Timmy Pt.1

Prologue

I used to be called Timmy.

Nowadays, I’m called anything that gets my attention (and I’m shamefully, pathetically attentive) — usually something like ‘pussy’, ‘cunt’, or ‘whore’, but occasionally I do still get ‘Timmy’.

Often this is a sign that something really hard is coming — that I’m going to be asked for my consent to something further, some step further away from the fantasy that I could ever mean anything. Some step that will be agony to take, but which both I and whoever it is asking for it know that I will be helpless to resist.

I have never learned to feel happy about being called ‘cunt’; it hurts every time (hurts not in some snowflakey emo way, but because it is such a direct and honest label for what I am, and probably what I am about to be used as, when I am so called), but it is much less frightening than being called ‘Timmy’.

But back in the day (can it be less than three years?) I was called Timmy. Of course, that wasn’t my given name — my weekend-hippy-turned-bourgeois parents gave me the name ‘Timna’, which had been shortened to Timmy by the time I was two, and which I never wanted to reclaim (ironically, it seems that Timna means ‘protest’ — not something I am not able to do, much less permitted). And so ‘Timmy’ I was.

When my story starts, I was 20, halfway through my studies at the Sorbonne, outwardly a good, upper-middle class French girl, careful of her appearance, quite pretty, a little sexy, very together, studying hard, working towards a ‘right-on’ but successful career, ‘committed’ to making the world a better place, while at the same time carefully conserving the family reputation and building its resources — the French way.

In reality, I was bored stupid, lost in some no-man’s-land between the certainty that I did not want what my parents had — did not want ‘the French way’ — and disdainful rejection of the various ‘alternatives’ that my hipper, ‘cooler’ classmates advocated — variously; drugs/rebel chic/rock and roll, activist, quasi-religious politics, or total renunciation/back to nature — all of which seeming like nothing beyond refusal to face the reality that life is meaningless. At least that’s what I thought then.

Now, I know that life is meaningful — that it’s my problem, that it’s me who doesn’t know how to mean anything, that the closest I can come to meaning, it seems, is to be a vehicle for the purposes of others. Others for whom it is abundantly clear that life has obvious meaning, for whom everything adds up. And that they only find me meaningful for the impersonal and untrammelled satisfaction of their animal desires — principally, and most insistently, their lust and their cruelty. That somehow, the ways in which I respond to being used like this (and also, I suppose, the particular features of my poor sweet body) are entertaining enough to make me a valuable possession, so that my subjugation is experienced in settings of equally obscene luxury.

In short, I am meaningful as cunt, but as nothing else.

I exist as a nameless sex-slave, passed from one rich pervert to another for large sums of money — passed on because cunt, in the end, is boring. What is entertaining to these people, what they really like, is the active degradation of cunt. When they first get to use me, I am new, different — my body and my mind are shaped according to my particular history, and there is mystery there, explorations to be made, voyages of discovery as to where my remaining shame is still raw, can still be teased into real fear, real distress, real despair, voyages of experiment too as to what I can achieve with, what can be done with, my soft and open body, in service of their pleasure.

But as time passes, the mysteries are resolved, the new territory annexed, more or less violently reshaped, and all that is left is my own will to please. Just another pathetic, eager, desperate cunt.

Because I am desperate; I strive, strive ever harder with each sale, strive to be entertaining, to expose my raw nerves for them, let them see the pain, the humiliation, the terror, to maintain and offer my body with total, sweet commitment. I strive both because I have to — because this is my only meaning, but also because I have seen, in this small and well hidden world, what happens to girls like me (am I still a girl? I should be clear) — to slave-cunt like me — when there is no-one left who finds them entertaining in that way. That there are lower circles of hell, still, to fall into.

But all of this is the end of my story, really, and I have said too much, perhaps, already. I hope not. For this story, too, is only meaningful if it serves your pleasure, your lust, your fantasies of cruel whims enacted without restraint upon a willing and well-formed young woman who is not only helpless to resist, but will be your sweet and willing partner as you casually, wantonly destroy her, who will giggle prettily for you in her weakness, nervous at the knowledge of what is coming for her, at how terrible it will be, smiling sadly at you, even while you can see in her eyes that she knows quite well where such complicity leads, that she knows there is no happy end.

Part 1

I hadn’t dropped out of college, I told myself. I just — hadn’t gone back.

Refusing to stay with my parents after a terrible row on Christmas day, I had got the coach to the Alps, and found an agency that provided chalet girls for the high-end ski trade.

Finally, I used my education for something practical — to impress them at the interview with my sophistication, my command of both Russian and English, my knowledge of world affairs, and my general all-round competence.

