This is a new version of the older piece, with a revised second section, new pictures, and another part or two coming soon.
The ‘phone rang the next day.
“This is Mr Karsh’s assistant. Am I speaking to Miss S..?”
“Um .. Yes, yes, that’s me”
A weird flutter in my chest. He HAD been looking at me! Looking at my body, really. I had been a little shocked — such an eminent man. But it had been impossible not to notice. And I had been astonished to discover that I was responding, finding his rather crude attention interesting — flattering. I would never have expected myself to react like that! I kept cool — it was just an interesting sensation really, to discover that I could get flustered by the obvious attention of a rich old man — old enough to be my father.
We had spoken, a little — and he had been so direct, but without being anything other than charming.
“You have intelligence as well as a generous endowment of beauty, Miss .. ah?”
“Oh! Silk! Suky Silk.. Um.. Um .. thank you! I guess” And I found myself giggling in a girlish way, which surprised me — I didn’t normally find myself giggling in embarrassment. I tried to recover; “Although I’m sure you’re rapidly reconsidering.”
“Not at all, my dear Suky — you have nothing to prove — your question was interesting, and your beauty is evident to all — and much enhanced by your pretty embarrassment.”
He was patronising me so obviously, but so charmingly — I would have slapped another man — one my own age — by now, but instead I was smiling brightly at him, laughing with him, finding myself wondering if he liked my breasts, wishing I had worn something sexier. Thoughts alien to me and my understanding of myself, but there I was, and that was what I was most concerned about.
And here was his assistant on the ‘phone, telling me he would like to take me to lunch, and could I be ready in an hour!
And I was saying ‘yes’, and ‘thank you’, and, of course, I understood that he couldn’t collect me in person — he would send a car.
And then I was in a panic. Why had I said yes? What was I doing? What could I wear?
I could back out — just not answer when the driver called. I didn’t have to do this — I couldn’t do this — shouldn’t!
But two minutes later, I was in the shower, running through my small collection of outfits, deciding to wear jeans and a blouse, with flat sandals — pretty, but not too full on. That was what I was planning, and that is what I put on. And that is what I waited in, painting my toenails, wondering whether a little more lipstick would be a good idea (and deciding the answer was ‘no, too tarty’), trying on and rejecting a silly little fabric choker accessory that I had never ever worn — until the ‘phone ‘rang;
“Driver for Miss S..”
“Oh! Oh — okay … but .. but you’ll have to wait a few minutes!”
Because, in fact, there was only one possible outfit a girl could wear to meet a potential sugar daddy on a hot spring day, and that was her little summer dress with the button front, the flyaway skirts, and the low cut neckline. And so I changed in a panic, and was halfway down the stair when I realised I was wearing no panties — the ones that went with jeans no good. And I still had on the silly choker.
I felt the fear, but did it anyway — I didn’t dare be any later. To this day, I don’t know if I forgot them ‘on purpose’ or not.
I put more make-up on in the car — eyeshadow, mascara, two more applications of lipstick. I took the choker off. And put it back on again.
I hoped we wouldn’t have to walk anywhere — the heels that went with the dress were higher than I was used to, and the short walk to the car had been more than enough.
My heart was hammering as the driver dropped me at the door of a rather exclusive country club. I gave my name, and his, to the pretty receptionist, soaking in the quiet, elegant wealth of the place. I liked it. I liked it a lot — I was not used to luxury. I liked the way the staff were, too — not subservient, but utterly, professionally pleasant and helpful.
Not one of them looked at my legs or my cleavage — both of which I was terribly conscious of. Not so the other diners — I made quite an impression, it seemed — they were generally older, generally male, and obviously liked looking at me. I liked them looking, too I realised, as I made a superhuman effort to appear calm.
They could look, but nothing bad would happen. This was a place where privilege reigned, and I was with privilege. I could take the attention as a compliment, because I was safe with Karsh.
By the time I was led up to his table, I was a little flushed, but the knowledge that I had been assessed as a visual package and not rejected helped me hope that he would approve.
Because I needed him to approve. I had accepted a fairly functional invitation to lunch from an immensely wealthy and powerful older man whom I did not know. I had dressed in my sexiest possible outfit, put on far more make-up than normal. If I had read the signs wrong, or if he found me unattractive in the bright daylight, then I was going to feel very flat indeed.
