An Innocent Abroad Pt.2

This is rather an old story, so it lacks polish. The premise is unusal for THW — some sort of post apocalypse setting, where America has collapsed. Eleanor — renamed Kellee — has managed to get herself accepted for training by a Russian agency that provides escorts for rather hardcore clients. You should read Part 1 first. This is very harsh.

It seemed no time at all until we were leaving, Yevgenia and I, in a company limo.

In the lobby, just before, Yevgenia had showed me how I could lock my own wrists together by working the cuffs against each other at a certain angle, and told me that I should normally do this before leaving company premises, without needing to be asked. She had hung the key on my choker, so that the clients could choose when or if they wanted my hands free.

Although it was terrifying to be restrained so, my hands useless behind my back, outside the training centre, in the real world, it was also strangely liberating — I was no longer responsible for my weak obedience — after all, what could I do, chained as I was?

Picture: Cuffed and collared Click here to reveal.

These days, I feel stranger unchained than chained.

But then, needing the help of the chauffeur to get into the limo as I almost lost my balance, the fact of being restrained was a powerful marker of my helplessness, my vulnerability. And it was feeding my sexual restlessness. The picture of those two nasty old men ramming their cocks into me kept coming back, and now my cuffed wrists added to the pathos of the picture, and made it harder and harder to ignore.

“Whore, kneel on floor” The chauffeur was not being mean — just clear, but I blushed deeply, and bit back a tear. Even as I was smiling at him, pathetically submissive, I was thinking, bitterly, that this was not how my life should have been. Nonetheless, feeling his gaze at my backside, I found myself shifting pose in the hope that he would like what he saw. God knows I needed every scrap of approval. Shame was grinding at me, and I was helpless.

When Yevgenia got in, and relaxed on the soft leather seats, it really hit. She was the mistress, on her ‘phone, ignoring me completely, while I was a chained whore, whose only freedom was to participate more or less in my own degradation — on the basis of avoiding unbearable cruelty and destruction. It was easier to allow the bizarrely fascinating picture of my svelte body being abused by the two oldies fill my mind.

Picture: On her knees Click here to reveal.

Just before we got out, Yevgenia leaned over and had me drink the contents of a small bottle — syrupy, sweet, minty — I assumed it was a breath freshener, but learned later that was just part of it — a cocktail of drugs — disinhibitants, aphrodisiacs, mild opiates. The she told me to stick my tongue out. Onto the end of it, she let a little toothed clamp bite, making me squeal. Attached to it was a short, gold chain, with the GoodGirls logo dangling from it. She told me it should always hang outside my lips, unless ordered otherwise.

Picture: Good Girls tongue fob Click here to reveal.

“Is good branding, no?” She smiled at me — but all that was in my head was that an animal would not be marked in so demeaning and cruel way. Even thinking about speaking brought me to the sinking realisation that I would not be able to speak clearly past the chain, the clamp at the end of my tongue, that I would be lisping like a child with a speech defect. I felt that my heart must break — except that it didn’t, and now the car door was open.

Tears were in my eyes, and I had nothing left but a hope that prettiness might earn me something — survival, at least, and so I did my best to smile at the chauffeur as he helped me from the car and released my cuffs, and walked obediently and calmly (outwardly, at least) with Yevgenia up the ramp to the doors of the impressive old building.

Something about the rich surroundings comforted me — I was here, and not in that terrifying meat market I had been shown earlier, not in the back streets of New York, fighting for food scraps. I was well dressed, well fed, with access to excellent medical care, had no hard work to do — just smile, and be sexy, and, in the warm glow of the lights and the obvious high-class nature of the establishment even the prospect of being fucked was not so bad — deep in my belly, the tingling was starting up again.

A paparazzo recognised Yevgenia, and came over to ask if I was a new girl, and could he photograph me. She nodded and smiled graciously, and I — I felt, for a second, as if I mattered — here was this man, interested in me, thinking that others would be interested in me (even if just as a newly acquired whore — at least I had been newly acquired by one of the top Russian agencies).

And so I smiled, trying to look happy, and posed, as we had been taught, and when he said — ‘flash us your pussy, pretty’, I just looked quickly at Yevgenia for her short nod of approval, and almost eagerly did the little curtsey we had been taught, smiling as softly as I could, enjoying the flattering attention of the photographer, enjoying feeling validated for my prettiness, enjoying my lovely outfit, enjoying the slutty feeling it gave me to lift my skirt for a photographer in a public place, hardly thinking of the reality — that I was a whore, showing her knickers to drum up trade — inviting the strangers who would see the photo to choose me to fuck, my tits to thrash, my mouth to ram their cocks into. And I turned and smiled, a foolish, happy smile at Yevgenia, who looked cool, but satisfied.

Picture: Kellee flashing outside the hotel Click here to reveal.

The atmosphere changed quickly as we went inside. It was a seriously snooty venue, with super-rich clients and super-haughty staff. But, this being the “Sick 30’s”, the presence of such as myself was part of it. Slavery was still nominally illegal, but the legal barriers to people selling themselves were almost non-existent, and ignored where they were still on the books.

My presence was accepted, but I was at once made to understand that I was of the same status as a pretty but rather exotic pet. I was an object, to go where my mistress desired, to be regarded by the staff as an affront to their establishment, but one that they would put up with as long as there were no ‘incidents’. It was made clear that I was the whore, stared at by everyone in the most obvious way; sneered at by the women, leered at by the men, ordered about in the most basic, casual manner.

My heart was hammering, my knees trembling, and my cheeks were hot with shame within seconds. I had to carefully hold myself, not to weaken now, not to burst into tears. Somewhere, in the back of my mind, a voice was telling me that this continual violent emotional roller-coaster was going to destroy me, and another part of me said; ‘yes, I know: please — let it be as soon as possible…’.

The maitre-d was talking to Yevgenia, and I found that I could understand the Russian better than I had expected;

" … new enforcement, Madam. I am sorry, but we have to do this — for the next couple of weeks at least. The girl is a fully indentured intimate servant — human rights-free?"

“Yes of course; latest batch from America.”

“Of course, very good. Well, they’ve brought back the collar and chains. Management don’t like them, but I imagine your customers will. We have a selection here — would Madam care to choose?”

“Oh, that is good news. I’m sure your handlers will choose very well. Do please let them know, though, that she is not yet fully trained.”

Then, without explanation, I was invited to follow a liveried flunkey through a side door, into a small room where an old babushka, very short and fat, had a box full of assorted collars and leashes. She took off my pretty choker, and replaced it with a wide black leather collar; elegant but severe, it would keep my head straight, my chin up. To the front of it, she attached a shiny chain leash. She also transferred the GoodGirls logo fob from the choker. The world might have collapsed, but branding was still branding.

