“Will you be needing me again tonight, Sir? Only … only I’m supposed to collect some stripes— on … on my breasts and … between my legs … before tomorrow morning…”
“Ok … OK … Yes.”
“…and?“
Her voice is breathy and soft, but the words are clear;
“And … and please … please be … hard on me. No … no kindness. Ever. Ever again.”
She liked kinky sex. She liked being roughed around. Being humiliated. Or so she thought.
It wasn’t until she met her new boyfriend that she realised the reality of the fetishes.
It was only when she was faced with the cold unblinking eye of the camera documenting her abuse that she realised she didn’t like kinky sex; no, she liked romance with the occasional cheeky slap.
But it was too late, now. Far too late. And she couldn’t see a way out.
“Hi! Hi…
“You, you’re Mr … Mr Karsh, aren’t you?”
A small nod, a slight twist of the lips. He flicks a finger at his companion— looks like a bodyguard— to halt.
“My … my step dad says that you … that you’re … Um … I mean. … Will— will you take me with you? Right now? Please?”
Enforced nakedness was terrible, and yet wonderful.
It made the knowledge that she had no rights in respect of her person, her body— the intimate parts of her— her breasts, even; what, here, they called ‘holes and jiggly bits’, so much more immediate.
That she was here of her own free will was a source of disbelief to her. How could she have put herself in this situation— without hope of release— for three days?
Already, she knows that her relationship with her body, with her sexuality, with men, will never be the same again.
Those men over there are watching her, aren’t they?
Should she run, stop still, keep walking?
To be so powerless!
To feel so tremulously vulnerable!
“Please! Please … I … I know you … that you keep … girls, and … and I … I need to be … kept.”
He laughs at her, out loud. Genuinely amused. She has to blink back tears.She forces herself to stand straight, not crumple, not run away.
“Please… “ and she opens her top; right there, in the lobby, with his assistants and some random guy looking on, interested, grinning.
“Please”
He had taught her— required her— to dress so that her breasts betrayed her immediately.
She was in awe of the impact this had had.
Sometimes she felt that she was the servant of those breasts— breasts which belonged to him; breasts which encouraged thoughts of her other feminine attributes on similarly instrumental lines, thoughts which were encouraged by the other characteristics of her clothing; short, slinky, flyaway— and by her red, glossy lipstick and always parted lips.
