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She Comes With The House by AsDiane..,
Diane’s master confines her to a house which he rents out to tourists who want a BDSM experience. , SHE COMES WITH THE HOUSE
Sometimes you find a job that you just love. I did. I’ve kind of always been lucky like that.
For the last two years, it has been my great good fortune to have a job that – on average – takes only a few hours a day. It gets busy once in a while but it’s rare. Most of the time it’s kick back and relax.
I live in the San Francisco Bay Area and work for a man named Peter. Peter owns a series of buildings on both sides of the Bay. I am in charge of one in the Hills above Berkeley, a very nice, very expensive place that is rented out by the week or month to travelers who want a unique California experience.
It’s a beautiful place. The entire west face of the building is floor to ceiling glass on all three floors – it gives a complete panorama view of the Bay. All of the rooms are huge with high ceilings and amazing woodwork. It rents for more per day than I make in a month and it comes with a chef, a driver, and two maids.
And Diane.
My job is to make sure Diane is taken care of between tenants. She doesn’t ever leave the place and I’m not sure she would even remember how to take care of herself, but since the place is rented most of the time, that really isn’t much of a problem.
Let me tell you a bit about Diane and about how it all works.
Diane is an incredibly hot middle-aged woman from the Midwest. She got involved in the whole BDSM scene and was passed from master to master (as they call it) until she ended up out here with Peter. Peter is connected worldwide and he really saw something special in her. Diane is evidently a standout among the women he’s had as slaves in the past. She came to him already well trained. He enjoyed her for a while – pushing her obedience and submission further and further, always trying something new. Eventually, he got tired of it. He gave up on finding limits he couldn’t take her past – it seems that there were none.
So he took a completely different approach with her.
That first year, he had her flown around the world to a variety of his clients. They all agreed that she was special. A high ranking politician in China used her as bribe to gain votes from forty different political interests in a single ten day period. A rich businessman in Thailand had her put on several twisted sex shows for his clients. Peter told me about one of the freakiest.
The Thai man wanted to prove how decadent American women could be. He had her do a fairly mild striptease, stripping from a plain, grey business suit to pasties and a silver G string. Eventually, two older women took her offstage while the music kept blaring over the speakers. They stripped her naked, laid her on her back, and pushed the nozzle of an enema bag into her bottom. One of them opened the top of the sack and dipped her finger in – it was filled with cum. They emptied the bag into her, then paraded her back onstage again – this time fully naked. She was instructed to walk from one end of the runway to the other, squatting in front of each of the men and filling a small bowl with the cum. When she was finished, she got on her hands and knees in the middle of the room. From then on, anyone who wanted to fuck her would indicate so by emptying his bowl over her head, then he would take her from behind as the cum soaked into her hair and dripped onto the floor.
There were other stories but none more bizarre than that one. He told me that by the end of the year, he was commanding nearly $10,000 for a weekend’s work. Diane – he said – was a keeper. A real moneymaker.
This week is one of my busy weeks. Nobody’s rented the place, so there’s nobody using Diane. Yesterday – Monday – I got up at ten till four in the morning. A ritual day for Diane – that is, a day when she’s not in use – starts early. At four, I went into the basement and turned on the lights. When the light in the big room go on, another set of flood lights goes on in Diane’s small room. A loud bell clangs at the same time to wake her.
She got up right away and pressed her face against the little window in the door. That was the drill every since the first time I screwed up. Since the room she sleeps in is soundproofed, I can’t heard the bell. One morning, I left it on for nearly ten minutes, which ended up giving her a huge headache. Since then, she’s jumped to the window quickly to let me know she’s up.
I opened the door and handed her soap and a towel so she could take her morning shower. Then, a breakfast of bacon and eggs and coffee and – by four-thirty – down to work. I picked a baby blue nighty for her and told her to pull her hair back in a pony tail. While she was doing her makeup, I cranked up the different computer rigs she’d be spending the next few hours in front of.
The first one was for the blog entries. Between sessions, Peter had her document everything that the last clients did to her. He said that making her write about it was a way of making her relive it and internalize it even further. He was right. I’d watched her masturbate often enough while she was writing those blogs to know he was right.
Then, there were her four different phone sex services. Diane was listed under different names on four of the Internet’s most popular BDSM sites. Peter had a friend of his who was a professional photographer do the shoots, altering the makeup and hair coloring, then PhotoShopping the images enough to give her four distinct personalities. Not that it mattered to the callers. Once she picked up the phone, she was just a picture in their head anyway.