(of course, I was reminded within a few short months what branding really means — to this day the GoodGirls symbol is still traceable on my ass cheek and on my shoulder, burnt deep — one with an old fashioned chunk of bright-hot steel, the other with some sort of high-tech laser device that also embedded a unique code into my body, so that I could be entered on the International Register of Permanently Indentured Cunt. Yes, indeed — I am an IRPIC girl. So I’m special, you see — because of course the idea of anything international collapsed a few years later, so that were only ever a few thousand of us, apparently. Not that it means anything — my owners hold me, absolutely and utterly, by virtue of their will, their power and their small army, not because of anything outdated like laws — but they do consider it a talking point when I’m brought out for their guests to play with)

Then I was required to lift my hands up above my head, then back behind my neck, where they were locked to the collar, feeling my breasts lift and swell.

Whereas before I could have passed for a slightly wild party girl, with my skimpy cocktail dress, stockings and heels, now I looked like a sex slave.

The babushka came and stood in front of me, obviously wanting me to look at her, and when I did, she showed me her gnarled, big-knuckled finger, which she slowly moved toward and up inside my skirt toward my defenceless crotch, until she pushed the thong aside and wiggled it onto me, ignoring my pathetic pleas, asking her to stop, lisping weakly due to the chain dangling from the clip on my tongue. She laughed when she discovered how wet, how open I was, and thrust in and out a few times, sneering;

“Pizda” she said, in Russian — ‘cunt’, and I writhed in shame.

And then she whistled, and the flunkey came in and took me across the lobby, to where there were some hooks, high on the wall — the end of my leash was slipped over, and I was left; Yevgenia was gone, and I was suddenly terrified, chained to a wall, hands locked, dressed in the most provocative way, in a public lobby. I felt unbearably vulnerable, exposed, and yet I fought desperately against mounting hysteria, tears. This was better than the cubicles — it was!

It was impossible to feel calm, chained like that, with so many strangers staring — the men with interest, sometimes grinning, looking at my cleavage, my legs, rarely my eyes — the women with disdain or hatred or disgust. I found I needed to be sure I was looking as pretty as possible — if I was to be an object on display, I wanted to be an attractive one, it was the only control I had.

Picture: Kellee Collared Click here to reveal.

Another girl was brought in, gorgeous in a pale grey halter neck silk shift dress, asymmetric at the hem, generously slashed here and there, to make it almost inconceivable that she was wearing anything else apart from the vertiginous matching heels, her hair in a lovely pleat, her face heartbreakingly beautiful, full, firm breasts swaying seductively. Shockingly, though, like me, she had a chain with a logo dangling from between her lips, and a choker and cuffs, and I was accompanying a woman to whom she was obviously submissive. I suddenly realised two even more shocking things; first, that the pin of the brooch she wore passed through her nipple — she was pierced there! The second thing was that on her lovely cheekbone was tattooed the word the babushka had said to me. This beautiful girl — a world class beauty — had the word ‘cunt’ tattooed on her face.

Picture: Pizda girl Click here to reveal.

And, just like me, she was led away, to return shortly afterward, with a collar that looked to be made of iron, although lined with velvet. Then, her wrists locked behind her neck, lovely breasts swaying as she walked, eyes submissively downcast, she co-operated prettily as she was chained a few hooks away from me. I was transfixed by her beauty, admiring of her poise, her elegance, but also, I realised, I was excited at her vulnerability, her slavery, by the knowledge that she was as available as I to be fucked by ugly old men.

“Eyes down, slut!” A ferocious underbreath from the Maitre-D, as he passed, reminded me of my own vulnerability, and I blushed, and dropped my head. It was worse, being one of two — and the least pretty — it made it more obvious that we were commodities, not individuals. Having grown up with the American culture of strong personal freedom and dignity, of individual rights, this was almost impossible to understand as anything but a gross violation.

Very soon, she was taken away, led by the leash, walking beautifully into the dining room. I was left — and now I began to feel afraid that there had been some mix-up — that I was to be left here — unwanted. There really was nothing good that could happen to me — all the options were bad, and in any case I had no power over them. Again, with my background, this was hard to understand, let alone accept.

At last, a haughty waiter arrived, and unceremoniously unhooked my leash. I tried to emulate the beauty, walking as elegantly as I could, but he deliberately yanked the chain, making me stumble, humiliating me, and continued to make it clear he was the master as he led me across the sumptuous dining room, past various respectable looking groups of diners who looked at me as if they had been sucking lemons, and at last to a semi-private booth, where the two clients who had beaten me earlier were sitting, along with another man (if anything he was uglier, with a swollen potato nose) — I hadn’t been imagining three!

Picture: Kellee led on her leash Click here to reveal.

But then my ideas counted for nothing, and I was in no position to protest. I stood blushing and desperately trying not to cry as they leered at me, and the waiter spoke;

“Sirs, here is your intimate servant. Please remember that no inappropriate behaviour is acceptable in the public areas of the hotel. We do not serve such individuals, although she is permitted a seat.”

“Can we put her on a stand, instead of a seat?”

“Stands may be requested for your room, sir, but are not used in the public areas.” The waiter sounded as if he were discussing the changing of ulcer dressings, so distasteful was the subject to him. I was understanding that my own sense of shame at my situation was justified in Russian society. I was a lowlife whore, however prettily dressed and made-up.

As I was seated, I smiled, shyly, trying my best, at each of the three men. I was so nervous though, I was on the verge of tears, painfully conscious of the skimpiness of the dress, my exposed cleavage, the telltale logo fob hanging from my tongue tip, my breasts offered by the way my arms were linked and locked, set moving by the short, panicky breathing that I had to work hard to control, blushing hotly, biting my lip again to hold back the tears.

They were talking about me, and laughing lazily, without a care in the world. A pretty young whore was awaiting their pleasure. My fear and nervousness were part of my innocence — part of what they had requested, and paid for. I found myself smiling at them, even giggling, foolishly, a couple of times, so weak, so helpless, so desperate to show them I would do what I could to please them — that they had no need to hurt me.

I think the drugs began to kick in at that point, because my tears began to recede, and I began to find it a little easier to sit there, my face held as prettily as I could manage, while thinking about what was going to happen to me, very soon now. Because I was thinking about it again — about being fucked, about sucking their cocks, about being slapped around by these three businessmen, and there was definitely a part of me which was excited about the prospect, a bit breathless and tingly, all mixed in with the fear and the dread and the shame. I had to keep reminding myself just how bad it had been in New York — where I’d be right now if I had stayed, the terrible things I had heard about what had happened to Sarah-Anne…

They were talking fast, in heavily accented Russian, and so I was left to think, and occasionally to attempt a smile in response to some loud laughter — smiling even though I had no idea what the joke was, even though it was quite likely a dirty joke at my expense, from the way they were looking at me. I was super jumpy, kept looking round nervously and smiling, thinking that each loud exclamation was something I had missed, done wrong. My arms, linked behind my neck, were starting to get very sore, and I was pleased when they at last finished their meal, and I could stand up, just for the change of position — even though this meant that my ordeal was coming very soon indeed.

The leash amused them, but none of them wanted to hold it, so I followed the thinner one, the other two behind me, beginning to tremble now as I realised it was really going to happen, doing my best to walk prettily, to smile — because there was nothing else, nothing else at all in the world that I could do. I was effectively a slave — a sex slave, and I was going to be violent abused by three ugly old men, and all I could do was try to make them like me, a little; show them that I was wanting to please them.

