ONE — The ‘Girlfriend’
Just as Natasha had told her she would be, she was made to greet James, on his return, naked, collared, leashed and cuffed.
She was at the same time devastated and trembling with pride.
Two weeks ago she had been the gauche girlfriend, always saying the wrong thing, not knowing how to act with his intellectual, arty, assured friends, with their quick, clever conversation and ironic laughter. She had been certain that sex with her had begun to bore him, been sure she was about to lose him.
Now, the woman-friend he had brought with him (she had met her before, and been intimidated, sure that this girl would be her replacement at James’ side) is silent, staring, round eyed, while James and Natasha discuss how easy it had been to ‘turn’ her.
Now, she is the centre of attention, but she dosn’t have to worry about speaking (’only when you’re spoken to, and then very simple and direct’), or whether she is dressed appropriately (’you’ll always wear what you’re told to — which will often be nothing’), or how to act (’pretty, sexy and vulnerable — move slowly and neatly — always do just as you’re told’).
And James sounds pleased — appreciative. She can feel herself flooding with gratitude, even as she blushes. Even as she understands that she has indeed been replaced as girlfriend, that she occupies a different category now — a more functional one.
Her heart beats, rapidly. She isn’t going to be able to resist this, she understands.
She doesn’t seem to even want to.
Natasha is telling them how devastating she finds the whip, how softly sweet she is after a session, her face stained with tears, how eager to please, how devastated by the urgency of her own sexual response to abuse.
And somehow, somehow, she hears all of this as flattering praise, for which she is terribly, terribly grateful. She finds herself trembling, too, in anticipation of what Natasha has promised to do to her; to ‘put her through her paces’ — so that he can see — all three of them can see — just how true all of this is, how willing she is, how sweet she wants to be, how very, very much she wants to please them. How much she hopes he will want to keep her.
TWO — The Picnic
And at the picnic, as if in a dream, when one of the strangers asked Johann if she would strip for them, and he nodded; ‘Of course Vitaly’, and looked at her, his face mild, expectant — she had, after a numb little pause, simply complied, neither lewd nor overly timid, unable to imagine what else she could do.
It was the first time she had ever had two cocks in her at once — front and rear — on her back, knees held wide by the one under her while the upper one ploughed her slowly and deeply, ramming himself home so that she uttered soft cries as her breasts jounce freely, the tears rolling softly down her cheeks, knowing that everyone was watching, hearing their comments about her body, about the way she moved, about how obvious were her lustful responses to being used like this.
She came for them, though, helplessly, her despair at being so humiliated loud and clear in her cries.
She was embarrassed afterwards, too, but also aware of a bubbling happiness, a stupid, little-girl gratitude, which only made her blush more deeply, giggling as they had her show herself, manipulating her, having her manipulate herself, things she would have thought she would rather die than allow.
It was better though — better than before, when she had not known how it would be. Everything was clearer — all of them would fuck her and have her serve them, just as they liked, for the rest of the weekend.
It was in many ways terrible — impossible — but it was happening. The man she was serving drinks to had just pushed three fingers into her sex, grinding her clit with his thumb — and she was giggling ridiculously as the others laughed at her, tears coming, but also, there was that urgency in her belly, growing again …
She closed her eyes and opened for him, opened her sex to his bony fingers, leaning back onto whoever it was behind her, who held both her wrists, tight, in one meaty hand, hurting her a little, while he mauled her breasts with the other.
She gave herself away to the sensation, despite a voice in her head urgently demanding attention, saying that nothing would ever be the same for her if she could not halt this, that something big was happening, right here, right now. That she must act! Do … something … anything!
She heard the voice, was interested by it, was sorry for the her that felt that way — terribly, sincerely sorry, but in an abstract, floaty, sort of way.
Because she had already decided. To let herself go. Let it all go. For this. For this sensation. For this simplicity. For more of it. For all of it.
Just … let herself … go …
THREE — The Model
“It’s very simple. If he likes you, he’ll take you and keep you for a while. If he doesn’t like you, he’ll leave you here.”
“Here! But .. but this is miles from anywhere, and ..”
“.. and you’re a naked young white woman with big tits and no money in a country where women cover themselves from head to toe and hardly anyone speaks english. But you’re a model — you know how to make yourself desirable. Oh; one word of advice. Never — never, ever — look any of them in the face unless they ask you to. It’s a terrible insult, for such as you, to look into a man’s face”
And he had driven off.
It didn’t take long to get the rope loose — he hadn’t meant it to hold her — fear would do that. And indeed she was still in the abandoned building when the customer arrived.
Quivering, biting her lip to keep from crying or screaming, she presented herself, desperate to be approved of. To be desirable. To be worth keeping.
Don’t look at them! No matter what!
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