Freeuse: Discovering Lila

Author’s Note: This story is designed to be self-contained rather than part of a formal series, and you can read it without reading any other of the Lila stories. However, if you’re a stickler for reading things in order, the others are “Lila, Freeuse Slave” (the introduction), “Freeuse: Relationship Building,” and “Freeuse: I Like to Watch.”

It was about 8:00 pm on a Wednesday night. I’d been working stupid late on a project that was up against a deadline, and I was both tired and wound up as I rode home on the subway. I was upset at how it was going, peeved at unreasonable delays caused by last-minute changes requested by the client, and all-round sick of putting in so many hours. I needed to blow off some steam, but I wasn’t quite sure how.

The car was crowded for a Wednesday night. There was a Raptors game that evening, and the last-shift crowd and evening shoppers were mixed in with more than the usual number of basketball fans. Like a lot of people, I was standing, holding a stanchion. That’s when I saw her, standing about half a car-length ahead of me.

She was turned about half a turn from me so I could see her from the side. Maybe it was my mood, but I was instantly overcome with a wave of mingled appreciation and lust. She looked to be in her mid to late twenties. She was somewhat petite but not overly small, slender but not scrawny. Her lush dark brown hair fell straight to about the level of her shoulder blades. Her features were strong but feminine, radiating a relaxed assurance that I found instantly attractive. A little makeup but not too much, eyes lightly outlined but not turned into black craters like you see on some less confident women. She was wearing the quintessential Little Black Dress, restrained and unadorned beyond a gold metallic belt that cinched it around her waist, sleeveless, V-cut in front but bot tits-hang-out slutty, ending somewhat above the knee but not so short that she would have to keep tugging at it every time she sat down. No stockings that I could see. Short black leather medium-heel ankle boots. Nice medium-sized breasts, carried high behind the dress—their shape might have been engineered by a very effective bra, but I allowed myself to think that they would be equally shapely without one. All in all, a package that, at that moment, seemed to me perfect. My cock stirred in my pants the second I saw her.

Now, there aren’t many guys who haven’t had the experience of laying eyes on a random woman in a public place and being overwhelmed by a wave of mingled appreciation and lust—which, if they’re clever, they don’t act on. What was unusual about this one was the leather collar rivetted around her neck and the leather cuffs on her wrists and ankles, nicely shown off by said Little Black Dress, all with D-rings dangling and waiting for something to be fastened to them.

Let’s wind back a bit and fill in more about me. I’m twenty-seven, hardly a virgin but currently single and going through something of a sexual dry spell. I don’t think I’m particularly nerdy nor particularly shy, and the face that looks back at me from the mirror may not be George Clooney, but it looks pretty attractive to me. Some of my previous girlfriends have told me as much. But I’m not the smooth, self assured sort of guy who radiates charm and confidence, the kind who can spot a woman, walk over, and within fifteen minutes be walking her home with him. Rather, I’m the type of guy who tends to be prone to sexual dry spells.

I also have the usual suite of sexual fantasies. Apart from fucking gorgeous women, usually ones invented by my fevered brain, my fantasies tend to revolve around two things that so far none of the women I’ve been involved with seemed to have any interest in: bondage and anal.

I guess maybe the bondage comes at least in part from the amount of effort I all the time seem to have to put out to attract and keep a female sexual partner, owing in part to the above-mentioned lack of automatic male magnetism. The idea of having total control over a woman, to have her naked, bound and gagged so she can not complain while I do whatever I want to her without having to lead up to it or ask permission—well, to me that’s definitely the stuff of dreams.

Maybe the anal comes simply from a desire to try something different for once. I really love oral and vaginal sex, when I can get it, but I keep reading (in legitimate self-help articles in mainstream sources, not just in the erotic fiction that I enjoy but don’t trust as a road map to reality) how great anal sex can be for both men and women. Having your cock squeezed by a woman’s tightest hole (men), having your G-spot and miscellaneous nerve endings massaged from a totally new angle (women), is all the time presented as an absolutely pinnacle sex experience. Provided, of course, that it’s done right: slowly, carefully, with lots of communication and lube, the way the articles go on to explain in loving detail. And of course, there’s also the lure of something which is still, despite the sex-positive vibe of the current decade, slightly taboo.