I got the job, and was in work 2 days later. An English couple, 2 pre-teen kids, infuriating, ill-mannered, lazy, rude — a caricature of the worst kind of people that island produces. But I made light work of it — it was easy, somehow, now that I had decided I no longer cared, that everything was meaningless.

Another week with a quiet German family, annoying in a different way — no style, no charm, nothing. But again, I took it in my stride, then at the end decided to take up an offer to go out with some other chalet girls and their ski bum guys. We went to a round of bars and clubs, all essentially identical, full of people who looked, sounded and talked just like we did, got hammered to endless eurobeats, went back to a guy’s flat, fucked like bunnies, slept all day, then did it again the next night, same routine, different guy. All without once having a genuine emotion.

It was time to go back to Paris, back to student life, to give up on ‘my little tantrum’ as my mother called it; my ‘treason to the family’ according to my father and his older brother.

I so nearly did, as well — after all, what was one meaningless existence over another? Except that I got a call; another girl had broken her leg (ski-ing while drunk), and I had impressed them so that they were offering me a two week stint at one of the swankier chalets, high up on the mountain — the sort where the clients — a Russian billionaire and his kids, I was told — tended to arrive by helicopter. They gave me to understand that the tips might double the wages. I took it, not for the tips, but for the views. Views of the far peaks from the tops were the only thing that had given me peace since I’d got there, and this chalet was right up there in the sky.

So that was it, I hadn’t dropped out, I was just earning some useful cash, and would catch up in a few weeks time. I blocked my mother’s number (not my father’s — he never called me anyway), and signed on the dotted line.

As a minion, there was no helicopter for me, but a jouncy ride on a snowmobile, banging around in the dark. The driver fancied his chances, and tried hard to chat me up, but my experiences over the weekend had left me cold — I gave him flat ‘no’; he called me a frigid bitch, grinned at me and left. Fine by me, I thought, and began to look around.

‘Swanky’ was an understatement — it was bling to the max — everything up-to-the minute, remotes for everything, rustic charm draped in satin, finished with gilded marble and mirrors, all in gruesome taste, backed up by wall-to-wall electronics and automation. Television the size of a wall, that disappeared into the ceiling when you didn’t want it — that sort of nonsense.

I had an evening and the following morning, so I put my serious head on, stopped thinking, and learnt how to make it all work; scrubbed all the bits the cleaning staff had done sloppily, made a couple of cakes and some wreaths. I might as well have been at home after all, slaving for my mother, preparing for her traditional New Year’s event. But here, at least, I didn’t have to make small talk. The billionaires were coming tomorrow, and I’d be lucky if they learnt my name.

At least I slept well, physically and mentally exhausted, grateful for oblivion, these days.

They did indeed arrive by helicopter, mid morning, and surprised me, a little. I had been expecting loudness, insensitivity, crude displays of wealth, but in fact here was a serious, courteous man in his late forties, grizzled, tough looking, but speaking excellent French, and his two quiet children, both mid-teens, friendly if reserved, eager to ski.

They listened politely to the short tour, were appreciative of the cake (without eating more than a token few bites), then the children were off with their instructors (who had also arrived in the helicopter), and the father was setting himself up in the well-equipped study with his tech guy — who had already done a full sweep of the house in a professionally efficient manner. It was all quite impressive.

It looked as if I would have an easy couple of weeks — this lot were very self-contained. I would cook, and tidy, of course, but it seemed unlikely that I would be called upon to handle vicious sibling rivalry, as with the English, or blank-faced rudeness, as from the Germans. I turned my brain off, and did my work, staring out at the immensity of the snow-covered peaks.

It went like that for three days; breakfast spread, early and all-day ski-ing for the children, him in the study mostly, supply delivery, cleaning, tidying, cooking, evening meals, bed.

The only thing that was bothering me was Karsh. That was his name — Karsh. Not a very Russian name. Slavic, he said, but not much more, when I asked, and stared into me. He did that — looked into you, not at you, with his ice blue eyes, unblinking, unsmiling, waiting. We French can stare, too, but I was in no state for that, defeated by life already, and meekly looked down at his feet.

He was looking at me too, though — more than once, I looked up to catch him looking at me — looking at my body. It was fairly frank, in fact. He wasn’t looking at me — he was looking at my body. It made me blush, but there was nothing, really, that I could complain about — he wan’t leering, wasn’t obvious, wasn’t trying anything, or staring just at my breasts, as the German guy had often done. No, Karsh was just looking at me.

But it was getting to me. He wan’t especially attractive, and he was probably as old as my dad. He obviously kept himself fit and trim, dressed rather well, actually, and had broad, hard hands that fascinated me a little, but really, there was nothing special about him really but his calm confidence and that all-seeing stare.