He was not alone, but with another man, both in dark suits, but there the similarity ended. The other, introduced to me simply as “ Mr E..”, had a city tie and tight collar, under a shiny pinstripe suit. He was buttoned up in every way, although his smile was warm enough. He was clearly careful not to ogle me.
Karsh was himself, huge, heavy boned, but lean, with a bald head and a face that looked made of stone and whipcord, his eyes deepset but piercingly keen, with odd, pale blue pupils. His suit was expensive but also somehow earthy, his shirt open at the neck, over a red canvas cravat. His smile was easy, deep — I wanted to melt into it.
“Ah, Miss S .. Suky, may I call you? You are looking extraordinarily beautiful today — I am more pleased than ever that you have answered my invitation.”
I defy any girl not to react well to such a compliment from one of the richer men in the world — especially when she has put herself in such a vulnerable position as I. I melted with gratitude, at the same time as I turned pink. He had me conquered already, and probably knew it; he remains the most charming man I know — despite everything he has done to me since — and he played me so beautifully, it was a work of art. Even knowing what I do now, if he offered me the chance to change it, to have never met him, I would refuse.
But that day I just smiled and simpered as he flattered me as he introduced me to his companion, suddenly acutely aware of the feeling of nakedness between my thighs, unable to rid myself of the sensation that he knew.
He made sure I was comfortable, arranged more drinks, then apologised that he would have a little more business with E — did I mind? Of course not — I accepted the fact of waiting with grace — pleasure even — happy to show him that I was grown up, not a silly jealous girl who would sulk about such a thing.
Except that the wait was an hour. And yet, I kept smiling, telling him I was happy to wait, accepting another drink (I was keeping to cordial), until at last, E rose to leave. From the start, Karsh showed me my place — he has never lied to me, or tried to fool me.
Karsh was all politeness, then, but with an amused air that put me on my mettle not to appear in the least pouty. We ordered, and ate — although I hardly touched mine.
He found out a great deal about me, in a pleasant way — my humble background, dire shortage of funds, estranged family, on-off relationship with a lecturer — it was strange, but I happily told him all sorts of things. We got onto my PhD — he was, of course, knowledgeable and insightful, gently critical — I told him I was making very slow progress as I had to work as a waitress to earn money.
And all the time I was utterly, totally aware of my body — in a way I had never been before, considering every move, aware of his eyes on me — loving it, feeling electrically charged, tingling, sometimes breathless with it, hoping he could see that I was so very very eager to please — hoping at the same time that I wasn’t being too gauche, blushing, giggling sometimes in a girly way that was not normal for me.
And then he just came out with it, in a perfectly conversational tone;
“I’ve a room booked here for the night — in your name. I’d like you now, to ask me to take you to that room and fuck you — no holds barred. Later, I’ll give you a fair amount of money.”
I went white. My hands flew to my lap, my head dropped, I was trembling all over. He remained relaxed — interested, but not in the slightest concerned — how could he be so direct, so unabashed? ‘Men, they’re only after one thing’ — the old cliche — and here he was, being straightforward — he wanted me for sex. He was even wanting to pay me for it — to make me a whore.
And I was ecstatic — grateful! Any thoughts of principle, feminism, sensible thoughts about my future, were brushed away — he wanted to fuck me! I felt my cheeks heating up as the blood rushed back — from white to pink — he must have been able to read me like a book. For a while, I couldn’t even think, let alone answer, I was so shaky, but at last I knew I had to speak, and I was going to have to say that I wanted .. that. The voice that said No!, No! was small and instantly drowned out by a thousand others.
I managed a forced smile, and said, in a breathy, hiccupy sort of voice;
“O .. Okay — please .. I mean, uuumm, thank you! Yes.”
If possible, I went redder still, hearing myself sound so weak, so foolish, but he didn’t laugh, just smiled at me — and then it hit me. My absence of panties! I went pale again — I couldn’t bear the thought that he would think me a tart.
Again, the blush returned as I made myself speak;
“But .. but, there’s something I .. I need to tell you.”
I had his attention now — this was not in the script — until now, nothing had been a surprise to him.
“I’m listening”
“I .. I ..”, I found it almost impossible to say; “I’m not wearing any panties. I mean, I didn’t .. not .. I didn’t think..”
