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?
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, it 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 the fact of my restrained 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 shamefully, pathetically smiling at him, I was thinking, bitterly, that this was not how my life should have been but 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.
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.
“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.
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 a short fat old babushka 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.
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 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.
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 leash, 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!
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 the 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. 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 caught the eye of a woman, seated, looking at me — it was as if she was determined I should know just what she thought of me, and I looked into her face, catching the full power of the lazy sneer that she had for me. She knew what I was going to now, she thought I was trash, and she enjoyed my humiliation.
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. They got out then, and straightaway there was a hand between my legs, and another mauling my breasts, and, my wrists trapped, I just had to accept the hard, crude fingers between my parted thighs, the painful pinching and pulling at my nipples, although I wailed weakly in pathetic, pointless protest.
The man in front of me smiled, 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, opeing 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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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 takes all my concentration not to bite him when I need to breathe so badly — only the fear keeps me from hurting him, so extreme is the sensation — I imagine I will die — I don’t really care — but my body wants to live, and so it fights for breath, refuses to let me sign my own death warrant by clamping my teeth into his dick.
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.
And as if a floodgate had opened, I feel pleasure coursing through me — powerful, irresistible, humiliating. Humiliating, because now the vision slips away, and I am only aware of myself as a dirty slut who is participating in this appalling violation in the most whorish way.
But I don’t stop. I want to come now, I want to let them see me orgasm for them. I want them to enjoy fucking me, to find me the best they’ve ever had, to be utterly theirs.
At last, one of them comes, partly in my throat, and partly on my face, and pulls 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 is getting quite worked up too — but he has already come once, so it seems to be taking forever, and I find that, now I can breathe, I can do more. I begin to wriggle my hips more, and I begin 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 is mounting, and all of a sudden, I am 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 begins to shoot deep inside me, it sets me off again, and I am thanking him, babbling crazily, telling him he’s gorgeous, that he has destroyed me, that he should fuck me, fuck me, fuck me.
All of this has messed up my head completely, and I am in a daze for a while, not really understanding where I am any more, lost in the aftershocks of the most powerful orgasm of my life, not wanting to face reality. The next thing I really understand is that I am being turned over. In my dreamy state, I am co-operative, pliable, keep my thighs widely splayed, rub myself against the hands that maul my tits, that find their way to my belly, arch 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 is 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 unlock my hands again, and re-fasten them at my neck. My muscles complain at this renewal of that sore position, but I am too compliant to resist.
Then a cloth is shoved into my sticky mouth, and tied with a handkerchief. One of them squats, 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 becomes obvious that they are really laying into me — nothing like the strokes I had taken in the morning, but really aggressive, cruel. I am 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 be highly entertaining to these three old leches, who are laughing and grunting as they torment me — it certainly does not lessen the impact of the blows one bit. Each of them takes a turn, and I am in agonies, writhing and jerking, feeling my breasts mash into the table, desperately needing to close my splayed thighs, but anuable to, as my understanding of how I have behaved comes back to me with a jolt, and the shame becomes almost as intense as the pain.
But there is no mercy, and the last of them begins to angle his blows so that the end of the belt flicks between my legs, and I am driven hysterical with fear and the need to stop this outrage, instantly. Instead, one of them simply sits on my back, immobilising me, and I take another sequence of blows even more carefully aimed at my defenceless, open sex. I scream my throat raw.
Just when I think my mind will snap, it seems to be over. But there is more outrage in store, as one of them straddles me, and after briefly thrusting into my puffy, tenderised pussy for lubrication, pushes his cock into my asshole.
It’s 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 count for nothing is rammed home with every painful stroke as he thrusts himself deeper and deeper inside me, and I am once again in utter despair, thinking that death would be the best that could happen to me.
But despair and sexual degradation are not enough to kill, and the urge to breathe is 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 em — what will 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, that knocked me to the ground, but didn’t shake my mood.