Nevertheless, alone in that big place with him each day, I had certainly developed a feeling of sexual tension, and with not enough to do, with a physical refusal by my body to do what I had told myself I would, and catch up with my reading list, I had lots of time to think about him, what he saw when he looked at me, whether he liked it, wondering why I couldn’t tell what he was thinking — and more specifically, what he thought of me, and why that bothered me.

On the fourth day, it was announced that the children were flying over to the next valley to stay the night with their mother (Karsh was twice divorced). They would be back the next day, or perhaps the one after — the weather might not allow the helicopter to fly, apparently.

He rang for tea as usual at three in the afternoon — the security guy had told me how I should make it, Russian style, and Karsh took it three times a day. When I delivered it, he motioned with his hand, casual, confident. I had no idea what he meant by it, but assumed that I should stop and wait.

I waited for ten minutes all told; after two or three, without him having looked up from his laptop, I had made to leave;

“Stay” was all he said, and I did, feeling increasingly odd as the minutes mounted up.

The sexual tension was rising, despite there being nothing, nothing at all obvious at least, that suggested it should.

Then he looked up. Silence, stare. Silence; I start to speak — the hand movement again. I am silent. He pours the tea, sips, gestures;

“Do you want some?”

“No, … no, thank you.”

A little nod, nothing. Staring again. I am fidgety now, my French cool fraying.

He’s looking into me again. That look; long, calm, in complete silence. I begin to get the jitters, feeling increasingly weak and foolish, without any specific reason. It is as if he sees everything about me, that I am entirely laid bare. It’s terrible, but also incredible; he’s really looking at me. Perhaps he sees something — perhaps … perhaps…

Then;

“Timmy, I will take a woman tonight. Most straightforwardly, it will be you. I am rather demanding — but I pay very well, of course” — his voice was as normal as if he were announcing his choice of dinner menu.

He smiles, a genuine smile, friendly even, and in spite of myself my heart does a little leap — he’s suddenly dreamboat material. But that’s not the point! He’s just asked me … asked me to, well …

“What do you say?”

I can’t speak for a few seconds, for the conflict of emotion in me, then it bursts from me;

“I’m not a whore!”

I sound shrill, girlish, panicky — not the suave, ‘in control’, ‘Parisian woman of the world’ Timmy, after all…

Karsh though, is as relaxed and assured as ever. He waits a couple of beats, letting the sound die away, waiting, making sure I am done. And I am — I should say more, I know, but somehow there’s nothing there. The initiative is his, once more. As always.

I am uncomfortably aware of a tingling at my breasts, in my loins. The knowledge that he wants to fuck me, no matter how weirdly announced, has ignited something in me, and I know that I want him, at some animal level at the very least. I want him to fuck me; put those hands on me, hold me…

“You are avoiding the issue. I am uninterested in your status, or what you have done before.”

He’s like my most annoying professor — having asked a question, he does not repeat it — just requires that you answer it, stick with the issue. It’s a trait I have admired, but now it’s like being forced to confront something you don’t want to acknowledge. Somehow though, his calm assurance is working — I’m relaxing. After all, he’s not offered me violence, or even persuasion. I can answer the question, can’t I?

Or can I?

It seems not; “Um…” is all I manage.

Why can’t I just say no? Do I want to be his whore? No — No! Well … at least I think I don’t. Of course, I must think I don’t want to — I’m a modern woman after all, and I hardly know this man…

On the other hand, if nothing means anything, and if I slept with two strange boys on two consecutive nights just days ago, for no result at all, why shouldn’t I sleep with this man that is beginning to fascinate me, and get paid lots of money, too?

“Ahhh…”

He grins, amused, it seems, tolerant, unconcerned.

“Very well. You have half an hour. After that I will dismiss you — call the chalet company, and call Ninotsch — he will find someone. Don’t worry, you will be paid for your two weeks in full, with a tip — you have been excellent. But I would like you to know that I hope you can say yes. I am interested to fuck you, and bite your pretty breasts. I bite hard; it will hurt you — you would remember me …”

He looks at me, his gaze light, but again I feel as if he sees right into me. I’m shaking. How can he just — just say things like that?

And then, having seen enough, he turns back to his screen, and his attention is gone from me. I’ve been dismissed. I almost collapse — it’s physical, that hold he has.

Somehow, I walk from the room with the dignity I can muster. I have no confidence at all that he even notices. I am walking with my feet on an imaginary line, like a catwalk model. I want him to like my bum, see it move. I feel pathetic; I feel exalted.

I feel completely torn by conflicting emotions of all kinds.