He laughed. easily, warm, reassuring;
“So, you come out for lunch with a sugar daddy, in a skimpy summer dress, and leave your panties at home — and now you expect him to believe you’re not a whore?”
I was mortified, flushed deep red, felt I must get up and run, but he left it for a second, before saying;
“Child, I know that you are no such thing. You are a lovely innocent, and I shall take the nakedness of your pussy as an offering from the gods — I like the idea enormously. In fact, I will set you a rule — you may never wear panties in my presence — or, indeed, trousers, shorts, anything with a crotch, understood?”
I stared at him, open mouthed, my heart hammering, my pussy on fire. How could he do this to me?
“Then, any time I see your pretty mouth, I will know that the other hole — holes — are available to me also — available for me to use — to fuck. Available to my cock. How do you feel about that?”
This was appalling — how could he talk to me like this? He wasn’t whispering, although I doubt anyone heard him, the tables were spread so far apart. But to say such things — to talk about my pussy as a hole, about using it. But I was quivering with desire, trembling, wanting him so much.
I knew I should leave, should run away. A man like this, so rich, so powerful, so at ease — he must have done this many times before, with many other girls — I was a fool to have come — I MUST leave. Now!
Instead, I looked up, briefly made myself meet his eyes, before I lowered my head, ashamed, frightened — realising what he must have been able to see in my eyes — the need, the want, the excitement, the eagerness to have him do what he wanted with me.
I heard myself say, almost whispering;
“I .. I’d like that. For you .. to know that.”
He reached across, lifted my chin on a forefinger, his smile gone, his mouth gentle, but serious;
“So that’s a rule for you now — no panties — ever. And if you’re with me, your holes are available to me — to my hands, to my cock, to a snooker cue if I want to push it into you. All your holes. A simple rule, without ambiguity, without flexibility. An absolute. Do you understand? Do you accept? Is that what you want?”
I was mesmerised; a headlight-caught rabbit. No-one had ever talked dirty to me before, and he did it with such lazy authority, I was lost in it, ecstatic.
“Yes — yes, I do.”
“Happy?” He smiled again, and it was like the sun coming out.
It burst out of me, I was smiling too; “Yes! Yes, I am.” Wondering at it.
“Good girl. Now, go to the ladies and take off your bra — put it in the rubbish — you’ll have new lingerie in Paris this weekend. Oh! I forgot to mention Paris didn’t I? I have another speaking engagement there (he was promoting his new book) — but I plan to stay three nights. Do say you’ll come.”
Somehow, a spark of reason found its way into my head, and I managed to say, in a calmer, steadier tone;
“Look .. I .. I’d love to .. to go to Paris with you — go .. go to bed with you — go anywhere with you! But .. but I’m frightened — this .. you .. I’ve never ..”
He took my hand;
“Of course you’re frightened — you’re far from being a whore — you’re a lovely young innocent, and I’m a whirlwind. I am, though a powerful and jealous whirlwind. No-one hurts what is mine, and I look after my people. Nothing will happen to you that you haven’t asked for. If you’re ever unhappy, just say ‘stop’, and it will end.”
I looked into his eyes and knew him to be sincere, and I melted all over again, feeling a foolish, slap-happy grin spread across my face; uncontrollable, feeling myself loosen up all over, fuzzy, warm sensations tingling through me. How had he done this to me so effortlessly?.
“But until then, I’d be better pleased if you would attend to my wishes — I dislike repeating myself.”
And he smiled again, taking a little of the sting out of this pointed remark, so that I found myself smiling cheekily back at him, and, rising, leaned over to whisper in his ear;
“Your wish is my command, O Master!”, and walked as sexily as I could to the lobby.
It felt much less exciting, removing my bra in the WC cubicle, and some of those harsh, crude words echoed in my head. To be naked under that skimpy dress was feel very naked indeed, and my nipples poked rather obviously at the gauzy fabric.
Now was the time to leave, away from his magnetic presence. But the thought terrified me — this was it — my one chance — I would never meet such a man again, never have such a chance to see another life.
As I walked back to his table, it was clear that some of the other diners had noticed a difference — and indeed my proud breasts (remarkable seeming even to me, they had been so late flowering) were very obviously free under the little dress, jiggling and moving as I walked, my hips perforce swaying above the high heels.
