Scandal For Sale

February 28 th-1

February 28 th

The pages of Judge Perdue’s training manual are dog-eared and stained with coffee. I was embarrassed to give it back, but I supposed the little present was merely a loan. I decided to leave it in an envelope on his desk—assuming that he wouldn’t want it laying in plain sight of any curious eye. Thankfully, his office was empty but unlocked. I slipped inside and then quickly retreated. Just my luck, I bumped into the man as I turned to close the door. He’d just come up the stairs.

“You needed to see me?” I stared at him unable to move, then stumbled over some excuse I don’t remember now.

He invited me in, and I couldn’t decline.

“Did the pamphlet inspire your thoughts, Miss Lourdes?” he asked. He seemed to bully his way inside his office, set down his briefcase and removed his jacket as if he were preparing for battle.

“Yes.” YES, YES, YES, YES, I wanted to shout the complete truth, not this tiny little, awkward, “yes.” I should have screamed it loudly, but I’m petrified by what I feel.

He made me sit.

“Sometimes the only way to understand what we feel is to quit thinking about it and experience the facts.”

“I’m sure that’s true.”

“If you want to find someone to help you with your fantasies of slavery, Miss Lourdes, I’m sure I could introduce you to someone.”

He knows.

I told him that I’d think about it and let him know.

Now, sitting here, hours later writing, the churning in my belly has not stopped. I will lie down and masturbate to these thoughts. I will think of the booklet, all the memorized words… slaves should be kept bound… gags deepen the experience… nudity is mandatory for a time… whippings must be thorough and sound with weapons that bruise, not tear the flesh… deprivation empties the mind of the slave so that their thoughts can be reshaped into forms of the master’s choosing… the process can take years…

How does one respond to this?

I told him I’d think about it and let him know. Truth is, I know exactly what I want now, what I wanted when he made his offer.

March 3 rd

Today after class, Judge Perdue gave me instructions to write about how I envisioned my life as a slave… at least five generous paragraphs, he said. Instead, I wrote a long chronicle, things I don’t even remember saying, dashing it off in my scribbled longhand inside a bluebook like I was taking a test—perhaps it was.

March 6 th

This invitation was in my post box this afternoon—on Judge Perdue’s same notepaper…

“Dinner at six o’clock, Saturday. 525 Wrenworth Circle. Judge and Mrs. Perdue.”

March 9 th

I am home from the most extraordinary night of my life.

It’s almost midnight, but I can’t sleep.

I arrived at Judge Perdue’s having no clue what he had in mind. His house is old, an English Tudor with a gnarled doorpost and ivy crawling up the sides like snakes. A gargoyle sits on the doorstep—warning.

He was so gracious, as was his wife, Mrs. Perdue. She laid her hands on me as she took my coat, being motherly with eyes as wise as an owl’s. She could see through me. I’m sure the two had discussed me in detail.

“My, how lovely she is!” the woman exclaimed to her husband, as if I were a piece of fine china. She is handsome, over forty, with the look for fortyish women—collected, cool and in control, just like the man she married. She is a mature clone of my roommate and much more appealing. I wanted her to hold me for a long while.

We entered their living room, which seemed innocuous enough. I’m not sure what I expected—racks and chains I suppose. But there were none. I was sure that I had completely misjudged the invitation to dinner, as my imagination took flight in kinky fantasy.

Judge Perdue sat in his judicial looking chair, she on the sofa. I was offered a small upholstered chair that could hardly hold my ass—which is not big at all. I know now there was a method behind their plans.

“Some tea?” Mrs. Perdue asked.

“Yes, ma’am,” I said to be polite. She served three cups of Orange Pekoe tea, and we settled back to talk.

“A slave would take the floor,” the Judge started, and I turned to him.

My tummy was in knots. Was this what he wanted me to do? Sit on the floor? I was too scared to ask.

“A slave in the presence of their owner would only wear clothes if they were instructed to do so. They would wear only what was provided.”

My gut wrenched again.

“A slave would pleasure in humiliation, offer their body for inspection, allow themselves to be used in any way their owner desires, consent to any s****l activity, public or private that was demanded of them. A slave would obey. Disobedience and hesitation would be punished, with punishment cruelly administered until the slave’s behavior had been transformed to obedience.”

He cleared his throat while I absorbed these amazing thoughts.

“This is what is expected of you,” Judge Purdue told me. “If this is the vision that you have of yourself, then you can have it,” he paused, looking somewhat unsure if he wanted to add, “with me.”

“You, Sir?” My eyes bugged out, while my stomach flipped again.

“You’ve given away your desires a dozen times, Miss Lourdes.”

I knew this. He hardly had to tell me.

“Do you want to spend your life waiting to have what you desire, wishing, hoping, thinking about it, m**********g to the thoughts that grip your soul? Or, do you want to choose slavery and learn what it means?”

He was serious. This was no game, no innocent inquiry, no judicious study of a bizarre societal practice he was offering, but real slavery.

I can’t believe now what I said. What I committed to tonight. I said, yes, a stunning, clearly distinct, YES. I answered in the affirmative with this steady voice so unlike myself. To my great admission, Judge Perdue nodded, and Mrs. Perdue smiled. They seemed to know long before I made my commitment what my answer would be. I barely know these two, and I was pledging myself to them!