I curse myself. How, how could I let him do that corny ‘dismissal’ trick on me, and just leave, so meekly? Why didn’t I tell him, right there and then, what I’m going to tell him, what I must, right now, march back in there and tell him — to go fuck himself, and his chalet, and his money. Fuck being paid, I’m calling the police, asshole!

My indignation and bravado lasts about 5 seconds before I grimace; who am I trying to kid? The chalet company, the cops here, the other girls — the whole town knows the score, and I do too. Nothing is going to do much more than ruffle his feathers, and if I try, it will be me that ends up in the slammer — not charged, of course, just ‘cooling off’.

So, pack my bags then, slink off, tail between my legs. Hope he’s straight about the money, accept it as just another sign that the universe thinks nothing of me. Carry on with the nothingness. What does it matter?

Well, if I’m going to do that, I may as well use that swanky bathroom once more, and put on my most ‘fuck you’ Parisian get-up, and try to leave in style.

I blink back sudden tears, and start up the stairs, feeling unaccountably weary, despairing.

In my room, I force myself to get a grip. Who is he, this Russian, this nouveaux-riche, arrogant, selfish pig? Away from him, I am able to whip up the anger and affront enough to get me through my packing, and twenty minutes later, I sweep down the stairs, bags packed, half expecting (hoping) to find him in the hallway, ready to make one last try at convincing me, so that I can reject him, magnificently.

Nothing — In fact, I can hear him on the ‘phone in his study, sounding completely normal, as if nothing has happened (I soon realise that, for him, this is true — nothing at all out-of-the-ordinary has happened).

I haven’t thought this through, I realise. How will I leave? No helicopter for me, no taxis here — I need the snowmobile. And I know that there’s no way they will send it for a few hours — the guy is busy doing deliveries all day, and they won’t prioritise a silly chalet girl who is causing them trouble by resigning.

I’m quivering with rage. I tell myself it’s rage. But the real reason, that I can’t acknowledge, is that I’m quivering because I want to stay. Because I want him to want me to stay. Because he said that thing. Because he said that he is ‘interested to fuck me and bite my pretty breasts’.

He’s interested in me. Nobody else is — not in me as me — only in me as a future success, as a future source of pride, as a future vehicle for the family esteem. My tits are me, just as much as my capacity for careful linguistic sophistry, surely? More so — more authentically so, for sure.

And no-one, no-one, has ever said that they would like to bite them before.

There are tears in my eyes. I don’t want my breasts bitten — not hard, anyway. But I do, I do, desperately want someone to want me — want me for me.

I don’t know how long I stood there, but I am fairly sure it went past the half hour. Efficient as he was, he was never, in my experience, a clock watcher, never interested in detail, only in outcomes that satisfied him.

It became ridiculous — I couldn’t leave, I couldn’t go back upstairs, and I especially couldn’t go into the study and confront him, so there I stayed, trembling, in an agony of impossibility, fighting back tears, hating myself.

Eventually, I couldn’t stand in my heels any longer, and I wanted to sit — but of course I had decided to leave, so sitting on a chair was out — such is the ridiculousness that emotional turmoil can lead you to — and so my compromise was to sit on the stairs. Definitely leaving, any minute.

And then, at last, he was there, smiling — really smiling, no sardonic grin this time. And his voice was soft, almost kind;

“My my! I’m impressed. Quite the smart Paris woman — you look years older, more — more serious … almost scary. Almost too scary. I am more interested to fuck you than before, I think. And now I will.”

And without any fuss, while I stood there, as if frozen, he began to unbutton my chic little jacket — and then it was gone. And then my tight skirt with its clever kick pleat — also gone, leaving me in my lingerie. I had, for some reason, put on my most fussy and fancy pieces — things I wore, like secret armour, to important interviews and the like, where they helped me feel remarkable, special.

Now, though, in the presence of a man who probably owned a few lingerie businesses just for access to the models, the effect was different. Everything about them said ‘expensive whore’.

So it was a surprise when, disarming me completely, he laughed;

“My little Timmy, you amaze me! You bring these, to a ski chalet! And you not a whore!”

His smile again made it clear that he knew for a certainty that I was no whore, and now, now I gave in to him. In a voice that was not much more than a whisper, and embarrassingly intense, I heard myself say;

“Nothing … nothing but the best for … for you, sir.”

Intended to be some sort of kickback, carry some sarcasm, or at least irony, it came across as utterly sincere — a submission, an offer, an invitation. I heard it like this myself, and the sexual heat was ignited in me again, and my chest swelled as my pulse rate jumped, felt myself flush hot, pink, felt the softness flow into my joints.

And he clearly understood, and took full advantage of the invitation, smiling at me, making me melt, one hand confidently coming to my sex, thumb mashing into my clitoris, making me gasp.