And they liked it — I heard a few sotto voce growls of approval, and I was pink, but pleased as I sat down again, only daring to meet Karsh’s eye for a moment, but pleased to see approval in his eyes as well — pleased and relieved, as insecure as ever, as needy for reassurance from others — my habit of feeling insufficiently attractive having been set in my early teens, when I had been tall and skinny and spotty, beset by ugly glasses, bad haircuts and cheap, style-less clothes.
“You have great tits, pretty Suky. Now, you will please undo two buttons at the top, and two buttons at the bottom of your dress, and cross your legs. Then remove that delightful little choker and use it to tie up your hair — I want every man in the room to recognise how glorious you are, how lush.”
My mouth fell open, and I laughed in shocked surprise, but I was happy, I quickly realised.
Really; happy to have been asked to do this thing, happy to do it, happy now to look him in the face as I performed the tease — not trying to hide what I was doing, or flaunting it — jut slowly and deliberately undoing buttons, shrugging my shoulders so that the dress fell open, crossing my legs so that my thigh showed pale, feeling my breasts move as I raised my hands to untie the choker, lifted, vulnerable. The choker dropped on the floor — I wasn’t sure if it was deliberate on my part, or if I just fumbled, but as I bent to pick it up, I felt my left breast sway free of the dress — and I made no effort to rescue the situation, only to make sure he had a good view.
Failing to secure the scrap of cloth, I went down on one knee, now perhaps showing him my pussy between my splayed thighs. Standing, it became clear that several other diners had also seen something of this. I blushed, but sat down casually, and only then flicked the blouse of the dress back over my errant nipple.
I continued with the business of tying my hair up aware that four or five pairs of eyes were lapping it up, but not caring — as long as he was happy — and in fact, I felt like a million dollars, having performed such a blatant bit of exhibitionism — something I’d never have dreamt of until that moment. And Karsh did seem to have enjoyed the whole thing, smiling as he sipped his brandy.
“Would you flaunt yourself so, I wonder, if you thought that I might offer you, offer your holes — to any of these poor men you have been teasing?”
My answer was automatic, obvious; “God no! You couldn’t do that! You wouldn’t!”
Strange, how I now accepted him using that awful term ‘holes’ — I had been meaning to tell him enough was enough with the dirty talk — but it never happened.
In fact, the first time he called my sex my ‘pussy’, I was almost hurt, and said to him, only half joking; ‘Sir, as long as you want me, it isn’t a pussy, it’s a hole, and it belongs to you, not me. And I’m still waiting for that snooker cue.’ which was a mistake, as I spent an hour making myself come for him that night, one snooker cue in my ass, another in my pussy.
I have never dared cheek him since, although I have several times begged him to use the snooker cue on me again — and he has once agreed: making a show of my wantonness for three yakuza he was entertaining — I made it last half an hour, even though I was ready to come after 5 minutes. They were terribly cruel to me that night, and he watched, waiting to see when I would say ‘stop’; I didn’t, although I had nightmares for weeks afterward.
“Oh, wouldn’t I? I enjoy watching a pretty girl being vigorously fucked as much as any man. Have you ever had two at once? Three?”
I think I managed to sound convincing as I yelped “No!” at him, but a shadow had come over me, as I remembered the night J. had tried to get me to let his friend join us, how I had argued, pleaded, naked and sobbing — how close I had come that night to being raped.
“Well, never forget that I like your innocence — if you come over all tarty, you’ll find I treat you like a tart. I’ll be the one to corrupt you, when and how I wish.”
I felt like dying — to incur his displeasure was like a physical pain in my chest, I was insanely terrified that he would simply get up and leave;
“Sorry. I’m .. sorry. Please! please .. I’ll be what you want — if .. if I do anything wrong, just tell me. I .. I really want to be — to do .. .”
He smiles;
“Just me today, pretty — don’t worry. Now, I want to hear you ask me to fuck you. I want to know that you are happy for me to be utterly selfish with you — to give me your consent — once we stand up from this table, I will do as I wish to your body, your holes, for my pleasure, so please, tell me you want me to make free with you.”
And now I wanted this too, as much as he, but it was so hard to say, to tell him I wanted him to be rough with me, if that’s what he wanted. But I did it, blushing mightily, but looking into his eyes, showing him I was sincere, meaning it — wanting him to know I wanted it — telling him he could use me as he wished.
