Property (Bi, cis, fem)

You have recently found yourself the property of a man named John. He fought off a man who was trying to steal your purse. God, you wish he hadn't. You'd rather just be out a few bucks. He definitely only did it to collect you into his harem. If nothing else, the fact that he marched you to the Debt Office and had 'property of John Ingalls #33' tattooed along your collarbone makes that clear.

And the only reason you're reflecting on this currently is because he's using one of his other 32 whores. Your tight little holes are so sore from the constant of his fingers, cock and the objects he sticks in there for his amusement. Your mouth tastes like his cum, bitter and salty.

The dress you're wearing, pink with white lacy accents, leaves little to the imagination. The sheer fabric allows your nipples to poke very visibly through, and its short length would never hide your ass if it weren't for the white petticoat. You don't wear underwear, at John's orders, but you do wear white thigh-highs.

The bell in your room rings, signalling that you're needed. You rise to shaky, high-heeled feet and walk down the intimidating halls to John's office. When you get there, you see #20, your fellow possession-of-John. She kneels before John in a baby blue version of your outfit, hands bound behind her back to expose her cleavage.

"Number 33," John greets you with his usual perverted grin. "You're late. You know what I do to tardy little sluts." Taking your time proved a mistake.

"No, I-I was barely, I mean I wasn't even- I'm not that late!" You protest. "Please don't-" The slap that hits your cheek is loud enough, even in its echo, to mask your choked sob. John tilts your head up and spits on your cheek. It drips down your face.

"Do as you're told, bitch, or I'll tie you down and make it even worse." You obey this time. Your saliva-coated cheek hits the wood of his desk and your ass is exposed in the air. "My marks from last time are still there," John observes, pressing one hard enough to make you whimper. "Good. This'll teach your ungrateful ass." He grabs the paddle he keeps on his desk. It's black, sturdy and extremely painful. The bruises it leaves last for days.

"You should consider yourself lucky-" He punctuates that with a hard strike. You count it with a shaky voice as tears roll down your cheeks. "That I saved a bitch like you." Another horrible stinging slap. "I could have- should have, really- left you there to be beaten, -" He punctuates each word on his list with another strike that you have to count out loud. "Whatever ghat guy had in store. Don't you agree, Number Twenty?"

"Y-Yes Sir," Twenty agrees. She's in service on purpose. She heard about the decree that Nobles and Military officials couldn't use a Private Use without permission from the owner and got herself in debt. It's a good plan. It'd be better if the debt wasn't to John, but a good plan nonetheless.

"Now, sit next to Twenty," John orders. You comply immediately. You cringe at the feeling. "You two are in here for a very special reason. I chose you specifically 'cause I wanna see it. I jerk off just thinking about it." He adjusts the growing bulge in his pants. "I want you two to fuck each other. While I watch. And put a good show on for me, would you?"