Trouble was…

Picture: The trouble with her was…

Trouble was, she liked being fucked.

Liked being fucked hard, by men who didn’t try to be nice. Nice men were sweet, but they couldn’t fuck her right — not unless she could make them angry — sometimes this worked.

She had found out early about herself — knew then that she was going to be a slut.

She loved everything about it, but most of all, she liked being filled, occupied by hot, insistent and demanding maleness. She came to appreciate her petite build, rather than regret it — no bad thing being small, when you loved being manhandled, being lazily overpowered, grabbed, controlled.

Invaded.

Fucked.

The problem was not letting it get out of hand, not ending up as a street whore, or getting stuck in some perverted relationship — she never fell in love with them, never wanted to, never saw the men as anything other than vehicles for satisfying her needs, even if they did dominate her; after all, it was because she wanted them to — often because she had told them to in words of very few syllables.

She had quickly become bored with schoolboys, then done the same with teachers. At 19 she had found the city bars and clubs, and bankers and lawyers — well off, well-dressed, testosterone fuelled, gym-honed, arrogant, greedy.

She learned how obvious to be, how awkward to be, always juggling the fine line between being too slutty (the men thought they had standards) and not getting fucked at all.

It was still hit-and-miss, though. Too many of them were too friendly, made love to her. It was sometimes sweet, sometimes even nice, but she only got the real buzz she needed every now and then.

Then she had met Tom. Tom was a little older, more experienced. He didn’t fuck her the first time, but made her pleasure herself for him, telling him what she was thinking about, watching her. Lazy, self-satisfied.

Her heart had felt involved as it had never done before — a strange feeling; not love, for sure, but something, something…

He saw her as she was, she understood, and he liked it. She felt she was melting as she came for him, an almost out-of-body experience.

He told her where to be, the following evening, and when, and told her exactly how to dress, too (low cut mid-length dress with a-line skirt, loose shoulder straps, tight bodice, no underwear, hold-ups, her highest heels). He was direct, and no nonsense about it, and she loved it.

She got there early, fended off some good prospects, all but ran to him when she saw him, only to falter; he wasn’t alone, but with two other men, one older, one younger. They were looking at her frankly, bold.

Maybe these were friends, or colleagues — they’d get rid of them soon, she told herself, fixated on Tom.

But the older one was looking at her, quite directly, and spoke first, his accent very posh indeed;

“Tom says we can all fuck you. Maybe hurt you a little. That you want it. That you like it that way — to be treated like an easy slut.”

She freezes, stunned. Men have spoken to her like this before, of course. She’s always slapped them, or frozen them out, or withered them with a sharp retort. But these are Tom’s friends.

And — Tom? Wasn’t he somehow special? Didn’t he like her?

She knows that she is visibly confused, feels just how weak, how vulnerable this makes her; she’s not used to it — usually she is only weak when alone with the man, in the throes of being fucked, but in social situations she likes to be in control — of herself at the least.

But now, these three men are looking at her as they might look at a bought-and-paid-for whore, and it’s knocked her off balance.

She looks at Tom, helpless, only to find him grinning at her — a hard, challenging grin, with no shred of the understanding she had thought she’d seen the night before.

And then it hits her; Tom is right — she feels it in her groin; what the guy says is true, she realises. They can all fuck her. And maybe hurt her, too, if they want. Suddenly she wants it. Really wants it.

Tom is watching her, sees the change in her face as she takes this revelation on board, as she accepts that tonight something different is going to happen — that she is going to be used like a whore, rather than have rough sex as a one-night stand, and his grin widens; he’s played her right.

She gets it, that this has been planned by Tom, that he does, really, know her. That it isn’t that he likes her (or even, perhaps that she likes him) — but that they really know each other — see each other for real. And that this gives him power over her, and makes her weak; and she gives in, aware of a glory in the surrender, a release; finally, a man who knows exactly to what to do with her.

She finds herself blushing (she hasn’t blushed about sex for years), feeling weak, vulnerable, dominated. The feeling she likes about being fucked when it goes the way she likes it. He can do it to her, just like this, in public, in front of strangers.

Picture: In her sexy dress…

She’s wet between the legs; her knees almost buckle, and she finds herself giggling, weakly, looking, with a nervous question in her eyes, at each of them in turn, eyes wide, lips parted, her breathing rapid and deep.

But what is that question? What is she asking them? Is it; Am I safe with you? — or is it rather; Can I trust you to be merciless with me - not let me get away with anything, leave me no place to hide from my nature?

They’re all watching her, casual, but studying her, still waiting for a response.

And her giggles dry up. How to speak? What to say? The silence becomes oppressive to her, although they seem completely relaxed.

Her voice is low and throaty as she finally manages to say;

“Yes. Yes, that’s right. I … I … I do … want it.”

Picture: She said yes…

Then she can’t meet their eyes any more, and looks down, feeling them appraising her, judging her, feeling inadequate suddenly — ugly, too small, tits not big enough. Her desperation not to be rejected is like an acid taste in her throat.

