Leading a Woman on a Leash
Kwame has been with girls. Though finishing his senior year at an exclusive all male prep school, hanging about after classes in the village square has given rise to flirting... some petting... and he has even copped a feel and a squeeze on occasion, a girl of ill repute conveniently ceding. But he has not been with a female in the carnal sense and other than those prurient magazines passed around by friends and well hidden from mother Jemila, feminine charms have inured more mystery then true knowledge. Kwame finds the gender to be enigmatic... all those alluring parts... the pink suggesting welcoming sensitivity.
And now he learns girls are given to play... as his mother alluded... with a thing of their own. It gives rise to more curiosity as he leads and the naked girl attentively follows.
The parade of two slowly traverses the mansion of size. With mother Jemila exhibiting the girl to stand facing them, his glances departed little from her spiked breasts... thereafter her shorn and locked pubes. Thus there was no assessment of the bare feet. And when Kwame noted the slow and strained gait, he was inclined to look for the first time at her labored footsteps.
More iron! Matching rings of muscular metal adorn the heels, penetrating to snare the Achilles tendon and somewhat hobble!
Graciously Kwame slows. To tug vigorously will bring agony... and possibly a stumble... damage to Royal property! And the faint chiming, location unseen, falls into a steady cadence,resounding more loudly in ascending the stairs.
To the bathroom, it dawns that the girl has not a name... not one known to him.
“What do I call you?” turning to look over his shoulder.
“It does not matter sir, I will answer to anything... most times commands proceeded by ‘girl’.”
“Well, I’m barely age 18. ‘Sir’ seems... out of place.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Stop it. Call me Kwame. If I’m going to do all this stuff... well... we need to be... guess not friends... since you’re a servant... but less formal.”
“Yes, sir... but I am not a servant... I am a slave... a sss...” the girl curtails her words, an apparent second thought.
“An ‘s’ slave? What’s an ‘s’ slave?”
“Guess it is best to describe my purpose as in pleasure... offering and giving.”
Kwame nods, feigning understanding as he pulls the girl through the bathroom door, shutting to offer privacy. There are so many questions.
As Kwame turns to again face the girl, he begins to feel emboldened, out from under his mother’s supervision. And he is... he tells himself. ‘I am to bathe her’ he reminds himself. And with hands encumbered he must even supervise the use of the bidet.
A likely beginning.
“Sit and empty yourself for me,” surprised by the force of his own words.
“Yes, sir,” stepping to the open seat of porcelain as Kwame offers slack.
She straddles. Kwame finds fascination in how widely she parts her knees, thighs going to right angles.
“It’s... well... as your mother said... sloppy with my cunt locked up like this,” the girl offers with much chagrin. “It sort of dribbles everywhere. I’ll need a kindness... you know... with... ah... getting rinsed then dried and all.”
That had not occurred to him, expecting an easy flow and to thereafter turn on the gentle cleansing spray... her hands inoperative.
Kwame notes there is shyness. But a flow begins quicker than expected, the girl apparently accustomed to so performing before an audience. And indeed, locked labia impeding, the golden effluent seems to splash about aimlessly. The cleansing spray of a bidet seems mandatory for a girl relegated to chastity... having a locked up cunt... as she deemed her condition.
Deed completed, when Kwame leans to turn on the spray nozzle he notes another ring! Wrought iron again, it deeply penetrates a thick tuft of flesh at the small of her back, the chain stretched from left thumb to right threaded through it, posts pressed through the links to assure the hands cannot fully pull to the right or left, her reach greatly restricted.
“Another piercing... your heels... your nose... your back.”
“Yes sir. It is best for me... for when I serve.”
“But you can’t use your hands... and you have trouble walking!”
“I don’t need to move much... serving the way I do.”
Kwame turns off the spray, feigning realization... but the girl knows otherwise... deciding to more bluntly explain while seated... before the need to rise and be dried.
“May I suck your penis sir?”
A stunned Kwame freezes. There has been much teen talk... friends telling lurid tales of having clandestine meetings with naughty neighborhood girls. In the past it’s been for a good laugh... sometimes believing the tales... but most times shrugging off the stories as fantasy stirred by bravado and hormonal abundance.
But now! A naked servant... an ‘s’ slave, so obeisantly offers herself!
“So that’s what an ‘s’ slave does?” the seemingly naive question brought by incredulity.
“A sex slave... yes.”
Realizing her offer is not to be accepted... not on this occasion... the girl rises, making a point of widely keeping her thighs parted.
“Normally I need to be dried, sir, if not to be showered. The rings... of iron... they rust.”
Kwame realizes it is an invitation... to touch... most intimately.
He nods. A girl has not before offered him her cunt... locked or labia freely parted. He decides to towel her, pending shower notwithstanding.
“I am going to shower you,” Kwame firmly declares. “But first I’m going to dry you. I want to inspect your piercings. Did they offer anything for the pain?”
The girl smiles demurely, a distant look of recalling past horrors.
“The Queen... she decided it is best that a sex slave... well... be introduced to her role memorably.”
Yes, the horror of the agony not to be forgotten, Kwame realizes as he steps back, for some reason feeling obligated to remain holding the nostril leash. A long arm reaches and finds a towel. In returning he kneels, finding irony in being a servant to a servant. Yet he gains proximity. And in mentally juxtaposing, the girl’s bound nakedness... his guiding hand... there comes more boldness. Letting the leash go slack, iron ringed feminine portal within inches, he closely inspects as a free hand toys with the piercing rings and a towel hand attentively dries.
The rings are heavily gauged indeed, each some one and one half inches in diameter, the metal ponderous in being of some quarter inch or more in thickness. Kwame imagines such weightiness tugging constantly at his testicles and scrotum... quickly realizing that... over and above the security of obviating penetration and potential toying... there is a message. Yes, a missive sent with every step... every motion... each squat on a toilet or bidet... that the girl’s most precious and sensitive anatomy is under control of another.
The rings have been pulled together, the thick labial flesh having to somewhat yield as a small padlock secures. As he slowly and tenderly pats dry, working the perineum between the thighs, there comes a glimpse of pink coral within the folds.
Yes, he concludes, given a free hand, a single digit could indeed slip within. What did mother Jemila say... that there is a little thing within which girls can play with... just as do naughty boys.
His thoughts are distracted when the gentle action of his hands cause to return the faint chiming. When he momentarily pauses the chiming ceases. Then a single digit of a free hand boldly slips through the right ring, tenderly yet vigorously jostling to cause a sonorous pealing.
“Please don’t sir. It’s... it’s... too... well... as your mother said I am kept chaste... and am easily teased... you know... down there.”
Kwame stops... as does the ringing. He must know more. But as he prepares to rise, pubes dried, he notes the left hand. As deduced, the tip of the girl’s left thumb indeed has been attached to the knuckle of the index finger in some wicked surgical procedure. But there is more... more surgery. The four fingers... such have been attached together! Freed of the constricting chain, the girl has little use of her hands, unable to grip all but the largest of objects... perhaps only able to embrace or hug something of size.
For certain, the girl will not play... touch herself in any intimate place. And certainly not in a manner to bring pleasure.
There comes a sense of sympathy, the girl very much debilitated, not even able to walk with much grace and alacrity. But with it comes a sense of empowerment. She will indeed need to be fed and bathed.
Kwame gathers in the leash, tightening. Though the huge stall shower is only steps away, he must lead her. It feels like the right thing to do. That such a transformed creature requires constant authority and guidance.