“Take off the pretty bra, Timmy. I have a fancy to see you always in such finery, and until you start spending my money, I assume you have no more, so I won’t ruin it this time. “

“That’s it, hands behind your head now. These are good tits, girly, not bad at all — just what I like to get my teeth into …”

And with that he bit down, hard, onto my right nipple, carefully savage, making it hurt, holding me, gauging how I held myself, too, he told me later. And I did. Hold myself. Hold myself still so that he could hurt me. Hurt me for the first time.

And it did hurt; I cried out in frank, undisguised dismay, and he laughed into my soft flesh, and twisted his head, pulling off me without releasing his jaw, making me yell.

He was for real; he was what he said he was. He meant something. I was putty in his hands from that moment. So many boys had said brave things to me — trying to impress me with their manliness, their power. All of them — but all of them, these boastful ones, had failed to follow through. And here he was — going far beyond anything I had imagined possible, with complete casual assurance.

Yes, he was hurting me, and it was shocking and outrageous, but also, he was here, he was real, and he wanted me.

Somehow, my hands were still behind my head, my thighs open to the hand foraging at my sex. Hot tears were on my cheeks, and I was sobbing, close to hysteria, but moaning as well as he did gorgeous things with my clit.

And it went on from there, that afternoon, like nothing I had experienced before (or since, really — there is nothing like a first time); there was no hurry, no pressure, no doubt, no question — as there had been with every sexual encounter in my life thus far.

On the other hand, never had there been such relentless control, such ruthless pleasure taking, such selfishness and greed, such a clarity that I was the vehicle for his pleasure, that I was his prey, his meat, his toy.

It was like being invaded by an army of such superior force that there is nothing to do but comply. Comply with everything, even though it hurt (which it often did), even though it be transgressive (which it often was), even though it required me to make it clear just how excited, or shamed, or agonised I was by so much of it.

I was like a rag doll. He bit my clitoris, hard, using his molars, until I screamed. He licked my sex until I melted, and screamed some more. He tied my elbows behind my back, my neck to a stairpost, and thrashed my breasts with a belt, until I nearly choked myself attempting to find a position where he could not hurt my nipples any more, all to no avail — screaming again, seeing him smile, feeling him looking at me in that way, seeing just what this was doing to me; nowhere to hide, more naked than naked, feeling that he was inside every conflicting, warring emotion that shook me, that he was playing me like an instrument.

He took me from half insane fear and desperate, animal struggling to eager, open invitation, from hot, harsh pain to urgent needy pleasure at his fancy, showing me how weak I was, how easily manipulated, how helpless in the face of even his most passing whim, laughing at me, grinning at me, watching me, caressing me, kissing me, forcing me, using me…

He moulded me into the most degrading position, face down on the marble floor of the hall, ass high, and wet his cock on my hungry sex for a few delirium inducing thrusts before pulling out and forcing my virgin asshole, enforcing my compliance with an iron grip on my wrists, laughing at my squeals of outrage, of hurt, of genuine fear, working himself relentlessly deeper, unstoppable, but at the same time casual, almost relaxed. He’d done this to many other girls, would do it to many more. Nothing would surprise him, or distress him — he was just having a little passing fun with the little chalet girl, who was nothing, nothing at all.

Gradually, though, he became more serious, his breathing harder, sharper, and, through the pain and the shame, I felt little bursts of pride and gratitude — I had given him this, he was taking it from me, enjoying me, letting me take him there, he wanted me, I was letting him, moving for him now, offering myself, opening myself, willing him on, to take me as fully as he wished, without restraint, my arms limp in his grip now, my belly quaking, soft sobs wracking me even as I strove to thrust my ass up to meet his strokes, letting him hear that my sexual tension was growing, even under this onslaught, the he was making me want to come for him, wanting him to know that about me, that he could do this to me…

Sated finally, after a shout of Russian as he jerked himself deep inside me, he pulled out and sat back, laughing softly at my weak, hoarse sobs, stroking my flanks, my breasts, until I moaned again, and at last turned to him in my need, desperately shy to be naked at that minute, feeling more vulnerable than ever before in my young life, more open, more known, all my secrets invaded, exposed, trashed, revealed as being nothing but baubles, girlish silly dreams. A whore, seeking his mouth with mine, opening my legs to his big hard hands, inviting him to my sex, to use it as he would, hungry for more of him, wanting the orgasm I had been so close to so many times, until he laughed out loud;

“Enough! Enough, slut! Make pancakes, good blinis. Then we will see if you can take any more.”

He watched me, still mostly dressed, as I, naked but for shredded stockings and high heels, made pancakes. Several times he put a hand in my hair, bent me over the counter and slapped me, hard on the arse, five, six times, making sure I was really hurting before releasing me, laughing at my meek acceptance, the way my tits bounced, the squeals, the urgent, sincere, humble pleas for release, for mercy — ignored, of course, as their very nature emphasised my abject acceptance of his right to do as he pleased with me.