She hasn’t felt this vulnerable, this ashamed of her weaknesses, this desperate about sex, about her own needs, in years.

She has crossed a line. They have talked to her as to a dirty slut, a whore, and she has accepted it. It will be hard to go back, she understands. Now that she knows that she can have this feeling even without sex, if the man knows what he’s doing.

They make her wait what feels like hours, looking at her, grinning (in fact Tom has told them that they must be careful to give her time — she must decide for herself, this first time, that this is what she wants — after that he will have her, but this time needs just a little finesse).

At last, the younger one laughs and says;

“Game on, then! Let’s have a few drinks and maybe a little dance to get things moving.”

All of them feel her up as they chat, casually, confidently, invasively intimate, squeezing her breasts, sliding hands up her thighs, stroking her neck, her side, sometimes two of them touching her at the same time, so that it is obvious she is being shared.

And she opens herself, leans into them, smiles, wiggles, giggles, squeaks (she’s normally much more reserved, but they have got her off balance, and they keep her that way, keep pushing, keep ignoring boundaries, keep being direct with her; using crude language, discussing her body, primed and encouraged by Tom).

Picture: Stripping her.

And it works — works for her; really works. She finds herself unusually eager to please, willing to be what they want, be pushed around, touched up, in ways she has never permitted — not in public, anyway; but it’s Tom she’s looking at, responding to, seeking to satisfy, Tom whose approval she needs. She knows now that he has something special, something that she wants more of, that he can deliver for her, if she pleases him.

At the older one’s swanky city apartment (his pied-a-terre in town — the family safely tucked away at his mansion in the countryside) they had stripped her and slapped her about, calmly cruel, hurting her, saying ugly things, making her cry a little, although she tried to keep smiling and laughing, and then they all fucked her hard, taking turns, in the big lounge, tall windows open to the night-time city lights, the others watching; commenting, occasionally slapping her breasts or behind while she was being fucked.

Picture: They used her, roughly

And she found herself working to please them, trying harder than she had done for months, needy; feeling weak, breathless, frightened sometimes, but always, always, feeding the fire that was building inside her — doing her sexy best for them, as she opened herself, impaling herself on their fingers, on their cocks, encouraged them not to hold back, even as they hurt her, using her, in the end, with quite shocking violence, and at last coming helplessly for them; moaning, hiccupping, jerking, twisting, trembling, thanking them over and over.

Picture: They slapped her around.

She told herself that Tom was better than the others, but in truth she couldn’t really tell. It was the first time she had been with more than one man at a time, first time she had been fucked in front of onlookers, first time she had been treated openly as a slut, allowed a man to watch her letting another man hit her. It was overwhelming, and she understood all too clearly that she was lost. That she had lost a grip on her ability to manage herself. That she wasn’t going to fight hard enough to get it back. That she would probably beg Tom for more of this if he wanted her to.

It was terrifying, and intoxicating, and she let herself give in to it.

So she did as she was told when Tom and the younger one left — stayed with the older one, sucked him to sleep, sucked him awake right on time, acting as his alarm clock, then let him fuck her from behind — a quick, efficient wank into her pussy. She made his breakfast, too — in the nude, giggling as he groped her and slapped her behind, helped him dress as if she was a servant.

On her knees, naked, tying his shoe-laces, feeling her breasts sway, knowing he was looking down on her. That was an interesting, heart-fluttery feeling.

But it was still Tom she was thinking of.

That evening, over an eye-wateringly expensive meal in a sedate olde-world dining room, all wood panelling and oak furniture, intimidating for a girl from poor origins like her, Tom told her what would happen.

She would be moving to a new apartment, would have a new job. That she would fuck the men he told her to fuck. That she would often be hurt, that she would take two and three cocks at the same time. That she would pleasure herself or make love with other girls for their entertainment if required to.

And she had trembled, and drowned in the picture he painted; terror-struck, hypnotised. She didn’t say a word. Couldn’t think of anything to say. It was somehow obvious, unarguable, ordained; a relief.

He would be responsible. She would get fucked.

And amazingly, that was it. He took her to the new apartment that night, and she never saw the old place again (or anything from there — her old life somehow erased, he never said how, and she never dared ask).

Her new job was with estate agents - several different firms. She did no real work, just went on viewings or to meetings where the client was going to push his cock into her — mouth, asshole, pussy — sometimes in the empty property, sometimes in the hallway, occasionally over the bonnet of a car in the parking garage. At a signal from the agent, she would, quite simply, begin to strip for them, slowly, until they took over. Sometimes it was a woman. Sometimes there were two or three of them.

Picture: Stripping for the clients

Once memorably, she was double-fucked by pretty air stewardesses with big strap-ons for the entertainment of four men in a private jet, then gave them blowjobs all the way to Jersey. She was sent home on the ferry, sore and seasick, without luggage, in the torn dress which was all she had, apart from a handful of £50 notes. She had to seduce a random so she could go through arrivals in his car, since she had nothing at all to identify herself.