I caught the eye of a woman, seated, looking at me — she, too, know what I was, and it was as if she was determined I should know just what she thought of me, her cruel sneer burning into me. She knew what I was going to now, she considered me disgusting trash, and she enjoyed my humiliation. Tears stung my eyes; she was right, of course.

In the lift, there was an older couple, very patrician, whose expressions made it clear that they found my presence, what I was, distasteful, and I was ready to die of shame, because they reminded me of my parents, when I had been young and the world had had still some hope, some decency; when I too had been rich. When they got out after a few floors, I was relieved for a second, but then almost straightway there was a big calloused hand between my legs, and another mauling my breasts, and with my wrists trapped, I just had to accept the hard, crude fingers inside the gusset of the thong, the painful pinching and pulling at my nipples, and I wailed weakly in pathetic, pointless protest, at which they laughed, entertained, enjoying my awful shame and dismay.

Picture: Kellee groped Click here to reveal.

The man in front of me smiled, then, and pulled me toward him — he wanted to kiss me! And … I kissed him, tasting the sour taste of his after dinner cigar. Dying inside, I nevertheless forced myself to do something at least a little like a lovers kiss, and to open my legs a little, allowing the man behind me to paw at my poor pussy, my heart thumping, repressing the rising panic in my chest. I had no choice! No choice! Then the lift stopped at our floor, and I was released, trembling all over, panting, trying not to give way to hysteria, not to scream that I was an American, that they couldn’t do this to me. Because I knew that they could, and I knew, deep down, that I had chosen this as the least bad of the terrible options open to me.

It was as if the girl walking along the corridor in the skimpy dress, high heels and wrists locked to her slave collar, was someone else; I saw her meekly follow the fat one, who had taken the lead, saw her walking elegantly in the heels, her hips switching, knowing that the other two were behind her, that they were watching. And suddenly, I saw that the situation was as exciting as it was horrifying. This girls, this innocent girl, was going to have the wildest sex of her young life, and she had no choice; she couldn’t be blamed, and she must obey them. It would be shameful if she enjoyed it — but then, she has been told in clear terms that it is important that she come for them…

When they took her into the suite, her face was full of fear, over which she smiled — the smile only serving to make her — me — look more frightened, more vulnerable.

The three men sat down; they were on three sides of the room, in comfortable chairs. They shook their heads when I looked for somewhere to sit. One of them beckoned me over, had me kneel, trembling in front of him. I assumed this was it — that I was to immediately take this stranger’s cock into my mouth; heart thumping, I leaned forward, licking my dry lips.

Roars of laughter; he put his hand over my face, pushed me back, reached for my collar — he had simply wanted to unlock my wrists. I was so ashamed I wished for oblivion; tears formed in my eyes, but I shook them away, and giggled, pathetic, weak, humiliated. Remembering my training, I thanked him for the freedom of my arms, which felt so good after an hour or more of torment.

In broken English, he indicated I was to pour drinks for them. My heart rate slowed, and I was happy to oblige. But I felt their eyes on me at all times, as I tried to remember my lessons — how to walk well in the heels, how to serve the drinks correctly; I was so, so nervous, smiling as prettily I could. The glasses tinkled as I carried the tray, I was shaking so much. I remember how deeply I felt that strong desire, a need, desperately urgent, for them to find me attractive, to find me sexy. Because that was all I had — the freedom to be more or less sexually obvious. The tension was terrible between this need and the impending prospect of being fucked by these ugly old men, whose hands were big and rough, whose bellies were fat, their moustaches still greasy from their dinner — the more I succeeded in making my body inviting, the sooner they would be mauling me, opening me, fucking me…

And, of course, as soon as I leant over to deliver a drink, a hand would slide up my leg, over my stocking top, onto my bare thigh and on upwards, and I had to hold myself steady, force myself not to clamp my thighs tight as the gnarled fingers approached my most sensitive, intimate secrets.

I had also to come to terms with the fact that my pussy was wet, that the strange, insistent gropings were not entirely unwelcome to my body, so that the third man even brought a small gasp of pleasure, which shocked me as much as it amused them. Of course, he then redoubled his efforts — surprisingly skilful, and soon I was leaning over, bent from the waist, with legs straight and parted, as we had been taught, my forehead against this old man’s shoulder, arms demurely crossed at the small of my back, while he worked two and then three fingers into my hot, wet sex, me unable to understand why I was responding so helplessly, but unable to stifle my soft, despairing moans of pleasure.

Picture: Pussy groped Click here to reveal.

Eventually, I remembered something else we had been taught, and forced myself to say;

“I … love your … your fingers in … in my pussy. Th thank-you, Sir.”

He grunted some filthy Russian words, to the effect that I was a dirty slut, and, I understood I was again to say;

“Thank you sir, I … I am happy to be a … be a slut … for you”

And then there was movement behind me and tears came to my eyes; I knew this was it, the real beginning of my despoilation. That I was now going to whore myself abjectly to these provincial Russian businessmen, that I was totally in their hands, and horribly aware that I was likely going to find it impossible not to reach a noisy orgasm or two during the course of the evening.

It appeared that a small table had been brought up behind me, and I was required to kneel onto it, thighs spread wide, of course.

Picture: Kellee kneeling Click here to reveal.

In the course of this manoeuvre, I was helped by the man behind me, and I found myself almost shyly smiling and thanking him as he arranged me so to have the best access to my poor pussy, pulling my panties down, then pushing me round to face the one seated in front of me. I met his eyes, unwilling but driven to see what was there as he looked at me being prepared for him, and again found myself smiling meekly, pathetic, needy, weak, even as it became clear he now wanted to push his gnarled and wrinkled cock into my mouth.

Picture: Kellee takes it between her lips Click here to reveal.

I couldn’t hold back the tears, and quivered violently, but offered nothing at all in the way of resistance as I finally became a true whore, penetrated simultaneously at mouth and sex, by strangers who could not even speak my language, and whose names I would never know.

The knowledge that I was being used by two men at once burned into me, and I shook with sobs, shaking violently. Of course, they found this highly entertaining — this was what they had paid for, after all — the defiling of an innocent. But they had also paid for pretty compliance, and I shamed myself by moving my hips, angling my neck, so as to aid them as they fucked me, totally complicit in my own degradation.

Picture: Kellee's first spitroast Click here to reveal.

And within minutes, my shame became deeper, as the seeds of pleasure which had been sown before seemed to take root in me, and I found myself imagining how it must look, me being double fucked by these old men, the whole thing suddenly dirty and exciting, the feeling of being utterly at the service of the two cocks now vigorously thrusting into me at either end somehow so extreme that I was cut loose from my moorings, became just a being, experiencing totally new sensations, and I began to move to enhance the impact of their cocks, wanting to really feel just how hard they were ramming into me, groaning through the cock in my mouth, half hysterical, jerking convulsively as both men’s cocks began to spurt their loads into me simultaneously. I had nearly come for them already, and as they pulled out, laughing and mock shouting at each other, my whole body trembled and yearned for another cock in me — the sooner the better.