I glanced over at her while I was rebooting one of the servers that had locked up. Still a hot body, even with the occasional mark here and there. Peter told me I was free to do anything I wanted to with her but I settled for the occasional blowjob. All that freaky stuff is beyond me.
Evidently not beyond her, though. I watched her running her fingers along the fabric of the nightgown laying on the bed. Her eyes were getting wider and I saw her bending her knees, opening her legs slightly. Her nipples were stiff and hard, poking out a full inch from her titties. I watched her belly as her breath quickened. She closed her eyes and I saw her pink tongue poking out between her lips.
“No! Bad girl!” I barked at her. She opened her eyes and turned her head toward me, then lowered her gaze and whimpered. Fuck. She looked at me. According to Peter’s “rules”, I had to punish her. But it wasn’t that easy. I knew her well enough by now to know that she’d probably done it just *to* get punished. A good spanking to start the day. I shook my head. She was that depraved.
I sat still for a minute or so. Diane stood with her shoulders hunched slightly, head down. Then, she turned and looked at me again, jerked her head back into position when she saw I was looking. Sure enough, the bitch was playing games. Trying to get me to do something. What now? Well, like the old joke says: when the masochist says “hurt me”, the true sadist says “no”.
“Diane.” I turned back to the computer. “Get dressed and get in here.”
While she slipped the nighty over her head, I checked the hardware on the chair. Two dildoes, each two inches around and eight inches long. The big Hitachi vibrator plugged in and visible on the desktop. The dildoes were mounted on pneumatic devices that drove them six inches up and down at random intervals during the calls.
And, underneath the desk, the iron shackles for her ankles. Another ingenious creation of Peter’s. From the desk up, the guys on the other end of the camera would see a sexy, hot woman masturbating for them. In reality, she’d be getting reamed by two monster cocks.
The last piece was the most creative touch of all. On top of the four phone sex sites, Diane was registered on all of the sites that featured “orgasm denial”. For an additional price, the customer (man or woman) had full control of the dildoes and the vibrator, turning them on and off, varying the speed and depth, adjusting the nuances of the experience.
I have to say that – of all the sessions I’ve watched – the denial sessions done to Diane by a pair of women in Atlanta were by far the most intense thing I’d seen. They always left her completely destroyed. A typical session with the women – they called themselves the Mancuso twins for who-knows-what reason – lasted nearly two hours and was punctuated by dozens of near-orgasms for Diane. She was limp and sweaty by the end, sobbing and completely incoherent. The women had called four times in the last few months and each time had left her like that. She was a wild woman on whatever call came next and in two cases the men reported her to the phone sex provider for “inappropriate behavior”. Imagine. All four times, the women called back after an hour or two and brought Diane to a huge orgasm that left her exhausted for days. It was like nothing I’d ever seen.
She leaned over the chair and soaked the dildoes with her spit, then straddled them and slid them slowly up inside her. After all this time, it still wasn’t easy. I knew why. It was part of the routine. For half an hour every morning, Peter has her insert something called “vaginal cones” into her body and go about her normal routine. She puts them in herself – one in front and one in back. They weigh just over 30g, Peter has been experimenting with weights from 10g to 50g but settled on these. The overall effect is that it keeps her tight enough that he doesn’t have to consider surgery. I hadn’t noticed her taking them out this morning – it’s become such a part of the routine, I don’t even look anymore.
When the dildoes were firmly lodged insider Diane’s belly, I shackled her ankles to the legs of the chair and activated the computer screens.
“Be back at eight,” I said cheerfully. Then, I leaned close to her. She raised her eyes and stared at my mouth, not daring to meet my eyes. I swung my hand and slapped her across the fact. Smack… “please” … smack … “don’t” … smack … “play” … “any” … smack … “more” … smack … “games” … smack … “like” … smack … “that” … smack … “with” …
BEEP
One of the machines beeped, she had a caller. I leaned forward and wiped the tears from her eyes, kissed her on the forehead, and headed for the basement stairs. I flicked off the light, leaving her trembling in the blue glow of the monitors.