There was no resentment in me, none. I didn’t enjoy the pain, didn’t want to be hit, but if he wanted to hurt me, wanted to see me cry, it somehow seemed impossible to refuse him, and I didn’t struggle. In fact I made efforts to look good as he slapped me, making sure my breasts swayed, lifting my bum for him…

I knelt for him as he ate the blinis, made love to his cock with my mouth, shameless, daring, doing everything I had never dreamt of doing before, delirious with the freedom of it. The freedom of being an acknowledged and obvious slut. A whore. Degraded.

He pulled my head off him, hand in my hair, hurting me, and said;

“I’m going to really beat you now, then rape you. After that, I’ll sleep. You will be beautiful again by seven, wake me with your pretty mouth soft on my cock. Breakfast ready for when Ninotsch arrives at nine, you will serve naked. After breakfast, I work, Ninotsch gets nice mouth and fuck, then make you scream again, hurt you, quick fuck before you make all nice again ready for kids. Ten thousand euros. Fifteen thousand if I’m happy with what Ninotsch tells me.”

And that’s exactly how it went.

He did beat me, thoroughly, strapped down over the table, his heavy belt on my arse and legs, me crying out my despair at being treated so, but not really struggling.

Then what wasn’t rape, since I had already consented, but which was carried out as if it were, ending with him coming loudly, deep in my pussy, a sound which somehow filled me with gratitude (even though he left me still without an orgasm, despite the sexual rollercoaster he had put me through), after which he laughed, untied me, tousled my hair, smudged away my tears with a big thumb, took me on his lap, facing him, thighs split wide, feeling like a little girl on his muscled, sinewed size, then kissed me softly and deeply, his tongue all over mine, until at last I sobbed; softly, this time, and held him tightly, desperately, sore breasts against the slick silk of his jacket — he was still dressed, while I was naked and sticky with sweat and come, trembling, lost, in shock, totally conquered.

He held me, gently enough, for a long time then, perhaps ten minutes or more, until the shakes had gone. I felt his cock stirring again, under me, and at the same time feared and gloried in it, and I moved for him, for it, using my buttocks to caress him, offering him myself for more, pushing my breasts at him, leaning my head back, feeling myself get hot and heavy, giving myself over to the feeling, the slutty feeling of blatantly doing anything you can to get a man to fuck you, until he laughed softly, lifting me effortlessly off his lap and placing me on my feet, swaying;

“Enough, slut. I have told you my plan. Go! Clean, chalet girl!”

And he went upstairs, laughing. I would have paid to hear more of that laughter. He had enjoyed me — me! Yes, yes he had used me abominably, but it was hard to believe that he wasn’t interested in me, me, Timmy; right now, right here; interested in using Timmy, in fucking her. In using her. And she was happy, happy to have been used.

An hour later, I was cleaning the kitchen, wearing the apron now, but still naked, moving slowly, my mind full of wonder and astonishment, half numb, half joyful, half fearful, feeling my body (principally its many pains — all inflicted by him, with intent and full knowledge that he was hurting me) as never before, inhabiting it. Feeling like a being. This was Timmy, this naked slut, sticky, bruising, bleeding a little, tender, puffy, emotionally washed out, conscientiously and thoroughly cleaning for him, while he no doubt slept the satisfied sleep of a man without doubts or unmet needs.

By the time I went to bed there was no evidence that anything had happened.

I woke from a deep and dreamless sleep — all but catatonic — without the alarm, at 5.30, and knew that something was wrong, something big, something overwhelming — but … what?

Then, with a shock, I remembered. Remembered with my mind, but also with my body — the slow heat of the hurts he had inflicted on me, and the intensity of the experiences, the unrestrained power and casual violence of his usage of me — of his coolly sadistic and total domination, of my abject submission.

Curling slowly into a foetal ball, I whimpered to myself, unable to comprehend the enormity, the implications, the dreadful reality of last night. it couldn’t be real — it was undeniably the most real thing that had ever happened to me. It was insupportable, outrageous, impossible. It was heart-wrenchingly emotional, an experience of deep, unmatched intensity, the only thing that mattered was getting more of that — all of these feelings were chasing each other round my head, until I dug my nails into my arms, keening wordlessly.

I couldn’t couldn’t have let that happen — crazy! Impossible! I mustn’t, must never, ever, go near him again, I must get away, now! Go. Escape.

Escape? Escape was impossible! And anyway, there was nowhere to go, no place else to be.

And I would die without him.