Picture: Kellee starts fucking Click here to reveal.

Still, I was in tears as I thanked them in broken Russian for fucking me, in tears even as I obeyed the instruction to kneel up, display myself, as the minidress was pulled off me, leaving me in the bustier, stockings and heels, wrists now locked at my back, tits out; prettily trimmed pussy pink and wet and open, hips still rolling; slow and uncontrollable, as my body made it clear it wanted more.

The third guy’s hand is at my pussy, and helplessly, obviously, needily, I responded to him, hips thrusting, a low noise escaping me, even though I bit my lip. I tried to restrain myself, but;

“No — no, my hot little slut, you are not to keep still — you are to show us how this dirty little cunt wants more, you are to tell us what it feels like. Move!”

And, ridiculously grateful to be commanded to do what my body demands, at the same time as unbearably ashamed and horrified at myself, I began to rub my pussy onto his bony, nicotine stained fingers; and after a while, I heard myself say;

“Oh!ohohohoooah! Oh, thank you sir!”, as he bunched three fingers and penetrated me, gloriously. After all, I had volunteered for this — even though I had no idea at the time what it would really feel like — and now I was here, it had been made clear to me that I had no better life choice than to submerge myself in this hell of degradation, and, lastly, when my body, my unconscious, seemed so willing to co-operate, than what was I to do?

He began to finger fuck me, roughly, crudely, fast — as painful as it was pleasurable, but I had no choice, and there were real sensations of pleasure accompanying the horror of knowing how degrading this was, how far from considerate of my pleasure, how deliberately humiliating his actions, as the others watched and exchanged crude comments and belly laughter, and I chose to actively concentrate on the pleasure, immerse myself in sensation, stop thinking. I began to moan and wail and shudder, pumping my body with his thrusts, tears streaming down my face, even as my moans rose in pitch and I began to lose all control, hearing myself begging him;

“O-o-o-oh! please … please, sir Oh God! pleeease! please!!”

I wasn’t sure if I was begging him to stop, or begging him to take me over the edge, but it wasn’t up to me in any case, and he abruptly stood up, leaving me shaking, degraded, gasping, crying, forlorn, my hips surging uncontrollably, clealry helplessly needing more. More abuse. Some guttural Russian, a grim chuckle, and I was manhandled onto my back, still on the table, lying painfully onto my locked wrists, my head hanging backwards over the edge, and suddenly a hot pressure was at my lips, and, not daring to resist, I open my lips to this fat, stiff cock, hating myself, disgusted, frightened.

In this position, I am powerless to stop him thrusting deep into my throat, and he used me with extreme brutality. All notion of my own pleasure was driven out of me — I was simply trying to get enough air, not to suffocate. It took all my concentration not to bite him when I needed to breathe so badly — only the fear kept me from hurting him, so extreme was the sensation — I thought I must die — found I didn’t really care — but that my body wanted to live, so that it fought for breath, refused to let me sign my own death warrant by clamping my teeth into his dick.

Picture: Kellee throat fucked Click here to reveal.

And then another penetration, brutal and direct, hard and deep into my pussy; all force, no finesse. My mind cried out in anguished despair as he began to rock into me. If the previous double penetration had made me feel like a puppet, this was ten times more demeaning and degrading — I had no possibility of resisting at all, and the sensation of being used like a collection of holes was overwhelming.

Then a weird thing happened — some combination of the drugs, the shortage of oxygen, and the extremity of the situation brought me to the point where I suddenly saw how wonderful it was that I was being used like this, that I was so available to these men, that I could satisfy their most secret lusts, without inhibition. It seemed glorious, all of a sudden, that these ugly and coarse old men, who would never be looked at by a free and pretty young woman, could have me any way they wanted, that I would smile and dress and move as best I could to please them, encourage them to fuck me any way they liked, come for them, move for them, accept their cruelty with a smile.

I had a vision of myself of some sort of angel/whore. The idea of giving myself, utterly, to these depraved old men had some sort of mystical meaning. Of course, it was just a pathetic, drug induced hallucination — my mind trying to keep the awfulness of my situation covered up in a cloak of fantasy, but at the time it helped.

And I began to move for them, opening myself, softening myself, restraining my struggles as the cock thrust into my throat, doing my best to allow him to go even deeper, lifting my knees up and back to more completely open my thighs so that the one ramming himself into my pussy had the best possible access, gripping his cock with my inner muscles as they had taught us.

Picture: Kellee spit roast again Click here to reveal.

And as if a floodgate had opened, I feel pleasure coursing through me — powerful, irresistible, humiliating. Humiliating, because now the vision slipped away, and I was only aware of myself as a dirty slut, participating in this appalling violation in the most whorish way.

But I didn’t stop. I wanted to come then; I wanted to let them see me orgasm for them. I wanted them to enjoy fucking me, to find me the best they’ve ever had, to be utterly theirs.

At last, one of them came off, partly in my throat, and partly on my face, pulling free with a hoarse shout, leaving me gasping for air, tears running freely from my face, make-up utterly ruined. The guy fucking my pussy was getting quite worked up too — but he had already come once, so it seemed to be taking forever, and I found that, now I could breathe, I could do more. I began to wriggle my hips more, and to beg him, in my terrible Russian, to fuck me, to hurt me, to shove it up me, trying to encourage him. At the same time, my own excitement was mounting, and all of a sudden, I was orgasming wildly, spasming helplessly, uttering despairing little cries, arching my back, utterly shameless, horrified at myself and glorying in the destruction at the same moment, and when he began to shoot deep inside me, it set me off again, and I was thanking him, babbling crazily, telling him he’s gorgeous, that he had destroyed me, that he should fuck me, fuck me, fuck me.

All of this had messed up my head completely, and I was in a daze for a while, not really understanding where I was any more, lost in the aftershocks of the most powerful orgasm of my life, not wanting to face reality. The next thing I really understood is that I was being turned over. In my dreamy state, I was co-operative, pliable, keeping my thighs widely splayed, rubbing myself against the hands that mauled my tits, that found their way to my belly, arching my back like a cat, enjoying being handled, accepting the pain they inflict, even luxuriating in the acceptance, immersing myself in the feeling that my body was nothing more but a tool for their pleasure, taking their laughter and derogatory comments as compliments.

They turned me over again, so that I was kneeling on the floor, face flat on the low table, knees far apart, tied somehow to the table legs. They unlocked my hands again, only yo re-fastened them at my neck. My muscles complained at this renewal of that sore position, but I was too compliant to resist.

Then a cloth was shoved into my sticky mouth, and tied with a handkerchief. One of them squatted, speaks, softly enough, into my ear.

“You’re going to be whipped now, little slut. We’re going to hurt you.”

And they did. The belt lashing into my buttocks and thighs woke me from my post-orgasmic languor with a jolt, panic and hysteria soon following as it became obvious that they were really laying into me — nothing like the strokes I had taken in the morning, but really aggressive, cruel and powerful. I was soon thrashing against my bondage, doing my best to scream and beg through the gag, actually moving the heavy table in my desperate frenzy to escape from the taerrible blows. All of which must have been highly entertaining to those three old leches, who were laughing and grunting as they tormented me — it certainly did not lessen the impact of the blows one bit. Each of them took a turn, and I was in agonies, writhing and jerking, feeling my breasts mash into the table, desperately needing to close my splayed thighs, but unable to, as my understanding of how I have behaved came back to me with a jolt, and the shame became almost as intense as the pain.