I spent the morning sitting on a lounge chair next to the pool. It was early and still too chilly to go in. I watched the sunrise and thumbed through the latest copy of People magazine. Diane was safe and occupied which meant that my time was free. I went inside at about seven and made myself an English muffin, walked down the stairs to check on Diane. She was deep into a phone call, making slurping sounds by pushing three fingers in and out of her mouth. The guy on the other end was probably imagining a blowjob. I watched her for a few minutes. I never really got into phone sex, wondered what kind of guy was on the other end of the phone. Diane’s slurping sounds got louder and faster and I saw her body start to shake – she was cumming. I shook my head. Faking a blowjob and she made herself cum. The woman was pure sex. The light on top of the monitor went out, the man had hung up. Diane kept slurping, pushing her hand deeper into her mouth, lurching up and down, fucking herself on the dildoes. She came again, screaming loud this time and throwing her head back hard. The headset slid backward and she reached up and caught it before it fell off. I saw her sneak a glance at me, then return her eyes to the monitors. I turned around and went back upstairs.
At eight in the morning, I went back into the basement and shut down the phone lines one by one. When I shut the last one down, I turned to her and asked, “finished with the blog?”
She nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“Good,” I said. It didn’t matter, she had time to finish it later if she had to, but it would make my day easier.
“Get into your exercise clothes.”
Diane went back into her little room and changed. She spent the next ninety minutes in Peter’s gym, alternating weight training, yoga poses, and flat out running on a treadmill. Peter had hired a consultant to work out the perfect regimen for her body type and for the musculature he wanted. Her belly was flat and hard, but her thighs and arms had a nice layer of padding to keep her from looking like an undernourished runway model.
I had to keep her in line during the regimen, it was one of my few regular duties. Diane’s attention drifted often and I had to pull her back. She would be doing a sit-up and get turned on by feeling her thigh muscles tighten. Or doing leg extensions and start to slide her hand down between her legs. Her hyper-sexuality was a challenge. Peter insisted on it but it made it difficult for her to perform normal day to day behaviors. Everything turned her on.
At nine-thirty she told me she needed to pee. Even this was highly ritualized now. Since Peter’s clients had so many different fetishes around body functions, Diane was no longer allowed to use a toilet. On a day like today – a day with no clients to direct her – she might even forget to ask until it was imminent. This time, she remembered. I looked at the calendar.
“It’s a diaper day,” I said.
Flushed with shame, Diane walked to the pantry and slowly opened the door. She reached for an upper shelf and took out a disposable adult diaper. I stood with my arms crossed while she stripped naked and stepped into the diaper. She pulled it up as quickly as she could, then stood with her feet together and her arms at her sides, waiting. I watched her for several minutes before I remembered what she was waiting for. It was a childish game of Peter’s, I almost chuckled.
“Piss yourself.”
Diane’s face changed slightly and I knew she was working on releasing her bladder. After all this time, it was one of the very few things she still found difficult. Peter knew it and that was why he made it part of the ritual.
When she was finished, she closed her eyes and lowered her head. “Sir, I am…finished. May I…” she stopped. This was another of the parts I still didn’t like. I stepped closer to her, put my face close to hers.
“Say it.”
“Sir, I am finished…may…”
“Finished with what?”
“Sir, I am finished pissing mys…” she froze again, shuddering and wrapping her arms around herself.
“Go to your room,” I commanded in the strictest voice I could manage. She slowly went down the basement stairs, gingerly raising her feet at every step. I saw a trickle of liquid leaking down the inside of her thighs. She must have had quite a lot.
I pressed the button that opened her room and she went through the thick door.
“Stand in the nipple corner.” She walked to the far corner of the room, pushed her nose against the wall.
“Connect the punisher.” Diane’s hands shook as she reached for the nipple clamps that were attached by steel cables to rings in the floor. Peter had set this up as one of a handful of punishment sites around the house. Diane squatted until her thighs were parallel to the floor, her knees bent ninety degrees. Then, she connected the clamps to her nipples. The cable was exactly long enough to produce the desired effect. If she rose up any higher, her nipples would be stretched painfully toward the floor. She could squat deeper, closer to the floor, to relieve the tension. But it was a bad idea. It would only increase the temptation to straighten her legs.
“Thirty minutes,” I said and walked out of the room.
There was no way she could last, Peter knew that and he’d told me that. She’d try to remain stationary but would give up and lower herself toward the floor. And that was when the real pain would. Her calves and hamstrings would start burning, then threaten to cramp. She’d try to stand up, straightening her legs, pulling harder and harder at her nipples. I watched from the bottom of the stairs and sure enough, Peter was right. After seven or eight minutes, she started squirming. After eleven minutes, she was squatting deeper, knees flailing back and forth, trying to avoid cramping. At sixteen minutes, she was moaning, trembling and starting to whimper. Then, the jerking up and down started. She would jerk upward until her nipples couldn’t take it anymore, then squat back down fast, her thighs screaming in pain, making her straighten up again. I let her go another three minutes before I went back in and undid the clamps.