Then I started reading about this new thing: Freeuse Slaves. Since the government had gotten tired of numerous prostitution laws being struck down by the courts, it had finally given up trying to outlaw it and instead set up regulations allowing for a number of reasonably safe methods for people to make money from their bodies. One of these is Freeuse Slavery. As I understood it, people, almost all the time women, who have a thing for BDSM already, who actively like being bound, spanked, flogged and fucked, can sign on with a contracting agency and rent themselves out by the hour as sex slaves. They can quit any time, but until they terminate their contract, they are expected, within limits, to do anything a client tells them to do.

You can see the appeal for a guy in my position. I have no fantasies of hurting women, even slightly and in play. I’m totally not wired that way. But my fantasies of bondage and control came rushing over me the moment I read that article. I checked reviews and downloaded a brochure for Consolidated Sex Slaves, which provided better masturbation fodder than anything Pornhub has to offer because it was real and actually available to me. I read that brochure forwards and backwards, then followed up by reading everything else I could get my hands on about the practice.

I hesitated for months. Would I really have the guts to walk through the looking-glass from total fantasy to fantasy-in-real-life? Would I even know what to do, or would I make a fool of myself? I eventually nerved myself up, figuring that every client would have had a somewhat fumbly first time, and anyway, who the hell cared if I made a fool of myself with someone who was my (temporary) slave?

So I signed up. I paid the hefty sign-on fee, read all the expectations and the FAQ’s, and signed the waivers and the contract. I promised not to do anything on the mercifully short list of prohibited acts, all of which could be summarized as anything that could cause real injury, and promised to honour a slave’s safe word (backed up by a safe grunt in case she was unable to speak at the moment). I waited while they conducted background checks to make sure I wasn’t a psychotic sex offender. Finally, I was issued a card.

That was two months ago. I had slipped the card in my wallet, and I had been carrying it around ever since. During that time, I had seen a number of women wearing their distinctive Freeuse collar and cuffs, but I had all the time chickened out of hailing them.

Now here I was, staring at a woman of my dreams courtesy of Greater Toronto Transit, with a card in my pocket that would allow me to possess her immediately, completely, and with no repercussions. Maybe I was seeing a cure for the pent-up nervous energy I needed to blow off. A really good fuck might take care of it.

I hesitated as warring emotions filled my head. Finally, I consulted an expert authority on the subject, my cock, which was making an embarrassing bulge in my pants.

“Hey, Buddy. What do you think I should do?”

“Why is it even a question? Go for it already, Geoff. Find out if those tits look as good naked as they do in the dress. Jeez, you’re killing me down here.”

How could I argue with such expert advice? I moved through the crowded car until I was only a couple of metres from her. I opened my mouth to say, “Freeuse,” just like I had been instructed at my orientation. All that came out was a dry croak.

“Try again for God’s sake,” said my cock. “If you don’t get with it, you’ll have to change your underwear when you get home with nothing to show for it.”

I worked up some saliva in my dry mouth, and finally said, “Freeuse!” a little louder than I’d intended to.

The woman looked around for the source of the hail. I smiled and waved at her, and we locked eyes. My heart pounded. My God, I’m actually doing it!

Her perfect mouth widened into a sunny, inviting and seemingly natural smile. It might have been rehearsed, but she showed no signs of it. My nerves immediately subsided.

She rummaged in her shoulder bag and brought out her phone. Just the way I’d rehearsed it, I brought out my card with what I hoped was a self-assured motion, and she swiped it through the card reader attached to the phone. The phone made a soft ding, and so did mine. I offered up a brief prayer of departure for my bank balance.

She looked at the information on her phone and smiled again. “Geoff, you’re going to have a very nice evening.” She looked at me again with her soft, wide brown eyes.

I looked at my phone. “Lila. Yes, I think we’ll have fun together.” Christ, what do you say when you’re picking up a sex slave? “My place is three stops ahead.” I moved up right next to her and rested my hand on her thigh in a way that would normally have earned me a black eye, an assault charge, or both. No reaction. Her smile didn’t even flicker. God, I was gonna like this.