Picture: Kellee Beaten Click here to reveal.

But there was no mercy, and the last of them began to angle his blows so that the end of the belt flicks between my legs, and I was instantly driven to hysteria with fear and the need to stop this outrage. Instead, one of them simply sat on my back, immobilising me, and I took another sequence of blows even more carefully aimed at my defenceless, open sex.

I screamed my throat raw.

Picture: Kellee pussy whipped Click here to reveal.

Just when I thought my mind must snap, it seemed to be over. But there was more outrage in store, as one of them straddled me, and after briefly thrusting into my puffy, tenderised pussy for lubrication, pushed his cock into my asshole.

Picture: Kellee Anal entry Click here to reveal.

It was not my first time for this, but I had decided ’never again’ after a couple of attempts with a high school boyfriend, so the knowledge that my wishes counted for nothing was rammed home with every painful stroke as he thrust himself deeper and deeper inside me, and I was once again in utter despair, thinking that death would be the best that could happen to me.

Picture: Kellee Anal suffering Click here to reveal.

But despair and sexual degradation are not enough to kill, and the urge to breathe was deep, so that I lived still after he had jerked his seed into my bowels, and pulled off me with a shout.

They left me for a good while then, cleaning themselves up, settling down to drink and smoke and laugh again, while I sobbed myself into a resigned numbness, unable to face what had just been done to me — what would be done to me again and again, now, forever; my fate. My choice. My best option. I told myself that I would kill myself as soon as I had the opportunity, that I simply would not, could not, live like this. But then the thought imposed itself, once again, that I didn’t want to die, that I still wanted, somehow, to live, and more tears would fall, as I contemplated what continuing to live meant.

And all the time, the pain in my shoulders was growing, and the knowledge and feeling of how disgustingly sticky I felt got worse, so that when, following a lull in the talk, one of them said, “We should have the slut dance for us”, I felt my heart leap at the prospect. To be made to dance for these near-rapists a welcome thing! That may be some measure of how low I had been feeling.

And so, when they removed the gag and asked;

“Can you do sexy dance for us, pussy?” I answered as politely and eagerly as I could;

“Yes, oh, yes, please, sir”, even as my face was running with tears.

It was wonderful to be free again, able to move my arms. But standing up looking around, their grinning faces, I was reminded of the reality of all that had just happened, of how my body was displayed, of the memory of the atrocious intimacies that I had effectively given them licence to take from me when I accepted the Good Girls contract, and I was struck with a terrible shyness and shame, unable to believe that I was standing there, worse than naked, in close quarters with these strangers, old men who had used every hole in my body without the slightest consideration of anything beyond their own base lust, and that they all knew how powerfully, how shamefully, how helplessly I had responded.

My knees wobbled, and I cringed, pathetically trying to cover my breasts and sex with my hands, sobbing. They shouted at me, slapped my arse, even jigged me about, but I just went further and further into myself. They were getting angry — I took a really vicious slap to my face, which knocked me to the ground, but didn’t shake my mood.

And then another milestone in that tumultuous day occurred. The third man stood and spoke to the others, who manhandled me, gently enough, into the bathroom, where they let me collapse into a slouched kneeling position by the toilet. The third man suddenly had a pistol in his hand; small enough, but very real and deadly looking. He showed it to me. I stopped crying, my mind immediately focused, heart hammering, fast but light, too, so light — it was as if everything became very light at the moment. Very light, and very fragile. I had to be so, so careful now. Here, here was death. Right here.

He told me to open my mouth. Was it now? Was I going to die now? Did I want to die? I was frozen with fear, but a hard voice inside me told me that I had to obey him, that I had to do it. Now. Right now.

I opened my mouth, slowly, trembling, but meek. Very, very meek, watching him in terrible fear. And, of course, he pushed the barrel of the gun between my lips. Slowly, almost sensuously, further and further, until the metallic taste of oil cut through the gunk of semen and tears. I was suddenly very cold and still, trembling slightly, but desperately trying to be calm, pleading for my life with my eyes. My hands were free, and I desperately wanted to reach for the gun, make him take it away — but I forced myself to stay still, sure that one wrong move meant the end of my life, and knowing, with sudden and intense clarity now, that I wanted to live, even if living meant a succession of nights like this, being whored out to men like these, being offered to them to beat and fuck as they pleased — being forced to do whatever it took to keep them happy — it couldn’t last forever, could it?

He spoke, softly, in his heavily accented, guttural English;

“You; whore. Very pretty whore; lovely face, nice smile, good body. Very nice breasts.” And his free hand stroked and slid over me, casually lifting my breast, grasping it firmly, possessing it, letting me know that he knew what he wanted, then down between my legs; “Good pussy for fucking”. I meekly opened my thighs to allow him to run his fingers over my sex lips and onto my clit, unable to resist a quiver and a little ‘oh!" as my body reacted;

“Also, you dirty slut — big come from nasty fucking, yes?”

And I had to nod — ever so gently, with the end of the gun between my teeth, his fingers at my pussy, opening myself to him, desperate to please, but terribly aware that he is feeling the obvious and wanton response of my body to his fingers, in spite of everything. I was blushing like a beetroot, heart hammering, chest heaving, my nipples painfully, revealingly stiff, my thighs obscenely splayed, and I was beginning to make my hips roll with his movements, pathetically grateful to have something to do that might please him.

“All good. But you are not good whore in head, hmm? If man want sexy dance, then good whore wants to make sexy dance, not look ugly, hiding. This make man angry. Man doesn’t want this bitch. Angry man get rid of bitch with pistol, hm?”

I put all the expression I can into my eyes, thrust my hips up to open myself fully, inviting his hand to make free with my poor abused sex, giving it to him, blushing but suddenly very clear. I must let the wanton side of me take over, if I did indeed want to live. And then the floodgates opened, as he pushed three fingers into me, and my hips surged, and a black wave of lust flooded through me. My eyes closed, and I begin to move in earnest, as he talked softly to me;

“This is dirty cunt, yes, dirty little whore. Pizda slut. Dirty whore wants to come for the bad men. Dirty whore wants the bad men to know she has open pussy for them. All holes open, open for fucking. Fucking with cocks, fucking with guns, fucking with anything, hmm?”

And I nodded at him, eager to show how much I am a dirty slut. Slowly, the gun was pulled from my mouth, leaving me trembling with fear. Then it was back again, and I understand it was a test, and I made my lips soft, as if it were a cock, and he began to fuck my mouth with it, while crudely manipulating my pussy at the other end. And was getting off on it, forcing myself not to freeze up, not to resist, but let my body take me with it, whatever the shame, the despair that must follow, panting hoarsely, rolling my hips for him, for the watchers. An inspiration struck me, and I began to play with my breasts with one hand, and — and (this was terribly hard) — to touch my poor clit with the other, making a show for them, deliberately making myself look utterly wanton.