And now another milestone in this 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 hamering, 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 am blushing like a beetroot, heart hammering, chest heaving, my nipples are painfully, revealingly stiff, my thighs are now obscenely splayed, and I am 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 do want to live. And then the floodgates open, as he pushes three fingers into me, and my hips surge, and a black wave of lust floods through me. My eyes close, and I begin to move in earnest, as he talks softly to me;
“That 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 is pulled from my mouth, leaving me trembling with fear. Then it is back again, and I understand it is a test, and I make my lips soft, as if it were a cock, and he begins to fuck my mouth with it, while he crudely manipulates my pussy at the other end. And I’m 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 will follow, panting hoarsley, rolling my hips for him, for the watchers. An inspiration strikes me, and I begin to play with my breasts with one hand, and — and (this is 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 makes a change, and pulls 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 is so hard to say these things, so terribly hard, and even then I can hardly make the words sound because of the horrid clamp at the tip of my tongoue, and the despair rises, tears gather gain, even as I am lifting myself to meet his hands, even as I am panting with sexual heat, even as I am 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.”
And then he slowly pushes the barrel of the gun at my pussy, and I understand I am to move toward him, to push myself onto the murderous cold metal of it. And … and I know that I want to, that I want him to see how open I am for him, how sexily I can fuck a gun with my poor abused pussy, just minutes after he has been lashing it with a leather belt, that I want him to see how dirty I am, that I can come while a gun is fucking me.
It takes a while. I have to work at it, horribly ashamed, but also increasingly caught up in the sluttiness of the scene, and eventually I do come, helplessly, my cries of pleasure indistinguishable from cries of desolation, cries of pain, and tears roll down my face even as I buck and jerk against the gun in my cunt. As soon as I can speak, I am thanking him, forcing myself to smile as if he has just given me a present, instead of grinding my last shreds of self-respect into the dirt.
He laughs at me, genuinely laughs — he finds me funny! I want to die, I think — and then immediately remember that no, I want to cling to life — want it so badly that I will do even this depraved thing for him, hold my thighs far apart so he can see how my abused pussy is still twitching from the orgasm I got from letting a man whose name I do not know, a stranger, fuck me with a gun.
“Dirty whore”, and the other laugh at me. Then one of them decides to piss on me, and I just lie there and take it, trying to smile, even though I have been broken inside.
They tell me to strip, shower, clean myself up, then come back and dance for them.
One of them decides to watch as I take off the corset, and stays to watch me shower. I find myself putting on a show for him, taking my time, thinking about poses which will 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 offer myself to him as blatantly as I can.
From seeming grubby, ugly middle aged men, I now see them as somehow importnat, to be looked up to, in spite of — perhaps because of — what they have put me through. I am eager to show the watcher how much I am eager to present my body as a vehicle for his pleasure, how sincerely, how hopefully the offer is made.
This doesn’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, only lightly masking it with half smiles, coy glances, blushing and even giggling a little now and then, being as ‘girly’ as I can.
I don’t wait to be asked, when I see his stiffness, but sink 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 we have been taught, and then remember the cuffs, and voluntarily, I push my wrists together, restraining myself, giving him full control over how he uses me, all tongue and sensual licking when he lets me, encouraging him to fuck my throat as deeply, as violently as he wishes when he pushes the back of my head.
I am full of insane feelings of love and gratitude, and tears are in my eyes again as he comes, spurting into my mouth, choking me, as I realise how far I am fallen. That there will never be a ‘clean’ me again — only a me that has been an eager whore, a dirty cunt.
He leaves me while I do more clean-up. It turns out that the agency have supplied some alternative outfits, and they have 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 dance 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 am frightened of them — especially the one with the gun — but I realise that I must like my fear, that it is exciting to me to know that these men will be happy to make me scream with pain and terror if I fail to entertain them in any other way.
