'Sex Slave' Segment III

Showering a Bound & Naked Woman

In stepping into the stall Kwame notes there have been installed cables and clasps... as mother Jemila informed... for her nose grommet... one above... one below. 

Kwame unhooks the leash and replaces the dire method of control with the clasp and cable dangling from the tiled ceiling above. Then he steps back... more assessment but now with adoration. 

With the cognizance that he has a naked and well bound girl totally under his auspices, there returns the throbbing under his loose khaki shorts. It dawns that given hair, sans the hideous rings of black iron, there is great beauty. The girl is of masterful form. Not thin... certainly not fat... her posture is of perfection. She is shaped... sculpted as would an artist carve a  masterpiece. The flesh is without blemish, soft yet firm. When Kwame briefly worked about with the towel the smoothness yielded but beneath there was... is... a degree of rigor... untoward on a girl, though his awareness of female anatomy is most limited. The shoulders are broad, yet not masculine... portraying a feminine ruggedness.

She is athletic... sinewy, Kwame concludes. Yet in what endeavor would a girl... chained, pierced, ringed and with hands rendered useless... compete?

Such thoughts need to be stowed for now. Though there is no rush, the girl can be made to helplessly stand for hours, there is a task to be performed. And for mother Jemila to gain suspicion and enter to find her son with tented shorts would be embarrassing.     

So Kwame struts about finding gentle scented soap and a chamois, mind mulling how he will shower the girl and not in turn get soaked. He answers his own query in reminding himself that the showerhead is on an extended hose and can be released from the wall mounting above. Shoes must be removed, but otherwise he can join the girl in the stall and work about her nakedness in cleansing and remaining dry. 

In so doing, as a last thought, he slips away his cotton tee shirt. There will no doubt be splash back. In doing so, he finds the girl in turn assesses him, smiling. She is comfortable being naked and bound in the presence of a nearly naked male. Still, Kwame twirls a finger signaling to turn  away. As he turns on the spray, he pauses. Below the deeply set ring at the small of the girl’s back are buttocks of magnificence. Hillocks large, well rounded, and protruding enticingly, seeming to beckon the challenge of perching some object atop the apex, a shelf of gluteus maximus muscling, evidently molded with extensive exercise. Kwame is so tempted to begin his chore there... the cleansing hands to palpate... to squeeze... to fondle... and to palpate more.    

But he demurs. Instead, he adjusts the spray bringing both pleasing warmth and a level of force not to sting or annoy. And he begins, thinking of the many times as a toddler when mother Jemila in turn bathed him.

“Thank you sir,” the girl’s voice soft and gracious, truly grateful as the water douses.

“I still have no name for you. I have no idea of your age... the hair gone and all. You look like a little girl... but for... well...”

“My breasts. Yes, I know. But I am of age... many years in training... being conditioned. And will you cleanse them for me? I don’t touch... can’t touch... and it’s not only down there... you know... that a girl enjoys... ah... feeling something.”

Beseeching to have her breasts fondled! Kwame thinks of the vixen village girls... young... feigning shyness... pretending to be prudish in denying adolescent exploration. Teasing but ultimately giving in for a favor. And now?

Entire body gleaming in wet, Kwame puts aside the spray, finding the sheen to bring more allure... more tenting. He begins with the soap and chamois, not an inch of perfect skin escaping his probing hands and fingers.

His early assessment proves to be on point. The girl mentioned years of training... conditioning. She has indeed been conditioned. There is muscling beneath the softness... refined... seemingly to bring shape for no reason other than to attract. Hands altered... heels hideously pierced... there can be no other reason for such dedication to a physique of exquisiteness.

Head laved, neck, shoulders, Kwame notes that by rote the girl’s left arm surrenders, pulling back and inward as far as the constricting chain allows so that her right arm can extend outward and he can wash beneath. When finished the girl replicates the action, right arm in, left extended, providing access beneath her left arm. He has the girl twist to face him... the chest... the breasts... such firmness, yet so cruelly impaled. Left and right, small shards of black iron have been vertically thrust through the flesh behind each nipple. Above and beneath the spikes end in eyelets. There can be attachments... her mammary glands to be decorated? Adding jewelry would seem incongruous, the black metal indecorous.

Deed completed, he must kneel. Those sublime buttocks, the girl knowing to part her feet to the maximum. She invites, putting on exhibition her cleft and the rose bud opening of her anus.

“Your finger, sir. It is necessary. Just one please. It is important that I be kept tight there... but well cleansed.”

This element of bathing Kwame had not expected... not only the invitation... but the exacting instructions... the need for her to be anally penetrated.

The chamois is soaped again. The gluteal cleft swabbed in abundance. Kwame’s sense of supreme authority overtakes... deciding that the sole finger shall be the longest... his middle finger... and it will linger... deep within... as deep within as he can impale.

Why the thrill? Why his need to degrade and humiliate?    

He soaps. He enters... slowly. He looks up. The girl closes her eyes, seeming to repress a reaction of joy... but also chagrined shyness. He indeed decides to linger, wriggling about, pleased to feel the girl’s purse string muscle first welcome his invasion then tighten... and tighten.

She is not only incredibly strong in an unlikely place, but her ability to sensually milk his finger... yes that is the most apropos term... is indecent.

When Kwame attempts to retract, the purse string muscle becomes an ineluctable vise. In trying to wriggle free, there returns the sound of chiming as the girl’s hips rock back and forth under the power of his retracting arm muscle. Her face, eyes closed, seems to grimace... but not in discomfort... in distant joy.    

“I’m bad sir. I know. I shouldn’t. But I so much need the attention.”

“What is it?.. the sound...” Kwame finally demanding an explanation, the chiming evidently bringing notable pleasure.

“The Queen’s bells sir. They are so wicked... her Ben wa bells.”