After a few thrusts into my mouth, he made a change, and pulled the gun out;

“Tell me pussy, tell me what dirty whore you are, tell what I tell you just now. All.”

“Oh … o-oh! Sir! I’m " it was so hard to say these things, so terribly hard, and even then I could hardly make the words sound because of the horrid clamp at the tip of my tongoue, and the despair rose, tears gathering gain, even as I was lifting myself to meet his hands, even as I was panting with sexual heat, even as I was fingering my clit to entertain them;

“I … am a dirty whore. I … I want I want to … come for you, to … to show you I am a dirty whore. That … that my pussy is open for … for fucking. Please, Sir, all … all my … holes … are open … for … fucking.”

He offered me his cock, then, put the gun to my chin, and, utterly servile, trembling with the need to please him, I put my tongue out, gently stroked his rigid cock with it, quivering with fear and the dirtiness of it.

Picture: Kellee licking cock at gunpoint Click here to reveal.

Video clip: Kellee licking cock at gunpoint Click here to reveal.

After a minute, he began to grunt at me, and shifted the gun to the back of my head; “Suck, pretty whore, suck it nice, now.”

And, whatever I felt about the matter, there was nothing I was going to do to resit him, and within seconds I was sucking a man’s cock while he held a gun to my head; a man whose name I didn’t even know, while two other strangers looked on, sniggering and saying dirty things about me that I couldn’t even understand, putting their fingers in my pussy, mauling my poor tits.

Picture: Sucking cock at gunpoint Click here to reveal.

Video clip: Sucking cock at gunpoint: Kellee opens wide Click here to reveal.

I had a mini panic attack then - a wave of hysteria rising in me, and I had to savagely suppress it, or risk getting shot in the head, dying here in a hotel toilet, with three men who had raped me just about every possible way; it was terribly, terribly hard, but also, I was desperately frightened, and it was all over in a few seconds.

Video clip: Sucking cock at gunpoint: Kellee panicking Click here to reveal.

They noticed though, and it made them laugh even more; entertained, I guess, at having terrified a young and helpless girl so thoroughly. It made no difference, though; I still had a gun to my head and a hard cock in my mouth and I had to service him, or everything would have been in vain. I had abandoned my mother in the hell of post-famine New York to get here; I owed it to her not to die as soon as I was really tested. And so I gave myself to him; gave my mouth to him - although, perhaps mindful of the risk of blowing the end of his dick off if things went wrong, he didn’t go deep.

Video clip: Sucking cock at gunpoint: Kellee giving herself. Click here to reveal.

His cock jerked, and I readied myself to take his load, which wasn’t much - he’d come in me at least twice already; he grunted in pleasure though, the others laughed, and I died inside. He wasn’t done with me, though, or with the gun.

It was gone from my head - an enormous release of tension that was almost immediately redoubled, with added horror, as he shoved the tip of the gun-barrel between my pussy lips, and then stopped. My eyes flicked up to his, desperate, and his grin and his gestures made it clear that I was to move for him, that I was to push myself onto the murderous cold metal of it. And … and suddenly I knew that I wanted to, that I wanted him to see how open I was for him, how sexily I could fuck a gun with my poor abused pussy, just minutes after he had been lashing it with a leather belt, that I wanted him to see how dirty I was, that I could come while a gun was fucking me.

Picture: Kellee fucking a gun Click here to reveal.

It took a while. I had to work at it, horribly ashamed, but also increasingly caught up in the sluttiness of the scene, and eventually I did come, helplessly, my cries of pleasure indistinguishable from cries of desolation, cries of pain, and tears rolled down my face even as I bucked and jerked against the gun in my cunt. As soon as I could speak, I was thanking him, forcing myself to smile as if he had just given me a present, instead of grinding my last shreds of self-respect into the dirt.

Video clip: Kellee coming, fucked by a gun Click here to reveal.

He laughed at me, then genuinely laughing at me as the enormity of that orgasm overwhelmed me - not the climax itself, but what it meant, what it said about me that it was possible for me to do that — he was pleased; almost friendly; he found me funny! I wanted to die, I thought — and then immediately remember that no, I wanted to cling to life — wanted it so badly that I would do even this depraved thing for him, hold my thighs far apart so he could see how my abused pussy was still twitching from the orgasm I had achieved from letting a man whose name I do not know, a stranger, fuck me with a gun.

“Dirty whore”, and the others laughed at me too. Then one of them decided to piss on me, and I just lay there and took it (what else was there to do?), trying to smile, even though I was so broken inside.

They told me to strip, shower, clean myself up, then come back and dance for them.

One of them decided to watch as I took off the corset, and watch me shower. I found myself putting on a show for him, taking my time, thinking about poses which might have the best sexual impact, smiling pathetic little frightened smiles at him; trying so, so hard to have him approve of me; terrified by his stone hard expressionless face as I offered myself to him as blatantly as I could.

From seeming grubby, ugly middle aged men, I now saw them as somehow important, to be looked up to, in spite of — perhaps because of — what they have put me through. I was eager to show the watcher how I am present my body as a vehicle for his pleasure, how sincerely, how hopefully the offer is made.

This didn’t change the feelings of shame and vulnerability at being naked in a small room, performing intimate acts in front of a strange man, but I let him see this too, only lightly masking it with half smiles, coy glances, blushing and even giggling a little now and then, being as ‘girly’ as I could.

Picture: Kellee in the bathroom Click here to reveal.

I didn’t wait to be asked, when I see his stiffness, but sank to my knees, still wet from the shower, looking humbly at him for assent, before opening his trousers and almost eagerly taking his cock deep into my mouth. I put my hands to my back, as I had been taught, and then remembered the cuffs, and voluntarily, I push my wrists together until they clicked, restraining myself, giving him full control over how he used me, all tongue and sensual licking when he let me, encouraging him to fuck my throat as deeply, as violently as he wished when he pushed the back of my head.

I was full of insane feelings of love and gratitude, and tears were in my eyes again as he came, spurting into my mouth, choking me, as I realised how far I had fallen. That there would never be a ‘clean’ me again — only a me that has been an eager whore, a dirty cunt.

He left me while I did more clean-up. It turned out that the agency had supplied some alternative outfits, and they had me put on a ridiculous filmy shortie negligee, and a wide suspender girdle that has matching pale stockings and appallingly high white pumps.

And I danced for them, still shy, still nervous, still terribly self-conscious, but now full of desire to please, a desperation to be sexy, and yes — an undeniable desire to be fucked, and fucked hard at that. I was terrified of them — especially the one with the gun — but I realised that I must like my fear, that it was exciting to me to know that these men would be happy to make me scream with pain and terror if I failed to entertain them in any other way.

