Well above our heads - at street level - the remnants of a hurricane spends its waning strength as it moves inland to die. Stuff happens. But it happens only well above our heads. Because down here - where it counts - a pair of young females I imprisoned well before the aforementioned hurricane wasn’t yet a whisper of a breeze off the west coast of Africa experience only depression, misery and hopelessness.
“I’m…I’m not a prostitute sir.”
By my reckoning they arrive from all walks of life. These girls. My victims. Some just getting by on four shifts a week amidst the rot of a suburban Hooters. Others via upscale strip clubs where the lucky ones experience that Saturday night what pays their rent in one fell swoop. Cam girls. OnlyFans. Even the odd food server who shoulders the misfortune of merely wearing the right revealing top at precisely the wrong time.
“I’m not sir…please.”
Cassie whimpers a bit more seductively than the other whore she’s been sharing her own private nightmare with these past few weeks. Tallish, with ample, natural breasts and (not even lying) the most feminine of ab displays, the twenty-eight year old blonde is beyond frightened of me. Of what I have the opportunity and proclivity to do with her nude body.
“Pl-please.”
Cassie and her cellmate have never heard of Hurricane Deborah. Or what the self absorbed media types now refer to as Tropical Storm Debbie. Cassie and the girl she’s forced to share a twin bed with in the deepest reaches of my dungeon have been otherwise engaged for the duration of this natural calamity. Shit happens…just…‘elsewhere’. Not here. With me.
“I’ll…I’ll kneel if it pleases y-you sir. Oh, God…please answer me! PLEASE!”
There’s a pair of things I’ve learned Cassie truly abhors pertaining to her forced visit as my guest of honor. One is being painfully raped in direct proximity with her fellow slave as Sasha moans in agony. Due to the various forms of ropework I mercilessly apply to lesser bitches which is the basis for my sterling reputation within trafficking circles.
The other is Cassie being violated in a standing position. Strung up by her wrists. Vaginally. From behind. For at least an hour. Her cunt bone dry and my cock eager to displease.
“Please sir…pl-please. Do…do th-this to Sashie instead. PLEASE! Not me, not again. Please sir…I’m…I’m not a prostitute. I told you Master…I just needed the money. The exposure. Oh, please have mercy…I needed the money! No! No! NO! EE - aarrggghhhhh!!”
Ramming my erection up into the whore from behind as her arms spasm above her head (ceiling gripes and milk white restraint ropes!) is bliss. Jesus! How her hips dance in pain. The delicious hideous arch of her back that does nothing to lessen the torment yet provides me - as her rapist - the thrill of witnessing those perfect breasts shimmy in a private show.
“Oh, please…it…it hurts just sooo much. Please! Oh, please…I’ll be good. I’ll be better!”
The forsaken (and quite doomed) female obeys me when I tell Cassie to go up even higher on her toes. As the piercing rape thrusts begin to exquisitely debilitate her naked body again. Nearby Sasha (twenty-three, dark haired and VERY aware of Cassie’s pathetic betrayal) sobs uncontrollably at the thought she’s almost certainly next. A hurricane of punishment swells and crests here within my torture chamber. I couldn’t have selected two more worthless yet suitable bodies for my amusement. As I opt to allow most of Cassie’s upper body weight to rest solely upon the stake of my cock splitting her womb seemingly apart.
“Nagh! Uugghh - aaaarrgghh! Nagh! EE - aaaarrrrgggghhhhhhhh!!”
It’s not ALL fun n’ games for me. Considering our respective body statures I am obligated to coil my hamstrings beneath me at such an angle as best allows for deep, penetrating punctures of Cassie’s suspended, writhing body. I have to concentrate. Amid the intense pleasure. I get off on Cassie’s shame. And Sashie’s lurking terror. Both of the women are humiliated. And as I near climax my phraseology to both whores is such that their utter degradation is codified as justifiable for filthy prostitutes such as themselves.
“Master! PLEASE! Fuck Sasha’s ass next! Fuck Sasha’s ass n-next! PLEASE! Oh, god…I’m begging you sir. EE - uugghh! Nagh…nagh…nagh! Please. My…m-my pussy hurts sir! Please stop! Please finish! Please use Sasha next! PLEASE! EE - aarrrrgggghhhhhh!!”
It’s been going on back-and-forth like that for the past coupla’ weeks. Cassie…then Sashie. The brunette…then the blonde. And in that time - in places and realities where such things matter - hurricane force winds have slackened to allow the drenching rains of a tropical depression to set in. Nature is a wonderful thing. But nature is far removed from what takes place in my basement.
“Master! Oh, please…s-sir…it…it hurts! Oh, god…Yes! I…I am a whore sir! Master…I AM A WORTHLESS PROSTITUTE! Ugh, ugh, ugh…uugghh! I’m a slut Master! I…I…I am a whore! PLEASE! Naarrgghh! EE - aarrgggghhhhh!! I submit. I SUBMIT! PLEASE! AARRGGHHHHHH!!”
Sasha is weeping. And the long range forecast informs me that conditions DO exist for a possible follow-on to Hurricane Deborah in the next few weeks. Sasha and Cassie will most likely miss that one too. Down here climate and weather are the least relatable items to whores being tortured half to death.