While we waited the three stops to my place, I scrolled down to her Red Circle list, which set out

activities that she would not do, in addition to the basic ones forbidden by my client contract. It was an intriguingly short list:

• Erotic asphyxiation (breath play)
• Urethral sounding (peehole play)
• Bodymod (piercing, tattooing, etc.)

That was all fine by me. Erotic asphyxiation is rumoured to bring on an especially intense orgasm, but whether that’s true or not, it’s also an excellent way to kill someone by mistake. Urethral sounding—essentially, sticking rods up your partner’s peehole—might be a turn-on if practiced very, very carefully, under sterile conditions with a totally trusted partner. Otherwise, it’s a ticket to a UTI or a punctured urethra. And while tattoos and piercings may be in fashion, they require carefully considered commitment. They aren’t something you force on a helpless slave. In short, none of the red-circled activities was anything I had the slightest intention of doing anyway.

Outside of that short list, I could do anything I wanted. Strip her, tie her up, gag her, hurt her with a flogger, a paddle, a cane, an electro-wand (none of which I possessed, nor intended to), shove things up her cunt and asshole, and most crucial, fuck her mouth, her pussy and her asshole as much as I liked.

My little buddy in my pants got even more restive. Thank God I’d jerked off in the shower that morning. Otherwise, I really would have had to change my underwear.

We rode in silence to my stop. I motioned to her that it was time to get out, and we did. Once we got to the surface, I decided that it was time to venture a bit farther. I held out my hand.

“Leash and one lock, please.” I could have asked for them on the train—I had certainly seen slaves restrained in public before, and nobody would have registered more than mild interest. But somehow I couldn’t bring myself to be that forward in that crowded setting. Now that we were at least outside, I was more daring.

She rummaged in her bag again and brought out the requested items. From my client orientation, I knew that in addition to the usual wallet, phone, makeup, tissues and assorted purse detritus, she would have three more locks, a gag, and some lube, all in case the client didn’t have such equipment ready to hand. The customer experience, as the brochure phrased it, is job one at Consolidated Sex Slaves.

The leash was easy. It was an typical pet leash that clipped onto the D-ring on her collar. However, I fumbled with the lock. In spite of having had it explained to me at the orientation, I just couldn’t understand how to get it open.

Lila let me fumble for a minute or two, then gently took it out of my hands. “See? You hold this down, press this, and then turn this.” The lock popped open. “No fiddly key to lose. Easy to open if you can see what you’re doing and can get two hands on it. Otherwise, just about impossible.” She handed it back, and I clicked it closed again. After only a few false starts, I got it open. Smart!

Lila turned her back to me and brought her wrists together in what was obviously a practiced motion. I slipped the lock through the D-rings on her cuffs and closed it. I felt a little dizzy. I actually had a real, live woman handcuffed and in my power. I squeezed her left breast gently but firmly through her dress. She didn’t flinch. Fantasy unfolding.

I walked her on the leash like a pet the three blocks to my apartment. I felt a few glances as I led my captive into the elevator, but the sight was by now so familiar to people that they didn’t say or do a thing. I was gradually getting more comfortable with my role as slave owner for the evening.

I opened the door and led her into my apartment. It’s a nicely furnished one-bedroom, somewhat tidier than some of the bachelor pads my friends lived in, with a very nice view of Lake Ontario in the distance. I reflected that my next-door neighbour liked to play music really loudly, and I could barely hear it in my place. It might be handy to have well-constructed walls, depending on how the evening progressed. I hadn’t really wondered that far ahead yet.

She stood in the middle of the living room, her wrists still locked behind her, looking patient but expectant. What now, I wondered. Which of the million or so sexual fantasies stored in the back of my brain should I try out first? I didn’t have a well-equipped dungeon like in porn videos and erotic stories. I had bought ten metres or so of rope when I first signed on with Consolidated Sex Slaves, but I had never taken it out of its package. That was about the extent of my bondage equipment. Oh well, who needs fancy equipment? All I really needed was a eager partner, and one was handcuffed in my living room.

OK, first things first. I went around behind her and, after only a couple of tries, unlocked her wrists. She waited patiently with her arms at her sides. I unfastened her gold belt and let it drop to the floor, then took hold of the hem of her dress and began lifting it up. I could have cut it off, which would have been an erotic rush, but I didn’t want it added to my bill, and besides, the dress suited her so well that I didn’t want to wreck it.