Of course, the agents usually fucked her, too, once the clients had finished with her. She was sure this wasn’t supposed to happen, but never resisted or complained, always gave of herself to the full; once they got casual about it, some of these guys got used to her needs, and became very forceful — some of these fucks were premium, some of them genuinely terrified her. But that was her new life.

In the evenings she would go out where and when Tom told her to, and get fucked, and often hurt, by strangers — although some were ‘regulars’ and there were nights when she would be with Tom and his friends, too. Those were the best - Tom made sure she never went back to her apartment without the cathartic release she still needed.

Picture: Spitroasted by Tom’s friends

She is so, terribly, terribly grateful. Money for shopping, lots of money, appears by magic on her new card (a name she doesn’t recognise), so that her free time — plenty of that too — is luxurious, and she can indulge her taste for expensive things.

Also, easily half of the fucks are good ones. It isn’t that the guys are much better — it’s the thing about being used like a sex-toy, without reserve, without any question of romance or friendship that makes it work for her, that unhinges her so gloriously.

These two, tonight, though; one in her sex, one in her mouth, holding her, laughing at the freedom they are experiencing, at her sweet and encouraging willingness to be dominated, to serve, to open herself, to take cruelty meekly. They begin taking things quite far; it gets very rough and yet she smiles through the tears, telling them she likes it, orgasming helplessly for them, coaxing their cocks back to stiffness so they can do her more.

Picture: Double-teaming her

They keep her all weekend. The older one — some French Count, insanely rich, from the talk — is strong and very greedy, rams his big viagra-stiffened cock into her violently again and again — mouth, sex, asshole, making her melt, making her notice him as an individual more and more.

Picture: The Count and his protegé get rough

He’s different from Tom, yes, but he understands her too, she feels — knows what she is good for, how to handle her, throwing her around, simply forcing her into the positions he desires as if she were a bendy toy; she responds, helplessly — encouraging him to do more with her; more aggressive fucking, more humiliating treatment, taking it all as beautifully as possible, showing him softness, vulnerability, weakness, helpless arousal in response to his increasingly extreme demands.

For the first time, she is tied up and methodically beaten with a belt. It’s awful, and she screams terribly until she is gagged, but somehow she feels no anger or resentment during the torment - only shame and pity and fear, afterward finding herself humbly respectful and humiliatingly servile, cooperating with him as he explores her body, pointing out the marks he has made, reminding her how she had screamed, having her tell him, over and over, that she is pleased to be a girl he can do such terrible things to, having her assure him, eyes wide, trembling, his fingers lazily, possessively working inside her pussy (her thighs lewdly spread for him), that he is welcome to hurt her more, if he so wishes - having her offer to fetch the belt for him, to tie her ankles to the bedposts herself, put her hands into the cuffs, if he should wish to make her scream again.

Picture: Properly thrashed - her first time.

On the Sunday afternoon, he tells her that he has decided to buy her from Tom, that it’s all agreed, that he’ll be taking her to his estate in France, that she’ll be kept in the cellars in chains, whipped, pierced, tattooed, that her tits will be done. When he’s bored with her, he will sell her on.

She trembles and shivers, but somehow she can’t think of anything to say, can’t even look him in the eye. When he laughs at her, cruel satisfaction in it, and pulls her onto his cock by the hair, she is, simply, deeply happy to be able to lose herself in pleasing him, to open her thighs as the younger one starts fucking her backside, obviously hyper excited to see a young and gorgeous woman accept the news of her enslavement so easily.

Suddenly, the notion that this man has picked her to own hits her, and she is flooded with an overwhelming eagerness to please. She doesn’t come when he flips her over and ploughs into her sex, despite some gloriously hard and sustained thrusting. She’s too focused on his pleasure. Her new owner. The man who has bought her, who can do exactly as he likes with her, whom she must please lest she suffer, or even be sold.

Overwhelmed by a feeling that is new to her, that she decides must be love, but which she discovers rather soon is not.

On the estate, locked away, her primary feeling is soon frustration; she has been accustomed to being fucked several times a day and often more, but the Count is regularly away, and while she is sometimes given to members of staff, they are mostly not permitted to use her. She is whipped daily, naked, by either the chauffeur or the ostler, and they often play with her pussy afterwards, but never take her to orgasm.

Picture: A nameless slave

All of which means that when Tom sees her next, at the Count’s annual summer bacchanal, she is almost hysterically over-eager to be fucked, servicing guest after guest, insatiable, servile, grateful.

Tom is rather pleased by this, as the Madame of the exclusive Moscow brothel he has brought with him is impressed, and his cut of her price will be correspondingly larger — the Count has admitted that having a full time slave-girl involves rather more effort and responsibility than he had anticipated, and that he prefers choice to ownership after all.