The Seller, Buyer, Girl and Her Master Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  The Seller, The Buyer,

  The Girl & Her Master

  By Lizbeth Dusseau

  ISBN 10: 0974113425

  A Pink Flamingo Ebook Publication

  Copyright © 2005, All rights reserved

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without prior written permission from the publisher.

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  Pink Flamingo Publications

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  The Seller

  The curls, the innocence like child’s play, the giggle and whine left on air to intoxicate and confuse. I remain under her spell, though she was with me only a short time—that is, after all, the way the system works. Girls like this one come and go quickly in my world. I only wonder sometimes what happens to them once they’re out of my hair, off my hands, dispensed with. I wonder about Evie almost everyday, from the first time I saw her, and all the days thereafter when I watched her transform…

  She wasn’t exactly pretty, but her unique features and the way she used them always gave her the illusion of blissful inexperience and effervescent charm. Her breasts are small, her eyes wide as saucers and her lips, full, pouty and sensuous. She breathes eroticism with every breath, and yet was ignorant of that fact when I was initially introduced to her.

  We met without really meeting, with Evie completely unaware that I was watching her, that I had her dossier in my hands, reading the list of her crimes as I observed her girlish machinations on the other side of the one-way mirror. She was crawling on the floor with her round ass encased in blue jeans wiggling as if she knew I could see. But, of course, she couldn’t know and her game was completely guileless. She was playing marbles with the kitten in the holding cell. The cat batted the glass baubles from one side of the room to the other, and Evie laughed with delight and scooted around on her hands and knees as if she were kitty’s best friend.

  “Incorrigible,” were the words stamped in her file, the words the matron beside me spoke in her grim monotone.

  “Hardly seems possible,” I said, continuing to observe this sweet blonde’s playful antics with the mischievous cat. I could not keep my cock from jumping gleefully in my pants.

  I should amend my description of her, saying that while her curls are a brassy, golden blonde, the color is strictly manufactured from a bottle, her roots are as dark as her soul, her brows the same and her pubic hair, which I was only later to see, is a sweet muff of black silk.

  “She needs a discipline we don’t have in this institution,” the woman beside me further added, as she observed the girl critically.

  Of course, this was always the case. Juvenile detention facilities give us our best prospects for training. There is something to be said for girls who look for thrills in bad behavior, flaunt their unmanageable attitudes like the latest fashion statement, and get labeled by the system, Incorrigible. Discipline isn’t exactly what they’ll get as they graduate from the legal system into ours. ‘Training’ is a much more useful term. Discipline suggests that we’ll breed out their inherent allure, ‘training’, that we’ll align it properly to serve our goals. Evie couldn’t have been more right for our approach to rehabilitation.

  “You’ve employed the usual corporal punishment?” I asked.

  “Of course,” the woman fidgeted uncomfortably. “But I think she likes it.”

  “Oh?”

  “It would seem so, but then, it’s impossible to know what’s in that brat’s head.”

  “The alternatives for her?”

  “She turned eighteen a few months ago, and as usual we upped the disciplinary measures in hopes that she would finally respond. She was even released into the custody of a strict guardian, but she was picked up three days ago with two other girls, robbing a market for a six-pack of beer, chewing gum and potato chips. She flew out of the place, laughing like the devil, laughing into the surveillance camera as if she was mocking us all.”

  “Do you have tapes?”

  “The surveillance tapes?”

  “No. Ones of her disciplinary sessions.”

  “Of course. They are on file.”

  “I’d like to see them.”

  “Certainly.”

  I actually thought my request was a bit ghoulish, or even offensive, as if I was a luring dirty old man, but the matron expected it of me. It has not escaped me that, beneath the austere and self-important officialdom of the detention facility, there is an erotic undercurrent fueled by the hungry groins of sexually repressed administrators. It would be impossible to look at the scrumptious bodies of these post-adolescent inmates and not be tempted to fantasize. They sit on the cusp between childhood and womanhood, nymphs, unassuming yet totally engrossing. Perhaps they remind us of what we’ve lost, what we failed to appreciate when we were their age, what these girls will never truly understand until it’s lost to them too.