With this simple formality over, I sat back and listened to the Judge’s long monologue. The words fly by me now, not fit for memory, but the gist of my agreement was spelled out clearly.

I will be his owned slave until school dismisses in the spring—at which time our agreement will be reviewed. If I am still wanting with my whole heart, the binding between us becomes more permanent. I will be his slave until he releases, sells or gives me away. Sells? Gives me away? I consent to give up my liberty. To give him my thoughts to mold, my body to use and my life to dictate.

I cannot believe how much these agreements parallel the wickedness that has been hidden so long inside my fierce denial.

I will remain in school, taking courses he agrees to. For a time, I’ll stay in the dorm with my roommate and spend only the hours he designates at his home.

I can tell this is my trial.

My hand shakes as I write these words… my fingers can hardly work. The raw excitement of my evening lingers with me leaving every nerve in me on edge.

“Miss Lourdes, please stand.” He said this quietly, yet his order seemed to clap like thunder through my body. His eyes were glorious, brilliantly passionate as they inspected me from the tip of my head to my toes. “Remove your clothes.”

By that time, my body shook from deep within, my fingers were as slippery as they are now. One minute, I couldn’t work the buttons of my blouse; the next minute, I was stripping it away, removing my jeans, standing in panties and bra before two strangers, whose eyes commanded me to continue until I was naked. They would say no more, since I understood implicitly what they wanted.

As my breasts swung free of the lacy, cotton bra, I could see my n*****s shrivel like tiny pink raisins. My chest was flushed, my cheeks burning, my breathing becoming slightly labored. I worried that I’d faint from too much s****l exposure.

Taking off my panties was the last real choice I would make; though by then it seemed to be no choice at all. I exposed myself, the anal cleft and the p***y both, as I crawled the waistband of my panties over my hips and down my thighs until the flimsy fabric dropped to the floor.

“Come, let me see you closer,” the Judge ordered.

I shakily obeyed, and bit my lip while taking tiny steps his way.

Reaching out, he pulled me in, then drew me over his lap, inspecting me like a piece of meat, grabbing flesh: my breasts from underneath, which he yanked; my back, the smooth shivering surface; and my anal cleft, which he probed liberally, seeking entry into both the hidden channels. I’ve never been violated there. I’m not a virgin, but no one has ever investigated me as if making a map of my body for later use.

Finding his hand at my p***y, I clenched, enough that he could feel the constriction of my muscles with his penetrating fingers.

“You’re primed to c*m with all of this flowing juice,” he observed rightly, then he turned to ask his wife, “Should we let her orgasm?”

“You’ll deprive her later,” she reminded him. “I think she deserves that much reward after what she’s conceded tonight.”

“You’re too kind,” he said. But he didn’t stop fingering my slit, thrumming the tumescent bud, twisting my labia like a screw. I jerked back into his prying hand asking for more. My body was ruled by obsession. I could not have stopped myself. All these weeks of—NO…all these months, years of quandary came down to this one simple thing. I’d never allowed myself to consider what I agreed to tonight, never. And in the space of an hour—hardly more—I’d given myself to a man I’d call my owner and was now allowing him full access to anything he wanted of my body.

I came, humming first, then softly screaming as his fingers primed me to a peak, then kept on until I squirmed fitfully, frantic to capture every spasm, every jolt of exciting sensation.

Once the orgasmic spasms subsided, Judge Perdue pushed me off his lap and to the floor, then moved to the floor himself beside me. As I lay against his Oriental carpet, he loomed over me, massaging my belly as if trying to push out the remaining physical, s****l energy. I thrashed back and forth, while he tormented me, tugging at my pubic hair and lifting my crotch in the air until the pain shrieked through me, and he finally let go. He took both n*****s between thumbs and index fingers and pinched, pinched hard without stopping, while looking into my eyes. I tried to cry. He hushed me.

“Look at me,” he ordered.

My eyes were fixed.

“Jeanette, get me the whip.”

My stare widened, with my fear turning into panic.

The whip appeared, circling my throat, drawn tight about my neck and held so fixedly that I could feel my veins fight for freedom.

“Relax, Miss Lourdes,” the Judge told me, intently, quietly. “Relax,” he almost whispered.

I tried. I struggled. I tried again.

“Trust. You must trust me,” he whispered more. “I will not hurt you, you will not suffer what you cannot stand. What I do, I do for us both.”

My head felt light. Lack of oxygen made it tingle…

I was about to faint, forget, give up, let go…when he loosened the whip and blood flowed freely in my veins again.

“Jeanette draw up her legs and hold them down,” he ordered his wife. He backed away enough to let her work, as the woman took my two legs and lifted them into the air, finally forcing them back so my ass cheeks were exposed and my p***y splayed. She knelt at my head and held me by the ankles, while Judge Perdue moved to the obvious target provided and began slapping my ass and p***y, first with his hand and then with a leather slapper, repeatedly, vigorously.

My attempts to thrash back and forth were thwarted by the woman’s muscled determination.

“Don’t move,” she ordered me, “absorb the shock.”

I listened, but was beyond real hearing. Rude, wild, biting pain surged through every nerve, blistered my skin, made my entire being cry.