“So … so that’s kind of … it, I guess.”
“I’m, going to … just, um, ‘give’ myself to … to you all. For … for, like, a couple of, um weeks … or … or something…”
Silence, which in the end, so nervous she can hardly keep still, she has to fill;
“Yup.”
She’s trembling visibly, her breath coming in little sips, almost random.
Finally, Jason speaks;
“So, that’s with John’s rule, yes?”
She has been expecting enthusiasm, gratitude, perhaps instant orgy, not this calm, unhurried casualness. And certainly not questions. After all, she’s the one being unbelievably generous here. She shouldn’t be having to explain herself, surely? She’s already naked for them, isn’t she? In their apartment, vulnerable.
But still, they are waiting.
“Um yes … John’s … John’s rule.”
“Which is?”
“Um … just … just. I do … I do anything you want.” A weak little giggle. A girl shouldn’t be saying such things, really not. And yet it felt soooo cool!
“Anything at all? Like, no holds?”
She is close to tears now, perhaps, but holding her smile — wanting to be good for them, stay pretty; her nipples are trembling — stiff little nubbins. God, but this is wild — so wild!
She’d been hanging around their place for weeks now, and, she couldn’t even remember how — but certainly to do with drink and drugs, and them being all so cool and relaxed and not at all grabby like most guys she knew were with her — but at the same time all giving off definite vibes of sexual interest — somehow, she had begin to show herself to them. Almost innocently, at first — without any coquettishness, just; ‘Would you like to see my breasts?’, ‘Yes, yes, I’d like that very much’, ‘Do you like like them?’, ‘I like them very much — tip-tilted, firm, but jiggly — gorgeous’, ‘Do you think they’re sexy? Do you think I’m sexy?’, ‘You’re joking, right? Because you are super-sexy, girl — delicious — don’t you know it? Course you do!’
And that had led to increasingly serious conversations about sex, sexuality, that sometimes descended into hilarity and giggles — on her part — big grins on theirs, as they looked at her, with a look that unsettled her at first — almost cold, but smiling, asking questions with their eyes. Questions that she wanted to answer with a yes, without knowing what, exactly, what kind of a question it might be. And now, here it was, the question. Would she give herself to them, so that they could do to her, in reality, all the things that had been discussed, so seriously.
‘John’s Rule’ — John being a mythical character they had invented in the course of their long, strange conversations — she, the only girl in the room, usually; all four of them looking at her. Talking about John, the guy who wanted a girl who would do, quite simply, anything that was asked of her. Even terrible things. She wouldn’t have to be forced, even if the cost to her was immense — cost in terms of dignity, or wellbeing, or reputation — it didn’t matter, she would smile, and be sweet, and simply do it. Do anything.
And so here was the question. If she said ‘no’, they would be fine with her, she knew — it wasn’t them that were desperate around her, but her around them. At the same time, she knew, that they were getting bored with her desperation, as it grew more obvious, and that she would be less and less welcome here — at the place she now thought of as her home, even though she had never slept over, even.
But it wasn’t fear of being excluded that was going to drive her answer, not at all. It was the desperation. The need to know what it would be like to be a girl who had volunteered for John’s Rule. The awfulness anticipated if, having spent so long talking to her about it, they turned out, in the end, not to want her.
She’d been wanting to say ‘Yes’ for a couple of weeks now, but of course, they had never asked her the question, and she — she had never dared tell them she wanted them to ask. Also — and it was huge in her — was the question of the difference between fantasy and reality. What if she said yes, and it turned out that all their cool was just that — cool. What if they really were just a slightly more sophisticated version of a frat house? What if they just all wanted to fuck her. What if she gave herself to them, as John’s girl, and they couldn’t pull it off? She sort of believed that they could — those cool grins, their eyes sometimes very hard indeed, their discipline — none of them had so much as touched her in a sexual way, not once. But still, what if?
Anyway, it was too late now. She was going to…
“Yes … yes. Any … anything … anything at all. I guess.”
Her eyes close. She gets it now. This is it. They are going to enjoy themselves with her. This is it. This time it’s going to get serious — go beyond play acting. It’s like the feeling near the top of the tallest rollercoaster — terrifying, the inevitability of it, the lack of choice that was consented to when you first got into the car, pulled the safety bar over you; she wants it to take her, do what it will with her, change her, remove all freedom — make her experience helpless, inescapable, maximum intensity…
But they’re not going to make it easy for her.
“OK then, bitch — come over her and take my cigarette off me with your cunt — take it right in to your pussy — put it out that way. Let it hurt you. Then hold it there, walk it over to the trash and drop it in. Then come back to me, get on your knees and swallow my cock right down until you can’t breathe. We’ll take it from there.”
She lets out a pathetic, girly giggle of disbelief, her eyes round. What?