  The manner of discipline has become more stringent and more daring as the years have gone by—all in the name of righteousness, of course. The administrators will say that it is a different world than the one we grew up in, where respect for authority was a given, not something easily tossed off and mocked as it seems to be now. Even on the fringes of Western culture, where this facility is located, the old respect has dwindled. That’s what the old men preach. I suspect that while they defend their method of corporal punishment, at the same time, they relish every stroke of the cane or strap that lands on the recalcitrant’s youthful ass. They have an advantage over more modern societies that long ago gave up the practice of punishing their youth so rigorously.

  To view Evie’s tapes, I was shown into a small room with a projector in the back, just four seats in the tiny theatre. I only needed the one. I ran the show, popping in the videotape, then taking my seat and sitting back to witness Evie’s castigation. The tape was grainy, but in color, playing like a European porno flick. This makes me wonder if some of the very realistic B&D porn seen in Western markets is merely prison tapes like these, smuggled out of , heisted from detention archives and sold for a quick profit.

  I watched the scene play before me, as Evie walks into a room that is nearly bare of furnishings and stands before a matron and the headmaster, biting her lip, her fingernails cutting into her palms as she nervously fidgets. I note how she opens her palms for a moment before she closes them into fists again. Her nails, polished burgundy, are chipped and bitten at the tips of her plump hands. She’s dressed in blue jeans and a blue denim work shirt, which is loosely tucked into her pants and half open down the front. She tosses her head back, the curls landing scatteredly on her shoulders and then flopping into her face again, from where she stares forward into the eyes of her accusers. She wants to look bored, but I see much more in the insouciant glance. She trembles.

  The sound quality, being poor, provides me with little decent dialogue—another attribute of bad porn flicks. That’s hardly a concern since my imagination can easily fill in the blanks. It’s not the words I’m after anyway, but the quality of the girl, her potential value to me—which I speculate now could be on the high-dollar end of the scale.

  Evie listens to the pair of judges for several minutes as they harangue her for her most recently committed crime. Her face twitches, her eyes dart tensely around the barren walls, and she bites her lips together again. She doesn’t say a word. I can hear enough to know they’ve asked her for some explanation for the silly stick-up. She can’t give them one, or she simply refuses to. Why bother? Her fate is sealed and she knows it. She knows what she faces and
though she’s obviously scared, I detect more, in the way of dark passion exuding from her now.

  Responding to orders from the matron, she opens the fly of her jeans and pushes the sides of the skin-tight denim down her hips. She’s pantiless, which instantly puts my cock at attention. From beneath her shirt, her ass and sex mound peek as she moves.

  The matron calls out something in her native tongue and with her back to the pair, Evie looks over her shoulder. Unbuttoning her blouse at the same time, she finally lets it drop to her feet. My first time with her naked is like gulping water on a hot thirsty day. I can’t get enough, and yet she overflows on me so that I nearly choke.

  “My, God, she’s beautiful,” I gasp aloud, to no one but myself. Her upper body is thin, almost willowy, her small breasts peaked with brown aureoles, in their centers brown button nipples. Moving downward, her slim waist widens at the hips and her ass becomes two vibrating mounds of abundant flesh. Her legs are shapely, smooth but strong and muscled. She strides quickly to the side of the room and grabs a silver rail that runs the length of the wall. She’s familiar with the procedure and wastes no time.

  With my eyes glued to her form, I could feel what lies rumbling underneath the surface. No one could deny the eroticism, which batters back and forth about the room, like a winged bat looking for some place to flee. She takes the position with her ass jutting lewdly into the room, while she bows her head between her stretched-out arms. Her feet remain coyly locked together, her legs together, her twin cheeks forming a sensuous heart.