And then the tears came, soft at first, then stronger, sobbing uncontrollably, crying out, almost snarling at myself.

Rather suddenly, it was over, I was as weak as a kitten, quivering, still dripping tears, but softly now, softly.

Because there was no conflict, really, no decision to be made, no questions that needed answers. I was his. My freedom was gone. In some way, without detail, I knew, at that moment, my fate. My destruction. What I would lose, give away, I had already lost; somehow I knew that this was it, for me, now. Knew that my ability to resist, to fight back, was all but zero, knew that he had me, that I would give myself to him.

That I must work, work to make them interesting for him, keep him interested, be good tits, a good fuck, take the cruelty as prettily as I could — bacause there would be nothing else, ever, not for me.

It was terrible — like looking into a pit of black fire. But at the same time, in terms of practicality — what I would do next, it seemed alright. Easy almost.

And in a way it has been.

Easy.

Just.

Do what it takes to get them to fuck me, make them enjoy it, serve their pleasure, encourage them to do everything they have ever dreamed of, accept it with a smile, with grace, with gratitude, lean in, accept…

Easy? Perhaps, but oh, the cost, the cost…

Somehow I understood all of this at that moment, and wept for myself, for sweet, innocent Timmy, who was no longer relevant, except as something to be violated for passing entertainment. Which she would work for, sweetly and helplessly offer herself up for, would do her shameful best to make her destruction entertaining for her abusers.

A small, clear voice came into my head then, emotionless, certain, to tell me it was time, and suddenly there were no choices, no more time to think, to cry, to lament my loss, my end; I was up, focused, eager almost; showering, meticulously applying make-up, finding new stockings, the suspender belt, the heels, nothing else, and waiting at his door until seven on the dot.

Door opened, I couldn’t enter — a fit of the shakes, tears building. He was going to have me fuck his guy, then beat me again.

I tried for resistance, one last time — I didn’t have to put up with this!

It only made me smile, lopsided, at myself, and, with a sad little attempt at a laugh that felt like a sob, I was on my knees, crawling as elegantly as I could manage toward the bed, lifting my head, so, so nervous, trembling, desperate not to do anything but make him happy. Because he would hurt me? That had nothing to do with it — he was going to do that anyway.

No, I wanted to please him, wanted him to want me. I could do that, with my mouth, stroking him with my breasts, make my pussy available to his strong and greedy hands, offer him everything; reserve nothing. Keep nothing at all for myself. give myself up to him.

That was me, that was what I could do, and it was real; immediate, shaming, glorious, sweaty, harsh, painful, exciting. I was that. He wanted that. I meant something. I was grateful; eager; needy, helpless.

He came, deep in my throat, made me a twitching, struggling, gagging, sticky mess, stuff coming from my nose, his strong hands pinioning mine, knees clamping me, panic rising — I was choking. No release, no let up, not a millimetre, until he had absolutely finished with me, finished his pleasure, luxuriated in his absolute possession of my throat; then he casually pushed me to the floor, as ruined as a puppet with strings cut; shuddering, wracking breaths, feeling my breasts move, wondering if he’s watching them; hoping so, thinking; ‘I should open my legs, show him my pussy’ — and straightaway doing it, spreading myself wantonly, obscenely, obviously offering myself.

He leans over, lifts my head, hand under my chin, gentle, voice normal;

“You are very lovely, little Timmy. If you weren’t promised to Ninotsch, I would beat you now — whip these breasts with a cane perhaps, than rape you again. It is good that you make me feel like this. Very good. We will talk again next week. Perhaps I will keep you.”

And then he’s in his bathroom, and I’m slowly grinning like an idiot.

Smiling; crying, yes, but smiling. A stupid idiot girl, hugging her knees to her chest, feeling her breasts tingle, knowing without question that at some point he will do this thing — will beat her there with a cane, make her scream.

I’m sick, I think. Sick.

So what’s new? came the response — You knew that last week. Which is worse, that grey despair that was eating you alive, or this intensity, this wildness?

I already know the answer. But the thought of Ninotsch seeing me reduced to this, of having to kneel and suck him, let him fuck me, of knowing that Karsh knows he can tell me he’s going to thrash me and rape me, and that I’ll meekly perform for him anyway, that impossible, unbelievable knowledge is grinding away at my self-image. How can this be me, Timmy? Maybe it’s not me. Maybe I’m now someone else; a dirty, helpless whore, who gets hurt every time she gets fucked, and crawls back for more, pathetically desperate to please. Maybe that’s for the best. My pussy has woken up at the idea of getting fucked — powerful waves of sexual need suddenly possessing me — memories of the intenities of the night before, and I’m hot, tingling.

Christ, what has he done to me? What am I? Was I always like this, really?