And indeed, before long a lazy finger beckons me, and I walk 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 has a box in front of him, a long leather case, with the GoodGirls logo on it in gold. From it he takes various things, and lays them on the table. grinning. I shiver, but lean forward when he beckons, and hold myself perfectly still (although I am trembling all over) as he attaches more toothed spring clamps — like the one on my tongue — one to each nipple. These are joined by a fine chain, from the centre of which another one hangs, which he now hooks onto the tongue clamp, tightening until both my nipples and tongue feel the tension — my tongue tip is now drawn out of my mouth, and my breasts are tip-tilted by the pull of the chains at my nipples. I can hardly speak any more, but I manage something that sounds like ‘Thank you’, through the pain.
Bu that’s not all — here comes another clamp, and this one goes onto my tender little clit, the logo fob dangling, weighty, to bang insistently into my pussy from then on, and I wail and gasp at the pain — but I don’t resist, and I don’t even lose my pose — I let the pain show with a wriggle that sets my tits jouncing, but my thighs stay wide apart. I manage to say ‘Thank you, Sir” again. Weirdly, I sort of mean it.
“More drinks, whore”, he says and I am all smiles and this time I am not just accepting the hands that grope my pussy, I’m inviting them, smiling shyly, giggling, slowly grinding my hips to encourage those fingers to enter me, letting it be seen and heard that I want this, knowing they can feel how wet I am. I have seen myself in a mirror, and I know that I like the look of the metal at my nipples, my pussy. I know that, sometime soon, I will be pierced there, not just temporarily adorned. And I am excited.
They have me dance some more. They give me the other item from the box. It’s 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 dance sexily with it. After a while, I think — they’re going to whip me with it anyway — why not make it sexy for them — and I begin to provocatively trail it over my tits, between my legs, giving myself little thwacks on the thighs. It’s a weird feeling, being deliberately provocative with a nasty looking whip, dancing in clamps, chain, high heels and lingerie that hides nothing for men who I know will be making me squeal with pain very soon. For that moment, I am the centre of attention, the one with the initiative — but we all know it will be brutally reversed at any moment. I like it. I feel ultra sexy — even the pain at my clit seems sexy, and the thought of the whipping, even of the screaming, the humiliation, is titillating also, and I let myself wallow in it — after all, there’s no way out.
There’s about an hour, then, where I’m serving drinks, sitting on laps, kissing, allowing — no, encouraging — one or other of them to play with my pussy, with my tits — my thighs are never closed, dancing as sexily as I can, kneeling on the low table while one of them fucks me with the whip handle, rocking my hips to allow it to penetrate deeply, moaning in a sexy way in the hope he will like it, that it will make him laugh — laugh at the helpless dirty slut. It is all dreamy and sensuous — I kiss them without reserve now, softly, lovingly, even, though they stink of smoke and strong alcohol; I let my sexual excitement show without reserve, too, and the pain that alternates with it.
The one with the gun says something to the others, fast, in Russian — I don’t understand it, but there is a tone that sets my heart fluttering.
The others grunt assent, and he speaks 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 — dare I say no? I am trembling now, chest heaving. His fingers are inside me, lazily moving, his thumb is flicking the clip biting into my clit. The sensation is overwhelming; I have been murmuring ‘thank you! thank you!’ into his ear, wondering if he’ll 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 smiles, 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), 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 is black.
More talking, laughter. I gather that the young man is being encouraged to fuck me. Of course, there is 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 is not the same as being used by someone of around my own age, another innocent. But my views are of no interest or concern. I am tilted completely forwards, and his cock simply pushes into my opened mouth, and penetrates straight to my throat.
I am crying hysterically, but I doubt any of them even notices, so constrained am I. He doesn’t last long, grabbing at my swinging breasts, spurting into my mouth. Some goes up my nose, and for a while, I believe I may choke to death inside the hood. Again, I doubt any of them notice. If they do, they do nothing at all. More laughter, the door again, and then, a little silence — I am screaming into the gag, but can make very little noise — the whipping hasn’t even started yet, but already I am hysterical, wrenching fearfully, vainly looking for a way to free myself, pathetic.
