would
ever return to normal. In fact, it seemed that my entire behind was one wide
gaping hole, a territory just explored, which would remain forever
prominently available for cock to screw. I stared in the mirror at my tired
face, feeling curious about the woman I saw there. I saw peace in her
expression, none of the emptiness I would have expected, just peace and
contentment, satiation and satisfaction. Did I really feel that way? Was
everything they said about me true? The slut, the cunt, the ass, the
breasts, the body? Was this the real me? I wasn't equipped to answer the
question. I'd wait until later to confirm the answer, but I guessed that by
that time, I had all the confirmation I needed.

My body stunk with three days perspiration reeking from my pores. Sour sex
juice clung to my skin. I tied my greasy hair in a ponytail to get it out of
my way. I needed a bath-no amount of washing at the sink could wipe the
stains away. I needed a hot shower and a soak in the tub.

I exited the washroom and dressed quickly, while the old battle-axe watched
me critically. Then I left the house, hurriedly making my way to my car. I
drove toward home on the open road, feeling dizzy, shaken, scared still, and


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