And indeed, before long a lazy finger beckoned me, and I walked prettily over, my heart hammering, kneeling on the coffee table as instructed, thighs parted, hands at my sides, deliberately rolling my hips; slowly, sensuously. He had a box in front of him, a long leather case, with the GoodGirls logo on it in gold. From it he took various things, and laid them on the table, grinning. I shivered, but leant forward when he beckoned, and held myself perfectly still (although I trembling all over) as he attached more toothed spring clamps like the one on my tongue — one to each nipple. These were joined by a fine chain, from the centre of which another one hung, which he now hooked onto the tongue clamp, tightening until both my nipples and tongue feel the tension — my tongue tip was now drawn out of my mouth, and my breasts were tip-tilted by the pull of the chains at my nipples. I could hardly speak any more, but I managed something that sounds like ‘Thank you’, through the pain.

Bu that wasn’t all — here came another clamp, and this one went onto my tender little clit, the logo fob dangling, weighty, to bang insistently into my pussy from then on, and I wailed and gasped at the pain and the shame of it — but I didn’t resist, and I didn’t even lose my pose — I let the pain show with a wriggle that sets my tits jouncing, but my thighs stayed wide apart. I managed to say ‘Thank you, Sir” again. Weirdly, I sort of meant it.

“More drinks, whore”, he said and I am was smiles and wiggles and this time I was not just accepting the hands that grope my pussy, I was inviting them, smiling shyly, giggling, slowly grinding my hips to encourage those fingers to enter me, letting it be seen and heard that I wanted it, knowing they could feel how wet I was. I had seen myself in a mirror, and I knew that I liked the look of the metal at my nipples, my pussy. I knew that, sometime soon, I would be pierced there, not just temporarily adorned. And I was excited.

They had me dance some more. They gave me the other item from the box. It was some sort of elegant leather bound crop, about 80 cm long, with a fat handle at one end, and a little leather flap at the other. I danced sexily with it. After a while, I think — they were going to whip me with it anyway — why not make it sexy for them? — and I began to provocatively trail it over my tits, between my legs, giving myself little thwacks on the thighs. It was a weird feeling, being deliberately provocative with a nasty looking whip, dancing in clamps, chain, high heels and lingerie that hid nothing for men whom I knew would be making me squeal with pain very soon. For that moment, I was the centre of attention, though; the one with the initiative — but we all knew it would be brutally reversed at any moment. I liked it. I felt ultra sexy — even the pain at my clit seemed sexy, and the thought of the whipping, even of the screaming, the humiliation, was titillating also, and I let myself wallow in it — after all, there was no way out.

There was about an hour, then, where I was serving drinks, sitting on laps, kissing, allowing — no, encouraging — one or other of them to play with my pussy, with my tits — my thighs were never closed; dancing as sexily as I could, kneeling on the low table while one of them fucked me with the whip handle, rocking my hips to allow it to penetrate deeply, moaning in a sexy way in the hope he would like it, that it would make him laugh — laugh at the helpless dirty slut. It was all dreamy and sensuous — I kissed them without reserve now, softly, lovingly, even, though they stank of smoke and strong alcohol; I let my sexual excitement show without reserve, too, and the pain that alternated with it.

The one with the gun says something to the others, fast, in Russian — I don’t understand it, but there was a tone that sets my heart fluttering.

The others grunted assent, and he spoke to me;

“Do you want us to whip you now? We all would like to whip you. We will be hard — hurt you bad — then fuck you hard again. Do you want this?”

Did I want it? No, no! But — dared I say no? I was trembling now, chest heaving. His fingers were inside me, lazily moving, his thumb flicking the clip biting into my clit. The sensation was overwhelming; I had been murmuring ‘Thank you! Thank you!’ into his ear, wondering if he’d let me come — and now, this question.

I didn’t dare say no. I couldn’t bear to say yes. A particular move sent my hips bucking, pleasure rippling through me. How could this turn into a whipping? And yet, and yet…

“Sir, it … it doesn’t matter what I want. I … I am here to … to serve you.”

He smiled, enjoying himself;

“Take your time, pussy. Tell me what you want.”

And I tried to think — through the drugs, the booze, the hysteria, the fear, the sexual blur, until it was clear — I had to say I wanted it — but he wanted it to be sincere. So, somehow, I had to get myself to the point where I wanted to be whipped. And soon, or … or what? They couldn’t do much worse than whip me! That wasn’t the point, though. The point was, he wanted me to sincerely tell him I wanted to be whipped. It would please him. I would be wanting a whipping in order to please him. And I remembered the orgasm in the bathroom, with the gun in my pussy, utterly debased in front of these three cruel old men — how he had had me come for him. I deserved to be whipped. Of course, I should be whipped.

I wept, and I nodded, half whispered; “Pleathe, thir, pleathe I … I would like to … to be whipped”, then more strongly; “Pleathe, thir … pleathe …”; my heart was hammering, but I needed to say it; “Pleathe be cruel.”

My heart felt as if it might burst, but it didn’t seem to mean much to him — he gave a brief smile and said; “Good pussy!”

I was crying already, but I was prettily compliant as he asked me to put on the thin leather hood from the GoodGirls box, plunging me into darkness. He clipped the hood to my collar, opened the mouth port and released the tongue clamp — the in-rushing blood bringing fresh, urgent pain. The rubber ring gag, which had protruded from the hood, was now inverted, pushed between my lips, making my head a simple fuckhole, my jaw forced open. The chain having been pulled down, out of the hood, was brought up again, and, trembling, I obediently put my tongue out to receive the clamp again. A black leather hood, whose only feature was a cock sized hole, with a clamped pink tongue pulled through it. I have seen it on other girls since, and it always makes me simultaneously horny and horrified — to see a beautiful girl so transformed (all escort girls are beautiful, these days, there are so many girls chasing so few positions), so offered as a sex-object, pure and simple — depersonalised, presented, displayed — is a shocking thing.

I heard them talking, then one on the ‘phone. I was left, kneeling, open legged, thinking about being whipped, trembling. I no longer wanted to be whipped — but I could no longer speak to tell them. I made some noises, but received only a slap — ‘quiet, slut!"

I heard the door — strange voices — what was this — my trembling re-doubled. Argument, then acceptance. The strange voice sounded close — spoke;

“If Miss will permit me to help her stand?” An awkward, young sounding voice — a bellhop? I blushed, ridiculously, to think of him seeing me thus.

“I am going to install you into a display restraint, Miss. Please allow me to take your arm.” he draped it over his shoulder, supporting me. My naked breast was against his jacket. I felt as ashamed as if the events of the last few weeks had never happened, and I was nude at a college party, shamefully exposed. I allowed him to lift one foot, guide the knee onto a pad, the ankle onto another. Then he moved behind me, to the other side, and repeated the process. I was kneeling, quite high off the ground, my shins wide apart, not quite parallel — the feet splayed out a little, kneeling into widely spaced, padded rests, shaped to hold me.

It was my first time in a device which is now part of my life — a display restraint — more commonly called a ‘cunt-carrier’, a simple, rather elegantly designed chromed steel platform on wheels, in the shape of an ‘X’, which supports two sets of velvet-lined U shaped brackets. Each set of brackets takes one shin — one pad just below the knee, one just above the ankle. I am practised now, of course, and can mount with perfect composure in front of my owner’s guests, but I needed assistance for the longest time, so frighteningly insecure is the experience — a feeling of always being only one little wrong move away from toppling, helpess, to the ground.