  The matron, bound by no code of ethics that I’ve ever witnessed, reaches under the girl’s naked torso, grabs a tit and yanks down. Evie shrieks softly under her breath, then tries to absorb the pain, as the woman beside her twists a nipple, refusing to let up.

  With the first strike of the cane ripping through the air, the matron lets go her hold with a decided jerk, and watches with a grim look of satisfaction as the cane cuts into the girl’s behind. A red gash immediately appears, before the second strike has time to hit its mark. I see the white-knuckled reply of the trembling teenager. I see her flinch as she anticipates each subsequent blow, and then how she winces almost imperceptibly afterwards. She has the rhythm down as the strikes approach the dozen mark, and she knows that the headmaster will not stop there. He’ll give her twenty if he gives her one, and may well stretch this punishment to thirty.

  Evie’s ass welts easily. With cut after cut, the skin begins to glow red. Her shaking does not diminish, but in my mind becomes curiously sensuous. She sways as if a breeze inspires her. She settles her feet a little as the cuts interrupt her perfect form. At one point it looks as if her knees will buckle. Resuming her stance each time she falters, her feet are no longer tucked tightly together, and little by little part enough, giving her body’s secrets away—or at least the hint of them. Her pussy begins to show from underneath, and the more her red ass quivers with pain, the more I imagine those two hillocks parting to expose the entire anal cleft.

  I can see that my fellows are on the same page with me. The punishment over, their attentions to little Evie are hardly finished. The esteemed headmaster speaks to her in a gibberish I cannot understand, but I imagine he gives her orders. She answers, “Ja,” a dozen times. While the inquisition continues, he runs the cane over her ass, deliberately tracing the brutal lines he’s made on her flesh. He runs it though the crack of her ass, upward, the cane bending as it seems to stick in the center. He jerks it there, eliciting a gasp from the girl. Satisfied with her discomfort, he withdraws the cane and then, beginning at her knees, he begins to tap the implement rapidly between her legs, moving upward, gaining force with the swift back and forth until the poor insides of her legs must feel like fire. She stamps her feet, which makes him withdraw, and haul off with a cut as deep and nasty as any he laid on her so far. Once she settles back, he thrusts the cane high between her legs toward her sex lips, which I can only imagine it lodges between. Shaking the cane as if he’s actually fucking her, the response is unmistakable. Her whimpers betray her; her body jerks and quivers uncontrollably for several seconds.

  The headmaster, snickering grimly, withdraws the cane from between her legs and moves around to the girl’s side, opposite the drooling matron whose hand has for some time been entangled in Evie’s curls. Reaching in from underneath, cane still in hand, he strikes upwards, batting at her tits. She dances again, howling as she gets her first stab at real pain. “Oo, ow, ouch, yeeeauch!” she repeats in a continuous battle.

  The headmaster rattles off something in his strange dialect and the girl tries to settle herself, but man won’t let her rest.

  Another command, and she pulls out of her bent over posture, standing with her back to the wall, grabbing for the bar above her. Evie’s beauty is no more apparent to me that at this moment. Though her deep blue eyes have been stung with tears, they have noticeably darkened, lighting with a sexual aspect that leaves me quaking. She seems in the midst of an ongoing orgasm. But how could that be so? The headmaster, having changed to a smaller cane, is beating the perky breasts from side to side, leaving a second set of welts that will take some days to recover from. The girl shrieks not freely, but she remains steadfastly against the wall, holding on. The baton dances off her tits until they are a satisfactory red, then it makes devilish marks along her thighs and belly, cutting into the crevice of where her legs meet her hips. He head bangs back and forth as she cries, her curls splashing against the wall then dropping to her side when the blows subside and her body calms.