“You failed. I’ll notify Peter,” was all I said. Diane collapsed to the floor.
I left her there until ten-thirty. There was still plenty of housework to do and more of her day off agenda. Also, I’d been scanning through the emails I had sent to my porn account. One of the fringe benefits Peter offered me was that I had access to Diane on her days off. I didn’t do much with that the first year, but over the several months, I’ve made a pretty good amount of money putting Diane into fetish and bondage movies. My best customers were a pair of skinheads with a serious latex-and-pain fetish. They’d used her in over two dozen movies, sometimes making two and three on the same day. A typical scenario for them was Diane bound in latex, every inch of her covered except her breasts, then forty-five minutes of tit flogging with a variety of whips, canes, and straps. She would invariably cum from the treatment which enraged them and pushed them on further. She was becoming very popular in their circles.
They’d proposed another set of movies to me and I was considering it. Diane could have most of the housework done by one in the afternoon, which left about four hours before her next scheduled workout at five. The movies appealed to some dark side of me and they were willing to pay.
When I got back to the basement, Diane as still where I’d left her, curled up on the floor in the corner wearing the diaper. I smiled. Something about this turned me on. Maybe I’d been around Peter too much.
“Get up.”
Diane got to her feet, stood at attention with her arms at her sides.
“Put on your coveralls and get to the housework. Kitchen first, then the yard, then the bathroom. Be finished by twelve.” I turned and went back up the stairs. I knew she would be confused – by my insisting she keep the diaper on and by telling her to be done by noon. We both knew it wasn’t possible and we both knew she’d be punished for it.
I went back to the computer room and typed up my reply to the skinheads. I told them to expect us by one and that they had four hours. The alpha male – Tim – replied almost immediately with an address and a touchpad combination for the security.
I heard Diane in the yard, she must have finished the kitchen quickly. She was moving around quickly, pulling up a weed her, watering a plant there. I watched her unsteady motions as she tried to navigate in the soggy diaper and rough denim. There was a damp spot between her legs, the diaper was leaking. I’d have to point that out to Peter too, he would certainly notice it anyway.
Diane finished the yard at five minutes till noon. We both knew she needed at least twenty minutes in the bathroom, which meant she’d be late. I made it a point to follow closely behind her when she came into the house and headed quickly for the bathroom. I was tempted to say something but it was pointless. We both knew what I would say.
She took the small potato brush out of its place underneath the sink and started scrubbing the bottom tiles of the shower. Peter had designed the bathroom cleaning to be as humiliating as he could and still get the work done. She scrubbed the tile bathtub, the floor, and the toilet with the small brush on her hands and knees, then wiped down all of the other surfaces with vinegar and water. She arranged the towels and hairbrushes and declared herself finished. At twelve minutes after twelve.
“Late again,” I said with no particular malice or interest.
“So, what’s this all about?” Eddie asked.
“Watch, watch,” Tim laughed. He ran the back of his hand gently along Diane’s chin. She was trembling in the cool cellar, standing completely naked except for the now saturated diaper. “The little girl wet herself, didn’t she?” he cooed. Diane’s eyes watered but she didn’t answer. I just watched quietly.
“Hey, Timmy! Don’t be an asshole. We’ve got work to do here!” The voice came from one of the cameramen. Diane turned toward it and looked around the room. It was a stone basement beneath a barn but it had been done up to look like the galley of a slave ship. There were wooden benches lining both walls and huge sweaty men with dark tans and tattoos on the benches. They were shackled with thick iron chains around their ankles and wearing only tattered loincloths and sandals. All of them were bald and all of them were staring at her like ravenous wolves looking at a fawn.
I’d kept Diane in the diaper for the trip over. I knew it would have an effect on the men, or at least Tim. He’d brought it up over and over in emails and I thought I’d give him a little treat. Everyone’s got their own kink, right? I’d had her pull a tight black dress over the diaper, which was even more embarrassing since it made it that much more obvious she was wearing one.
“All right. Get out of that and take a shower so you don’t smell like piss. Then, get into that harem girl outfit. Be back in five minutes,” he turned to me, “or else you don’t get the money.”