This first time, I was horrified at the effect of the carrier — I was in effect, kneeling, my thighs spread wide apart, only way above the floor, and the design of the device presented me opened, for the most straightforward access to my opened crotch — sex and anus at just the height for a cock or a hand. Coupled with the fact that the position, although relatively comfortable, was so precarious, I felt horribly vulnerable — I dared not move vigourously, for fear of falling — and I was soon strapped to the brackets at my ankles, and so made even more vulnerable — I would not be able to try to spring free of the horrid thing if I did fall.

My hands were locked at the back of the collar, and I was now a mounted sex apparatus. Some more Russian, and I jolted as I felt the device moving — up and down, first, then the rests moved apart and towards each other, tilted back and forwards — this was a motorised, adjustable model, with a remote. Silent tears ran down my face inside the hood. The world was black.

More talking, laughter. I gathered that the young man was being encouraged to fuck me. Of course, there was no consideration of my own wishes. I desperately do NOT want him to do this. Somehow, being shamed by, shaming myself with these old men was not the same as being used by someone of around my own age, another innocent. But my views were of no interest or concern. I was tilted completely forward and his cock simply pushed into my opened mouth, penetrating straight on into my throat.

I was crying hysterically, but I doubt any of them even notice, so constrained was I. He didn’t last long, grabbing at my swinging breasts, spurting into my mouth. Some went up my nose, and for a while, I believed I would choke to death inside the hood. Again, I doubt any of them noticed. If they did, they do nothing at all. More laughter, the door again, and then a little silence — I was screaming into the gag, but would make very little noise — the whipping hadn’t even started yet, but already I was hysterical, wrenching fearfully, vainly looking for a way to free myself, pathetic, entertaining.

They had a good laugh at the silly whore, winding each other up until one was short of breath, wheezing, having laughed himself silly. At me, at my horror and despair at being trussed so, transfixed at the knowledge that an appalling ordeal with that whip was coming, and that I was defenceless. And its funny to him.

The whip, paradoxically, calmed me when it comes. The pain was hard, sharp, strong, but at least it was real — not my fevered imagination, not the black dread inside the black hood. I bucked, and jerked, and screamed, and tried to beg. but I was not hysterical. Not yet, anyway.

They built up the pace. It hurt terribly, and the humiliation grew also. To be so utterly incapable of protecting myself, to remember having asked for this with my own voice, to hear them laughing, commenting on the pretty way my tits bounce, painfully tugging at the chain clamped to my tongue, to know that this is my life, the life that I made great efforts to achieve, to remember, to remember how glorious it had felt to come so helplessly with a loaded gun working in my pussy. I jerked and moaned, tormented by those three sadists, and by the terrible circumstances my own decisions had led me to, and that was literally all that I can do. I had no choices at all.

Then my breasts were whipped for the first time, and I had no time for anything but pain and terror. My whole body rejected the possibility that this was happening to me — denied it with desperate determination — but nevertheless, the whip sliced in again, causing me to scream inside the hood — screaming that served mostly to make me doubt that I would ever have enough oxygen again, their timing random, so that often a blow landed as I was desperately trying to suck some air in, driving what little breath I have from me as I reacted to the pain, unable to control myself. It was destroying me. Every fibre of my body screamed its rejection of this terror, its continuation, its obliteration of me, but it continued, nonetheless. I was helpless — after all my enforced pose made my tits an easy target. At last I pissed myself, and there was laughter, and then slashes of the crop between my legs. Hysteria reigned, and I passed out in the hood.

They must have fucked me then, but I don’t remember. My first memory after that is of being roused by a blast of cold air over my naked skin. I was still in the framework, still in the hateful mask, covered with some rough cloth, wearing nothing but scraps of lingerie, being wheeled along, then up a clangourous ramp into a vehicle. There was some jiggling, bashing against other items — I gathered that the carrier was being tied to some racking. Suddenly, I had a vision of a van with six or eight naked whores chained to trolleys.

My feelings of helplessness and despair were trumped only by my fear of what might happen next, and this fear kept me silent. The inside of the mask was soaked with tears. A hand found its way under the cloth and roughly groped my spread pussy. I was in no position to resist. The clamp was still biting into my clit and I jerked with pain. The hand deliberately tugged and twisted. More desperate jerking and squealing, which made no difference at all. Laughter.

Then a door was slammed, and silence fell.

After a minute, a voice sounded, soft — a woman’s voice; “Magda.” Then another, weak, tired “Irina.” A pause, then an American voice; “Lara.”

(Later, I learned that Irina is the beauty with the terrible tattoo whom I had seen earlier. When I discovered this, months later, and recalled the quality of bottomless defeat in her voice that night in the van, it overwhelmed me. I had pathetically clung to a hope that a girl as magnificent as she might somehow be proof against this existence. Silly me — she was a conquered, dirty, depraved, degraded whore, just like me. Poor girl — she had no option but to be anything else — unless that thing was even more degraded — or dead. So many sweet, pretty, sensual girls, so cruelly used. Oh Christ, I’m so far gone — writing this just made my sex pulse, even as my eyes filled with tears. I hope he likes this, when he sees it, hope it turns him on so that he fucks me. Or at least gives me to the bodyguards. Something.)

A longer silence, then the second voice came again, a little stronger now; “There should be four. Name yourself, other girl.”

So that was it — they’ve been identifying themselves, as they are all covered with cloth, even if not hooded like me.

I managed to make a noise — enough for it to be clear that I was female, and that I was gagged. I was so grateful that the other voices don’t sound as terrified as I feel — perhaps this is normal. Indeed, they went on to make a little conversation, telling of clients and assignments, but also discussing shops and jewellery.

I was pleased to be gagged, as they seemed to be accepting all this insanity as normal, and I didn’t want this to be normal.

In fact, this was a depressingly ’normal’ collection service operated for the escort agencies to collect girls from the bigger hotels, and after another girl arrived, who announced herself as Li-sun in almost cheerful tones, the van moved off, until eventually, at a stop, I was detached, rolled down the ramp again, and removed from the carrier in familiar surroundings. I burst into tears when I saw the face of our doorman, although I didn’t know his name or anything about him, but just because I felt, stupidly, that I was now safe.

Safe! With the organisation that existed to whore me to men like those I experienced that night? But that was how I felt; safe, and warm, and home. It’s called Stockholm Syndrome — look it up.

And when the two dresser’s assistants appeared, and begin to be kind to me, I was utterly undone, a sobbing jelly. It appeared, though, that they are used to handling such situations, for they quickly and calmly get me upstairs and into a room — my new room they called it — a lovely room, I half-noticed. They were tender with me, used soothing creams, flattered me, told me I looked beautiful, sympathised over the marks on my breasts, bottom and legs, talked about the men as ‘swine’, and all the time, I was feeling broken, sometimes sobbing, sometimes crying silently, sometimes managing to smile wanly at them.

They put me into a pretty nightdress, and then into a gorgeously soft bed, huge and cool, and left me to sleep, which took me, blissfully, as soon as I lowered my head and let my eyes close.