Beguiled at the Slave-Market

You see me enter the great hall, from your place among the rows of pleasure-sluts. I feel my skin prickle and pick you out immediately, watch you looking at me through your lashes. I wonder at this, it irritates and intrigues me in equal measure. Slave-sluts do not dare raise their eyes to one of my elevated rank. After the conditioning, it should not be possible.

I browse, letting my hand trail over the pecks of the man-toys I pass. You flit into my line of sight now and then, and though there are many other Eminents browsing the rows, I find your eyes continually defiling my figure with their audacity. You are unlike any of the others lined up for my perusal. It baffles me, I do not know what to make of you. You cannot be here, without having been completely broken first. And there is clearly still some strain of the man you once were in that head. In that insolent look.

Feigning interest in one in particular, I pause. I’ve chosen him, because he falls within your hearing range, and you fall within my line of sight.

A Beautiful Man-Toy

“A fine specimen,” the slave-master accompanying me remarks.

She flicks a whip at him, and he draws himself up straighter, his eyes downcast as is right and fitting. And I realise with a little annoyance, she is speaking plain truth. He is very fine, his muscle definition honed to perfection. He is flawless and young. Pretty. Very possibly the finest looking man-toy I have ever laid eyes on. And he sparks nothing in me. Nothing at all. I look directly at you again, your eyes are cast down, non-emotion on your face.

“Slut,” I say, “raise your arms, I want to take a proper look at you.”

So very pleasingly will-broken, he obeys. I circle him, running hands down the sides of his body, evaluating his skin, the musculature of his chest, back, arms and legs. Each part of him gets its proper, thorough inspection. And, despite the discomfort he must at times be feeling, I notice with complete appreciation of the fact, he does not flinch at my touch, nor does he betray anything in the features of his face.

Disiac Oil

His body is stunning. His oiled skin smooth under my fingers. Coming back around in front of him, I take his penis into my grip, stroke down the hardened length of it.

I squeeze his shaft, heft his balls in my hand, feeling and appreciating the drug enhanced weight and hardness of his entire package. He has a good range of depth on him. The slave-master offers me a bottle of sweet-smelling disiac-oil, and I let the smallest amount drip onto my hand, rubbing my palms together, spreading it over my skin.

Staring up into his face, watching for tell-tale signs of anything but the most perfect break-conditioning, I take his penis and balls into my hands again, stroking the oil over him, feeling his shaft grow to its absolute fullest. And despite what the disiac and my hands are doing to him, what I know him to be feeling now, his facial expression does not change. Even his breathing remains unaffected. The only thing he cannot control through sheer force of will, that belies the intensity of the pleasure-need he is feeling, is the pearling precum gathering quickly at the tip of his penis.

With him so held in my hands, I find my gaze being drawn to you. There’s something both magnetic and disturbing about you, and yes, your eyes are glinting through your lashes, watching me squeeze and evaluate this slave’s genitals.

Contemplating you, the tip of my right index finger idly swirls and teases the drops of precum around the head of his shaft. With a jolt, I realise what I’m doing. This slave will be driven insane by now, with the sensations the disiac imparts upon this most tender part of him.

There is some emotion in your expression. I cannot read it, and my curiosity notches up.

You become more than interesting.

Abandoning the pretence of inspection, I let the slut’s penis go and take the cloth the slave-master offers me, wiping my hands clean of oil and precum. My professionalism makes a side-note of how well the man-toy takes being dismissed from my attention. Not a whimper passes his lips, not a shadow of emotion on his face, despite the profound need the disiac has created in him. The need to be touched. To be stroked. To ejaculate. He will make a super addition to someone’s pleasure-slut harem.

Inspecting You

I fix you with my eyes. The slave-master follows me to stand in front of you. Your eyes are downcast, your face expressionless. I move to stand behind you, admiring the turn of your legs, your buttocks and back. Standing in front of you again, I inspect your own drug hardened shaft, gauging the reach of it. It is wide and thick, pleasing to look at. The shape and the way the veins mottle it, promise notable g-spot stimulation.

