You know those slave auctions that people do for fun, where you stand up and people bid a fortune for you, and then you cook them a meal or clean their kitchen or walk their dogs... that sort of thing? Well, I thought that was the only sort of slave auction there was. I didn't realise the other sort of slaves got auctioned these days, the sort that have to please their masters in other ways At least not people like me. But that's what happened when you sail into the wrong waters.
My father was a super millionaire and I lived on a yacht. Honestly. I was a twenty year old princess and I lived on a yacht. I had everything I could ever want.
I even had a girlfriend.
I should explain that. Harriet had been my companion for about a year. She's from a wealthy family too, my father's brother's daughter in fact, but her parents packed her off to live with me - because she wouldn't get married. Harriet has long black hair, and beautiful smooth hands. Her tongue is pierced with a single white pearl. Her breasts are small, pert mounds with fat, luscious nipples, and her stomach curves so beautifully it gives me urges to stroke it with my tongue. All of which should have told me I fancied her, but I was a little naïve.
At least, until my twentieth birthday.
My parents died some years ago and I inherited everything. My uncle, Harriet's father, is my guardian, but we don't see him much. He's an unpleasant man, hugely fat with bad teeth and bad skin. Harriet says he has a maidservant who has to suck his cock before breakfast, and that sometimes he makes her suck his dinner guests whilst they eat. I can't stand him, he once came to visit me on the yacht and wore these dreadful little swimming trunks, and the tip of his cock kept poking out, and I was horrified.... but he looks after my money for me, and pays Harriet her allowance. In return we write him a letter once a week, painful schoolgirlish stuff - Dear Uncle I hope you are well...' You can imagine. It isn't Dickens.
Harriet and I had become really good friends. I could tell her everything - about boys I fancied, about music I liked, about films I enjoyed. We'd do our makeup together, try on each other's clothes... she'd brush my hair. I loved her like a sister.
And we were physically close. We weren't always as intimate as we became on my birthday, but I often had bad dreams about my parents, who had died mysteriously when their boat had been lost somewhere near the Azores, and we slept together. Harriet would often stroke my breasts as we curled up in the night, sliding her hands under my silk pyjamas and gently playing with my nipples. Every so often, as I lay there half asleep after a particularly bad dream, she would slide her fingers slowly and carefully into my pyjama bottoms, between my legs, and gentle and sweetly caress my plump virgin clitoris with her gentle fingers, stroking and comforting me until a surge of warm orgasm rose up from my groin and engulfed me wish lovely shudders, and as that happened she would slip one finger in between my labia, into the moist warm place that was mine, and penetrate me , fingering me so gently as I came in spasms.
Then I would sleep. I loved it. She would never let me do the same to her, and although it sounds selfish I just got used to it.
On my twentieth birthday, though, things changed. Harriet offered me a massage, something she often did. I loved her smooth hands on my skin, on my back, my bottom and my legs, but on this occasion as she oiled and smoothed my olive skin an imp of mischief took hold of me and I rolled onto my back. My two small pert tits stood in the air and I gazed at her mischievously.
'I think you should do those.'
She smiled and said nothing but her hands began to caress my breasts, to circle my nipples, to knees and rob my virgin tits, and I realised I loved it. I closed my eyes and moaned, and a moment later her lips had closed gently round one rosy nipple, and she started to lick and suckle on it like a baby.
Electric shocks shot through me from my fat pink teats to the centre of my stomach. I wanted her on my tits. I wanted her to suck them and play with them till I begged for mercy. 'Oh my God, "I whispered, ''oh Harriet, do it more...'
And the suckling grew. Soon she was feasting quite wolfishly on my raw, tender jugs, both teats swollen and used as she roughed them, caressing and loving them, licking and tickling them, but also tugging and squeezing, twisting and chewing them, if you could rape tits that's what she did. She was getting rougher and rougher, tugging and stretching my teats till I moaned in pain and pleasure, and then as I writhed and my pussy came alight her fingers parted my pussy lips, and she was probing between them, seeking my muff, fingering the virgin tissues, probing exploring, caressing my clit...
