Our Only Hope - S01 E15

Story 11 months ago

Our Only Hope - S01 E15

Read Story: SEASON 1 EPISODE 15

I grabbed her waist to steady her and slowly pressed my prick against her slit. I could feel the moisture lubricating the tip as I pushed slightly further in. “Go ahead,” she said breathily, “I’m bigger than you think. I use large dildos on myself... and sometimes my mistress uses a large strap on.”

I slid in much more easily than I expected. As I slowly pushed myself fully in, poopsie began a low moaning wail that got louder and more shrill as I started to move. It was surreal. I was fucking a pint-sized slave draped over the sill of a fake shack on the top of a big, round, stone mountain while the stars shone overhead and cars drove through the valley below. If anyone in those cars had their windows open, I wondered what kind of animal they thought they were hearing as poopsie’s continuous wail rose and fell in pitch and volume.

I usually try to be a gentlemen and let the lady finish first, but tonight that wasn’t really my decision. With her body draped over the high window sill, poopsie couldn’t move back against me, but she was somehow pulsing her cunt and milking my prick as it moved in and out. Just before I reached that point of no return, her wail suddenly became an extremely shrill shriek and her legs flew up to grab me around the waist and pull me tightly into her crotch. I tried to keep my hands from pinching her little asscheeks too tightly as I erupted within her.

She continued to hold me by the waist with her legs, as I stood lightly stroking her ass and back. After several minutes, I pulled back out of her and she lowered herself back so that her feet were on the ground. “We both should have gotten specific permission from your Mistress,” I said softly.

“But you both needed each other,” a soft voice said from behind us.

“How long have you been...?” I started to ask, but Natasha cut me off with a low laugh, saying, “Since a few minutes after poopsie’s screams woke me up.” She reached out and stroked poopsie’s head. “She’s a real screamer,” she said. “I’m always waking the neighbors.” Then she looked up at me and said, “And yes, she has permission to relieve her tensions with other men.”

Her voice got somewhat firm as she added, “... but she is supposed to check with me first to see if I approve of the man... or woman.”

Poopsie dropped to the floor, bowing low in front of her Mistress. “I’m sorry, Mistress,” she said in a slightly shaking voice, “I assumed that Master W was OK since you trusted him so much.”

“As I said,” I said softly as I looked down at her, “we both should have asked.” I looked back up at Natasha and added, “But sometimes things just happen.”

“There will be no punishment,” Natasha said. There was still a touch of anger in her voice. “But at least one of you needs to check with me before this happens again.”

“Yes, Ma’am,” I answered.

I expected her to say something about not calling her Ma’am, but instead she said flatly, “Boris has something,” and turned to go back down into the mountain.

***

When I got back down into the control center, Boris was typing furiously on his keyboard. “Be there. Be there. Be there!” he was muttering loudly.

Poopsie, Natasha, and I stood silently alongside him until he stopped and sat there panting as if he had just finished some great effort. “Well?” I said.

“We got him!” he answered. “Actually, I think we got two of them.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“This isn’t what I expected,” he answered, gesturing toward his monitor, “but I think Basilisk_2005 just won himself five Bitcoins.” He turned to give me– or perhaps Natasha– a quick smile before continuing. “The video feed was routed to hell and gone around the internet and was double-encoded for some of the jumps. That meant it was truly impossible to trace back to its origin. But Basilisk_2005 found another way. That little snake hacked into the NSA’s copy of all of the node traffic for the past week.” This time I was sure he was looking at me, “You wouldn’t believe how big their server farm has to be to store that kind of data,” he said. The wonder was evident on his face and in his voice. He shook his head and then returned his focus to the monitor. “In any case,” he said, “approximately three days ago, this IP...” a line of information on his screen started flashing, “sent a darkweb email to this IP...” another line began flashing.

“All the email said,” Boris said firmly, “was ‘This should do what you want.’ It was signed, ‘Little Brother.’”

I looked at him silently. “There were two attachments to that email,” he said firmly. I could see his cursor move to the edge of the screen and click on something. The music with the heavy, driving beat suddenly blared from the speakers of his workstation.

“That’s the first attachment,” he said emphatically. Then he clicked on a second icon at the edge of his screen and the softer music filled the room. He looked at me with a very determined look on his face. “I think Wyatt Monty sent this music to one of his older brothers. I don’t know if it is Walter, Weston, or Woody, but he is located in Los Angeles near LAX.”

“And where is Wyatt?” I asked.

“Davenport, Iowa,” Boris answered. He held up both hands palms toward me and said firmly, “Don’t ask. I have no idea what a man like this is doing in Iowa.” He started to say something else, but instead slumped slowly forward, falling out of his chair.

I moved forward to catch him, but Natasha was faster than I was. She grabbed him around his shoulders and turned him so she could lay him out on the floor. “He does this,” she said, sounding both angry and concerned at the same time. “He drives himself for hours... or even days... until he gets what he wants... and then his body just shuts down for a while.”

She looked up at me. “Put him to bed,” she said. Her voice was somewhere between an order and a request. “I,” she continued, “will find out what Wyatt is doing among the cornfields of Iowa.” As she sat in the chair which Boris had just tumbled out of, she added, “.. and I will find out which of his brothers is holding Mistress Tenesha... and where.”

“Yes, Ma’am,” I said as I lifted Boris up off the floor and threw him over my shoulder. I wasn’t sure if he was unconscious or asleep or a mixture of both, but Natasha had said he did this, so I just arranged him on his bed. As I was taking off his shoes and covering him with a blanket, poopsie came into the room carrying a tray. On it was several cans of cola, a stack of Reese’s peanut butter cups, and several sandwiches of some sort.

“He will need this when he wakes up,” she said softly. Then she looked up at me and said, “He’ll be OK. He does this all the time. Sometimes Mistress gets so angry with him. Other times she cries and puts him to bed. It depends on what he was working on.”

Her face became almost blank and her voice got almost dreamy as she continued, “He thinks he is protecting Mistress and me. He thinks you are, too, so he will do anything you ask him to do, no matter how much it takes out of him. Please don’t use him all up. It would make me very sad. And it would make Mistress very angry.”

“I promise, poopsie,” I said firmly, “I won’t use him up. But he– and you and your Mistress– will not be safe until we have tracked down the Monty brothers and whoever it is within The Society that is helping them.”

She gave me a soft smile and left the room. I waited until she had disappeared down the hallway before taking a very deep breath and turning to leave. There have been many occasions where people have accused me of not having a conscience. That was not the case now. My conscience had stood before me and spoken to me in all her weird, naked glory. Natasha didn’t have to worry about me doing anything else with poopsie. From now on, she was my Jiminy Cricket and no matter how much Pinocchio’s nose grew the next time she tried something, I was confident that my rational mind would win the argument for a change.

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