  It is the end of her beating—at last. But the rapture contained in every tiny movement of her body remains unabated. She’s awash with sexual heat oozing from every pore. With eyes closed, as if she’s in a dream, she licks her lips unconsciously—in preparation, I think. I can see her thick mouth opening, widening, ready to take cock, to let it be thrust down her throat. I can see her lifted in the air with a pair of burly hands, and a muscled body holding her against the wall as she’s fucked with hard invasive strokes. Her small adolescent body is like a toy, fresh, nubile, and though it bears the marks of a ruthless beating, it remains unflawed in substance. The welts will heal quickly. She’s young and will be ready for more on a moment’s notice.

  The matron leads the naked girl from the room and the video turns to white.

  “I’m sure we can use the girl, Evie,” I told the headmaster.

  “I’m glad,” the austere fellow replied. He’s too thin, balding, his face permanently flushed red. He wears a pair of round frameless spectacles over his eyes. “I only hope that you can rehabilitate her. God knows we’ve tried, and sadly failed.” He spoke in a cultured English. I imagine he studied in at one time.

  “The society she enters with me is a private one,” I reminded him. “We have our own expectations of the girls we accept.”

  “And you can discipline her in ways we cannot, I hear.”

  The man was new to me. Though we’ve taken at least a dozen girls like Evie from the detention center, I’ve rarely done business with the same headmaster twice. The job garners little respect, and despite the side benefits of the job, no man seems to want to remain within the squalid conditions. The state has few funds to put into the institution. Sometimes, I believe our contributions to the facility are what keep it running—or maybe these monies are squandered, too. Obviously, I don’t stay around to see them administered. If they go into the pockets of the headmasters, then so be it. Maybe it’s enough to send them to a better position.

  After I made my decision on Evie, I had little time to contemplate any of these matters further. The detention center was ready to be done with her. In fact, they were so ready, I wondered what might have happened after Evie’s punishment—after the scene in the videotape was over. I’ve always been told that no real sexual intercourse takes place while the girls are incarcerated, but I’m not sure I can believe the source of this information. Of course, the girls themselves tell me, quite sincerely, an
d I have to believe them, that they aren’t touched—overtly. They swear to the fact so strongly that I’ve decided these headmasters—imagining themselves to be upstanding fellows—can’t bear what they really feel inside the walls of the detention center. Their own perverted fantasies chase them out.

  I was told that the videotape I saw was taken just three days before my appearance, and that Evie had been locked in a solitary confinement since, left naked the entire time. This was her further penance. Peeking through the tiny observation portal, I saw her naked again, and then finally when they had her dressed and she was playing with the kitten in the holding cell—as if none of the last few days had even happened. Her spirit was bright and fresh and full of life, despite what was surely a brutal experience. This was as good a sign as any that Evie would fit into the future I had planned for her. Being adaptable makes the sudden shift much easier to manage. Some girls never do adjust to their place in the underworld. That is too bad, since they are destined to remain there, regardless of their personal feelings. Feelings can’t matter in my business. My heart can’t bleed for nubile innocents. I can’t call them ‘poor, sad souls,’ because they become the captive property of my clients—thrust into a world they didn’t ask for. They make their bed and lie in it. They run afoul of decency early on and refuse to reform. I’m just another rung in the ladder of justice served. I suspect if I didn’t take them off the hands of the detention center administrators, that they’d end up prostituting themselves on the streets, eventually stripped of their self worth, old and haggard before their time. I can assure anyone who questions my methods, that the dear and lovely Evie will be as fresh-faced and delightful ten years from now as she was the day I saw her innocently waving her fanny at my face.

  I was given the other videotapes taken of Evie during her punishment and interrogation sessions. Though I don’t need to see them to make my determination, I find these useful in promoting her assets to the clientele I serve, although this one’s assets spoke loudly without graphic illustration. I did opt out of the complete inspection of her they offered me. Though they tried to hide it, I detected a bit of disappointment on the faces of the matron and headmaster when I declined. I’m sure they hoped to have one last session with the young tart. I would leave them longing for her, just as she’d had left me longing and would continue to leave a trail of men and women who would never get enough of her. I count myself as one of the many.