“You have a good eye, Mistress,” the slave-master tells me. “This one took twice the usual amount of effort and time to break. Though he seems unusual, he pleases like no other we have trained.”

Looking you over, I wonder at the fact you rose through the ranks of slavery to reach this prestigious position. For she is right, your features do not lend themselves to this class. There is something in your demeanour, your stance, that screams insubordination, and this is not a quality one wants in a pleasure-slut.

“Would you give me a moment,” I say. She nods and moves a discreet distance away, turns her back to us.

Your eyes flick up to meet mine again and you stare directly at me. Your complete lack of respect is … bewitching. Though I am sure I have attracted attention before, no slave, neither man nor woman, has ever dared to look into my eyes. It is captivating, and for the first time in my life, I feel the danger of singular attraction.

Dem-Slaves

Walking another circle around you, I contemplate this. I have heard of it before of course, everyone has. To allow yourself to be beguiled by a pleasure-slut is unthinkable. The sense of peril I feel entices me, would my will stand up against your … allure? I’m conflicted. I should report your temerity, and you would be duly punished, but.

Clearing my throat is enough to summon the slave-master back.

“A male-to-female pleasure demonstration, if you please,” I say.

She clicks her fingers, gestures to an underling. Space is cleared around you and five nude female demonstration class slaves are brought to stand before me. I inspect them so I can select the one that would make the most enticing demonstration with this man-toy. They are the very best of the best at their craft. Being a pleasure-slut is surely one of the most rewarding, appreciated and respected of all of the ranks a slave can aspire to, surpassed only by the exalted dem-slave.

Each of these five naked dem-slaves is breathtakingly sexy in her own right. Their bodies are beautiful in their variety, and I feel myself attracted to them on a very base level, as I have done with every dem-slave I have ever encountered. They exude sex-appeal in a way that no other can.

As is my right, I inspect them each in turn, first viewing them all from behind, letting my hands slide over their backs, glide over their buttocks. And then from the front. I allow myself the heft of breast, the squeeze of nipple. I let the index finger of my right hand slide deeply inside their vaginas, one after the other. Each in turn squeezes her pelvic floor muscles in waves around my skinny digit; a testament to their unique, individual prowess. Incomparable control. They truly are the epitome of supreme wanton sexuality.

The slave-master offers me the disiac oil again so I can anoint my chosen dem-slave.

The Demonstration

I walk down the line and anoint each and every one of them, not just clitorally as is the usual way, but also vaginally. They feel the effects immediately. Each of them becomes desperate in her heat, her need to rut. Her need to have herself filled by your wide, gorgeously veined penis. Dem-slaves, of course, are not conditioned to bear this sensory overload with stillness and silence.

They advance on you, mewling in their heat, coordinating themselves without speaking and I watch. I watch them use and abuse you for their own desperately urgent needs. Ahh and the drug will not let you ejaculate. This will be the ultimate demonstration of your sexual prowess. A torturous female gang-bang, committed by those at the very top of their game. I watch your increasing desperation, the disiac has spread from them to you.

Ahh and they are rigorous in their relentless rutting, their internal muscles pummelling, squeezing and pumping your shaft, as the others caress your body, scratching, stroking, slapping, offering you their breasts to fondle, suck, bite. I wonder when you will lose it and beg for your release. And oh, I watch you please each and every one of them, driving them to their ecstatic orgasms, which, though you so desperately need yourself, eludes you.

I see the slave-master is right, your craft is astonishing. I have never witnessed nor been served by such a magnificently talented pleasure-slut.

As you drive the last of the five dem-slaves to her almighty crashing orgasm, you look into my eyes again and I have never felt such desire as I do for you. There is challenge in you, darkness and promise. And that decides it.

I will not buy you.

You are too dangerous by far.