As before, I am a quivering mess until it’s time, at which point something takes over, and I’m up, up, all doubts ruthlessly locked away; into the bathroom, cleaning myself up, lipstick, mascara, hair, all over again, find the heels, then heading for the kitchen, putting on the silly, frilly little apron which hides nothing but my pussy, and hardly that, getting the eggs, setting the coffee going, blinking back the tears, looking in wonder at the spreading bruise where his teeth were in my breast, less than 18 hours ago, rising panic at the sound of the door, Ninotsch talking to Karsh, coming into the kitchen. I want to die.

I also want Ninotsch to find me attractive, to want me, it seems, pathetic as that is, and so I turn, make myself smile, even though my lip wobbles.

It makes it worse that Nino looks decidedly uncomfortable — nervous even, not meeting my eyes.

“Tell Nino you’ll be good to him, Timmy — Tell him why. Make it good.”

Karsh is teasing me — he sees just how it is with me, the awful tension — and he’s enjoying it.

At that moment, I realise that it matters to me more than anything in the world that Karsh will decide to ‘keep me’ — whatever that means, I want him to want that. That the reality is, for me, that if he wants to, he probably can keep me, is in the back of my mind. I know it, but I can’t let myself know it.

But right now, I have to please him. I need to convince Nino that he really wants to fuck me — that I really am available. I need to please Karsh so badly it hurts, and so I will do this shaming thing;

“Ninotsch, If Mr Karsh wants me to please, you, I … I will do anything I can. I’m … bought and paid for, I’m yours for as long as Mr Karsh says so, and I’ll be what you want me to be.”

He’s still not convinced. I’m fizzing with contradictions, shame, a wild freedom at being so debauched, naked, being made to offer myself as a whore, obvious marks of cruelty on my body. That’s it…

“Mr Karsh likes to hurt me. So he does. I’m … I’m easy. A … A whore. You should fuck me hard; any way you like. You can hurt me too, if you like; make me cry.”

He’s reaching out to touch my breast, and I’m — just — holding myself open to his touch. He’s looking at me, wonderingly, but Karsh has other ideas, laughing at us;

“Later, Nino, later — plenty of time — you can rip her pussy with your dick after breakfast. Now, I need you to concentrate, yes?”

And we both obey our puppet master — me back to the stove, Nino to force himself to concentrate on the ins and outs of some new idea of Karsh’s, rather than in-and-out with me.

Nino’s reticence has faded by the time breakfast’s over. He’s impatient now, frustrated, and he holds my head in his hands and fucks my face, fast and selfish, then turns me round, pushes my head down, rough, and is on me, rutting into my pussy hard and fast, my breasts swinging wildly, and suddenly, unwantedly, I’m coming, helplessly, crying out wordlessly, jerking against him, wanting it, needing it, going for it …This tips him over the edge and he’s ramming himself deeper and deeper as he grunts his pleasure out in a series of dirty words in Russian.

I’ve lost all strength in my legs, and roll into a messy heap on the floor, apron rucked up, legs akimbo, his hot sperm cooling rapidly on my thighs, quivering and spasming. Sobbing softly. I am a whore now. A dirty whore. A dirty whore who comes for a stranger because it turns her on to be a whore.

This time the voice in my head takes over as soon as Nino leaves the house, whistling cheerfully to himself, manhood assured. There are only a few hours left until the children return (I’ve looked, the forecast is clear — they will be coming), and Karsh wants to beat me and rape me. Therefore, this will happen. What Karsh says, happens — I know this now. What Karsh wants from me, however appalling, however frightening, I will offer as sweetly and seductively as I can. I know this too.

So my only agency here is to make the experience good for him — make it enjoyable for him to thrash me, then fuck me. So that he will want to keep me, so that I will be validated, have some meaning, some purpose. Even if it is just to be his whore — the one he wants to keep.

It is as aggressive as the last time, and my conscious submission makes no difference to how much it hurts, how degrading it is to be made to scream, and struggle to hide from the cane; to writhe, and beg for mercy, to offer him my pussy, my ass, my mouth, anything; to whimper, to plead, even though he and I both know it will make no difference, that he will do exactly as he wishes with me.

He uses my ass again, hard, and the pain is indescribable — yesterday’s hurts are still fresh there. There is no pleasure, no hint of sexual fire in me. I’m just a beaten, fucked, whore, trembling and crying her shame naked on the cold marble floor as he walks away. No cuddles today.

“One hour” is all he says. One hour to become little Timmy the competent and contained chalet girl again, ready to feed his children, clean his kitchen, deliver his tea, somehow hold her emotions inside, manage to continue.

It’s the hardest thing I have ever done in my life. And I do it perfectly.

Read the next part of Timmy’s story