But they are unchanged — looking at her, easy, smug grins. Confident, waiting.
“Anything at all — right?” His eyes are lightly challenging, amused. She’s in turmoil — looking from one to the other, searching for the sign that it’s a joke, to no avail.
Her chest is heaving now — she knows her breasts are moving, that this is obvious to them, that they can see just how powerfully this insane instruction is impacting her — how frightened, how exhilarated, how fucked up it’s getting her. It’s already too late to object — just by staying quiet, not running away, she’s made it clear that she is prepared to consider this — outrage. And if she’s considering it, then she’ll have to do it — because ‘John’s rule’.
She knows this is awful; beyond awful. Utterly mad! At the same time, she realises, she is becoming exalted — a bubble fizzing inside her, making her feel light, warm, crazy …
And then, quite simply, it resolves itself. It’s going to be alright. In the most terrifying, delirious sort of way, but it’s going to be alright, and she stands, blushing, but elegant, smiling now, to herself; a small, private, elegiac smile, but still, a real smile.
It occurs to her that she has never really felt what it means to be naked in her life before. Not naked like this. Even naked, even trying as hard to be seductive as she has often been, here, in this room, with these same guys, she realises that there was always something in reserve. If they had touched her and she had changed her mind, she could always scream, cry rape, defend herself. Even if that had made no difference, she would have been a victim - considered a victim by society.
But now, having said yes, her nakedness is pure vulnerablility. There is no mystery, no defense. What they see is theirs and she has offered to make her body serve them, without any regard to her own wellbeing or happiness.
Clearly, she could still scream, and fight and cry rape - but it wouldn’t mean anything. Not where it counted. Not inside her. They had the right, now, to use her. She had given them that right, had wanted to give them that right, and now everything is new, and raw, and overwhelming.
There’s no going back. She’s given her right to dignity away, in the service of that little worm that’s been wriggling in her belly, stronger and stronger, for weeks, now.
This is it; those unsettling fantasy dreams that sometimes wake her, sweat drenched. This is what it’s really like. It’s going to happen to her. Right now. These boys are going to be savage with her, with her naked, soft body; and she’s going to let them have her, and they’re going to own her.
There are tears in her eyes as she squats, as elegantly as she can manage, over his casually offered hand, the cigarette pointing upwards, the tip glowing from a deliberately strong pull, but she is smiling at him as he grins at her, and makes herself turn the shocking, awful pain into a sexy little moan, and manages to control the instinctive jerk of her hips so that the nasty thing stays within her as it sears into her softness. The pain part is over quite quickly, in fact — shocking, but at the same time, just something she does.
The feelings, though; the shame, the horror, the knowledge that she has crossed into very dark territory indeed, lost all rights to respect, to decency, kindness — the feelings, the knowledge that they all understand how it is with her, now — these are what really sear themselves into her.
It’s terrible, but also cleansing. She is no longer responsible. They are. She is their toy. Toys don’t make choices — they do as they are done to. It will be hard for her, now, she knows; very hard. But she needs to know. Exactly. What it will be like. To see who she can be, afterwards — if she can be anyone, ever again, that is.
She giggles again, desperate sounding, desperate in truth, as she straightens up, aware of the eyes of all four of them on her as she completes this first task, this obviously degrading thing; grotesque in its abusive cruelty, this thing which makes it totally clear that her offer is going to be exploited to the max, helplessly revealing her vulnerability, her pathetic eagerness to please, feeling the abyss open before her, knowing that it is what she wants, wondering if it will destroy her.
The damp, extinguished butt sticks to her sex lips — either wet or actually burnt into her flesh, she daren’t think. Somehow she understands that she is not expected to use her hands, and so she has to half-squat, open her thighs, attempt to detach it by using the side of the trash can. It takes a few attempts, shaming, despairing beyond words, but she makes herself do it as elegantly as possible, for what else is left to her? They are watching, laughing, commenting in the crudest terms.
There are tears in her eyes as she turns, unutterably humiliated, but, vulnerable as she is, their mock applause while she walks back to Jason makes her almost cry with gratitude, and she lets them see this, smiling a wobbly, desperate smile, blinking back the tears, somehow eager, determined to show them that she is their creature, that she knows how utterly dependent she now is on their goodwill, as she kneels to take his cock between her lips, then, forcing herself, leans in to have it spear her throat, so tight with nerves; feeling the pain, the shame, the fear, but refusing to let them distract her from showing them how obedient, how willing, how eager to please she is.
And when one of the others — she can’t even be sure which — steps over her, roughly grabs her wrists and and traps them in a vice-like grip with one meaty hand; as he kicks her legs apart and begins to push his dry cock into her tight little asshole, amid whoops of laughter and crude, laughing encouragements, she’s happy. She really is.
Hard as it is to bear the pain, hold herself open, withstand the hysteria, to control the waves of fear.