This had never happened before, and it was devastating. Beyond anything. She didn’t know how she would stay sane.
Inside her mind, a voice— the voice of reason, of normality— was screaming at her to end this— now! To get away, to resist, to tell them they were fucking mad to expect anything more of her, that she was not just some helpless slut…
Except, of course, that she was…
And that she had said as much— and more, in the video he had paid for a professional to make— the one in which she had so prettily stripped, all soft, shy smiles and fluttering eyelashes, posed as sexily as she knew how, displayed herself shamelessly, caressed herself intimately until her cries and moans were urgent, needy, locked herself into the pillory so that she could be whipped, and finally been fucked by her master and the photographer— appearing only as two anonymous cocks in the video.
Her master had told her how the video would be circulated among the organisation of which he was a part— that the part in which she had been made to say that her master was making her available for public use would be emphasised— that this was the main purpose of the video distribution.
That had all been heavy enough, humiliating and degrading enough— although, as usual, within a week parts of the experience began haunting her erotic dreams, day and night, and had become the principal scenes she brought up when he wanted her to bring herself to orgasm for his visitors’ entertainment. The whole story about the organisation seemed too bizarre to have any reality to it.
But now this!
Walking on the beach— her daily required ‘exercise’— she’d been accosted by these two repellent public schoolboy types— younger than her by several years— the exact opposite of her ‘type’.
“I recognise you— you’re that whore in the video— Freckle Tits. Well bugger me! This is fucking unbelievable! Uncle Alan’s club is real! John, don’t you realise— this bitch is ours! Ours to … …
“Christ almighty — ours! Right you dirty fucking slut! Get your fucking tits out now, before I slap you so hard you’ll only wake up when my dick’s in your arsehole!”
And so it had started. They were so young and overexcited, nervous— and over-aggressive to cover their nervousness, showing off to each other how masterful they were, ripping her skimpy dress apart.
They’d hit her weakly at first, pulling their punches, but found her passivity and tearful *Thank you*s incredibly exciting, and now she was terrified, having been thrashed vigorously on the backside with the buckle end of a leather belt until she’d screamed full-throated into the wadded y-fronts they had gagged her with.
Of course, they’d both fucked her— one in the mouth and one in her arse; fast, careless, hurting her despite her desperate, shamefully servile attempts to please them. She’d been sobbing throughout, which had only served to inflame them, and they’d neither of them been able to hold on long, they were so inexperienced, and so had collapsed, breathless, laughing and shouting at each other as she lay asprawl, crying brokenly.
She’d been ordered into the sea, naked, to wash, and now they had her displaying herself for them, waiting for their erections to recover.
They were making her tell them what sort of things her master did to her, what sort of things she did for him. She hadn’t talked so much in weeks (Master liked her all but completely silent) and … and the list (such a long, such a shocking list!) was … was turning her on.
And they could see she was getting turned on, and this was awful beyond imagining; that these two crude, stupid louts could have her panting and quivering with lust as she displayed herself for them, to be made to touch herself, intimately, show them exactly how she pleased herself, as she made absolutely clear to them the depths of her depravity, her degradation!
This time, it was a relief to be violently fucked, to be able to lose herself in the utter powerlessness of being held in mid-air by the two— rugby players by their muscling— face down, plowing her throat and pussy simultaneously, lasting much longer this time, so that, in spite of having determined she wouldn’t, she finds herself bucking and thrusting through a devastating, crying orgasm that she knows will haunt her as the unmistakeable symbol of a new level of debasement.
They’re staying in the area, they tell her. They’ll see her tomorrow. There’s talk of bringing another friend. They walk off without looking back, talking loudly to each other, crude language about her, laughter, leaving her naked, sticky with come, besmirched, shivering, crying, her skimpy dress ripped apart and filthy, miles from home.
She’ll be whipped for lateness when she returns, she knows— impermissible to speak without being told to— and he will punish her first, ask questions later…
Slowly though, calm returns, as it always does. She will walk home, freezing, naked, nervous; she’ll be chastised, whipped— probably harshly, possibly on her tender breasts, as he’d threatened last time she was late.
Then she’ll be made to tell of her humiliation— no doubt he’ll bring in Suzy and Mrs Cook as an audience. Then, with any luck, he’ll want to fuck her— again possibly in front of the others; if so, he’ll be in full-on Master mode; relentless, demanding, cruel. Then, tomorrow, the prospect of this happening again— only with three of them.
It would be insane to describe her, at this point, as happy. She’s shivering with cold, and quivering at likely events to come. But the screaming voice in her head has stopped. Telling herself what will happen somehow always reassures her, makes her crazy life seem— correct. Right and proper. Safe. Desirable, even.
She stands and begins the long walk back to her Master, and slowly, a small, twisted smile comes to her pretty lips, followed a little while later, by a short, silvery, wondering laugh. A laugh full of tears perhaps, but a laugh nevertheless.
She walks beautifully.