Entertaining. They have a good laugh at the silly whore, winding each other up until one is short of breath, 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 is coming, and that I am defenceless. And its funny.
The whip, paradoxically, calms me when it comes. The pain is hard, sharp, strong, but at least it is real — not my fevered imagination, not the black dread inside the black hood. I buck, and jerk, and scream, and try to beg but I am not hysterical. Not yet, anyway.
They build up the pace. It hurts terribly, and the humiliation grows. To be so utterly incapable of protecting myself, to remember asking 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 felt to come so helplessly with a loaded gun working in my pussy. I jerk, and moan, tormented by these three sadists, and by the terrible circumstances my own decisions have led me to, and that’s literally all that I can do. I have no choices at all.
Then my breasts are whipped for the first time, and I have no time for anything but pain and terror. My whole body rejects the possibility that this is happening to me — denies it with desperate determination — but nevertheless, the whip slices in again, causing me to scream inside the hood — screaming that serves mostly to make me doubt that I will ever have enough oxygen again, their timing random, so that often a blow lands as I am desperately trying to suck some air in, driving what little breath I have from me as I react to the pain, unable to control myself. It destroys me. Every fibre of my body screams its rejection of this terror, its continuation, its obliteration of me, but it continues, nonetheless: I am helpless — after all my enforced pose makes my tits an easy target. At last I piss myself, and there is laughter, and then slashes of the crop between my legs. Hysteria reigns, and I pass out in the hood.
They must have fucked me then, but I don’t remember. My first memory after that is of been roused by a blast of cold air over my naked skin. I’m 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 is some jiggling, bashing against other items — I gather that the carrier is being tied to the side. Suddenly, I have a vision of a van with six or eight naked, whores chained to trolleys.
My feelings of helplessness and despair are trumped only by my fear of what might happen next, and this fear keeps me silent. The inside of the mask is soaked with tears. A hand finds its way under the cloth and roughly gropes my pussy. I’m in no position to resist. The clamp is still biting into my clit. I jerk with pain. The hand deliberately tugs and twists. More desperate jerking and squealing, which makes no difference at all. Laughter.
Then the door is slammed, and silence falls.
After a minute, a voice sounds, soft — a woman’s voice; “Magda.” Then another, weak, tired “Irina.” A pause, then an American voice; “Lara.”
(Later, I learn that Irina is the beauty with the terrible tattoo whom I had seen earlier. When I discover this, months later, and recall the quality of bottomless defeat in her voice that night in the van, it overwhelms 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 comes again, a little stronger now; “There should be four. Name yourself, other girl.”
So that’s it — they’ve been identifying themselves, as they are all covered with cloth, even if not hooded like me.
I manage to make a noise — enough for it to be clear that I am female, and that I am gagged. I am so grateful that the other voices don’t sound as terrified as I feel — perhaps this is normal. Indeed, they go on to make a little conversation, telling of clients and assignments, but also discussing shops and jewellery.
I am pleased to be gagged, as they seem to be accepting all this insanity as normal, and I don’t want this to be normal.
In fact, this is a depressingly ‘normal’ collection service operated for the escort agencies to collect girls from the bigger hotels, and after another girl arrives, who announces herself as Li-sun in almost cheerful tones, the van moves off, until eventually, at a stop, I am detached, rolled down the ramp again, and removed from the carrier in familiar surroundings. I burst into tears when I see the face of our doorman, although I don’t know his name or anything about him, but just because I feel that I am safe now.
Safe! With the organisation that exists 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 appear, and begin to be kind to me, I am utterly undone, a sobbing jelly. It appears, though, that they are used to handling this situation, for they quickly and calmly get me upstairs and into a room — my new room they call it — a lovely room, I half-notice. They are tender with me, use soothing creams, flatter me, tell me I look beautiful, sympathise over the marks on my breasts, bottom and legs, talk about the men as ‘swine’, and all the time, I am 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 leave me to sleep, which takes me, blissfully, as soon as I lower my head and let my eyes close.
