The Greatest Lie Part 7

The horrible memory of my crackhouse ordeal faded much as the lurid surgical site on my abdomen faded to a faint pink smile at my bikini line. I went off the AIDS cocktail after one awful month of constant nausea, and was pronounced antibody-free. My surgeons pronounced me healed and recovered. Naturally, I immediately started thinking about sex.

Tran had received our orders from our S&M Slavemaster. She told me we had been summoned to the dungeon for slave training and punishment: a driver would deliver a 1,500 payment to Tran’s apartment and would carry us into our enslavement over the Thanksgiving weekend. We would be freed and returned on Sunday night, and receive the balance of the slave payment. "I dunno, Tran, these guys sound pretty weird. Don’t they have families or anything? "

"They pick us up on Friday, after Thanksgiving. They’re a little kinky, but your porno movie guy doesn’t write. We need money."

"You’re right, I’m going do it. But I’m scared. You’ve been with this guy before, right?"

"I think so."

"I hope you know what you’re doing."

But we didn’t have any choice. Streetwalking in Minneapolis is a bad way to make a living in late November, and I was too busy anyhow.

I had been practically virginal since the crackhouse debacle, and I didn’t relish my first experience to be under a jackbooted slave master. Rick and Randy really deserved to have me first. They had been so nice to me after my surgery: carrying my books to class in the first weeks when I was too weak to carry them; bringing me lattes when the AIDS drugs left me too sick to eat. And they had been patient and gentle with me sexually, although the made their desires very evident. My lips had grown very experienced in pleasuring them, but I knew they wanted more. At last, I was able to give it. And I wanted it. For the last two weeks, every time I thought about it, my ass tingled with desire.