As I lifted the hem, she put her hands up over her head so I could slide it up and off. Her breasts were now encased in nothing but a sexy-looking lacy black bra that looked as though it was built more for show than support. But for the moment, it wasn’t her breasts that caught my attention. Rather, it was the leather belt around her waist and the strap that ran from it between her pussy lips and her asscrack and back up to the belt again.

From the CSS handouts, I knew that the strap was holding two big plugs in her vagina and anus. In fact, I could see the safety flange of the vaginal plug peeking out from behind the strap. However, expecting it wasn’t the same thing as looking at it. I was, frankly, gobsmacked. I ignored her breasts while I walked once around her, admiring the way my evening treat was so nicely packaged as if to preserve freshness for me alone. As I came behind her, she bent over and pulled her asscheeks open so I could see the rest of the strap and the edges of what it was keeping inside her.

I gave my head a shake. I would need to deal with those plugs shortly, since I had my own designs on at least one of those holes and probably both. For now, I wanted to concentrate on that nice rack, still hiding in the bra.

I stood behind her and undid the clasp. She held her arms forward and hunched her shoulders slightly so the straps slipped down and the whole thing joined the dress on the floor. I reached around from behind for a double handful of the first breasts I had squeezed for quite a while. Yes! Even without the bra, they were firm, carried high, with nipples that I could feel harden under my touch. Medium-sized, big enough to feel authoritative but not big enough to droop.

I explored them thoroughly from behind, giving them firm squeezes without, I hoped, squeezing hard enough to hurt. Now that she was wearing nothing but her boots and straps, I picked up the lock again. Her wrists automatically met behind her back, and I snapped the lock back on.

I reached down and she lifted first one foot, then the other so I could slip her boots off. I came around in front and inspected my naked captive for a moment. Her breasts looked as good as they felt. Prominent nipples, medium sized darkish aureoles, high posture even without my hands to hold them up. The first breasts I’ve ever met whose owner was bound and unable to stop me doing whatever I wanted.

I bent forward and sucked on one, pinching the nipple between my lips. It hardened even more. I repeated the move on the other one, pinching firmly but not fiercely and being careful to keep my teeth out of the way. I sucked her nipple into my mouth and tongued it. She tipped her head back and began breathing deeply. She made a purr-like “Mmmm” and her smile broadened, her mouth opening slightly to reveal perfect teeth behind drawn-back lips.

I reached between her legs to see if her pussy was getting wet. Damn. Nothing but leather strap. I had forgotten for a moment that her pussy was occupied. It was time to get at least one of those plugs out of the way. I unbuckled the belt and crotch strap and let them fall, revealing a set of pussy lips held aside by the outside end of the plug. I ran a finger into the top part of her pussy and felt around her clit. Yes, getting moist, the clit beginning to get hard and emerge from its hood.

I slipped my fingers around the plug’s flange and tugged gently. With very little resistance it slid slowly out until the tip cleared her labia and her vagina sighed back into a more natural position. I held up the plug for a better look. It looked to be at least twenty centimetres long—about eight inches—and as big around as five fingers bunched together. She must have a really deep vagina to take something like that up it all day without having it bang against her cervix, I wondered. I looked forward to trying it out with my own cock, even though it couldn’t quite match the plug for sheer length and girth.

I decided to leave the butt plug in place for now. Her sphincter should hold it in even without the strap, unlike her sphincter-less vagina that needed the strap to hold things in place. I’d get back to that hole later. For now I just pushed three fingers slowly into her cunt, curled them a little to maximize pressure on her G-spot, and began moving them in and out, alternatively curling and straightening them. A series of sharp intakes of breath suggested that I had the right spot and that she was gradually getting hornier.

Why did I care about her pleasure? After all, I was the one who was paying her, not the other way around. Truth is, I discover being able to work a woman up to orgasm hugely satisfying. My own body seems to feed off hers, helping us both drive our sexual response higher and higher. I guess that’s why a real woman is more satisfying than just a hand or a sex doll. The feedback loop between me and another human being is hugely erotic.