He stood, held out his hand, rather formally, and I took it, and he walked me gently out to the reception area. I felt like a queen.
In the lift, he pushed me to my knees with one hand on my shoulder and had me take his cock in my mouth, which I did willingly, licking him greedily, eager to please, as he pushed the dress down, off my shoulders, baring my breasts, not allowing me to cover myself as we walked along the corridor to the room. I couldn’t stop smiling, laughing, finding it all so wonderful, new, exciting; loving his hand under my skirt, fingers in my wet pussy, every step working him further into me. Into my hole. One of my holes.
Once in the room, he had me strip for him, and I danced for him as never before, my desire and excitement trumping my embarrassment, my inhibitions, until he took my wrist and threw me onto the bed, grasped my other wrist, immobilising me face down, half suffocating on the bedclothes as he pushed into me, and I was ecstatic, despite the hovering panic, pain and fear.
He had incredible stamina, and took me three or four times, I can’t remember — in different ways, and bit my proud breasts leaving angry marks, crushed my clit until I squealed, and pumped me slowly until I begged without inhibition for him to fuck me harder, harder, harder. I spent an age on my knees sucking and licking his cock, loving it, worshipping it, until he was hard again, and I begged him to use me like a sex toy, to do the dirtiest things to me, and he took my virgin arse without ceremony, holding my wrists hard again — a prisoner; and I moved for him, all through the pain, to serve his pleasure.
Afterwards I slept a little, and when I woke, he had tied my ankle to the bedpost. He grinned at me, showed me his hard cock, and I asked him simply;
“Which hole, sir?”, then meekly and prettily presented myself on all fours for him when he said, softly, “whichever will hurt the most”, and I mewed my pain, ten times worse this time, but still I moved for him, and rejoiced as I felt him spurt inside me.
He explained he had to leave me then, which made me cry again, but he assured me I would see him at dinner. The driver would collect me once again. He had made an appointment for me in the hotel’s beauty salon — full depilation to my legs, armpits, brazilian, to leave only a ‘landing strip’ (shaved, not waxed, so that I would be smooth for him). Manicure, pedicure, haircut and set, ears pierced.
He had sent my dress to be laundered.
“In the meantime, you’ll just have to manage with the sheets. Room service will be up in a minute with some bananas and a laptop. Look up some helpful guides — I want you to practice taking a cock deep into your throat — overcoming the gag reflex. Do it in front of the mirror. I’ll test you later.”
And that’s what I did for the rest of the afternoon; answered the door to room service naked apart from a towel; looked up deep throat tutorials on the internet; practiced deep throat with bananas, and spent two hours being beautified.
I was glowing the whole time with ludicrous honeymoon happiness. I had no illusions at all about a future with Karsh, but I was ecstatic about the present.
Every doubting thought I had, I simply squashed it.
His chauffeur collected me at 6, wearing just my dress. He brought new heels with him — at least 3” — I was going to need more practice to become elegant.
I was so embarrassed to be with someone on his staff — someone who must know exactly what was the situation with me — had probably seen scores of other girls in similar circumstances — in short I felt like a tart, which made perfect sense, I realised, as that was exactly what I was.
He took me to a staggeringly expensive looking apartment block, where I was met by another flunky, a woman, older — more blushing and inability to meet eyes from me. I was finding the ramifications hard to take — wishing it could just the two of us, but realising that was highly unlikely with a man like him.
And having that truth rammed down my throat, shortly afterwards, when, on being shown into a huge and swankily appointed study, I found him with two other men of middle age, all of them in shirtsleeves, just coming to the end of some discussion, it appeared.
“Ah!”, he said; “The new girl!”
Had he really forgotten my name? Of course not, he was being straightforward as usual, letting me know what I meant to him.
Did I mind? Of course I did.
Did I turn on my heel and leave? Of course, I did not.
Instead, I walked as sexily as I knew how on the seriously high heels toward him, smiling and blushing, taking care, too, to smile at the other two, to show that it was alright with me if he didn’t know my name, that there was no reason to disapprove of him.
“Come, pretty — she’s called Suky, by the way — sit on the stool over there and look decorative; smile at my associates nicely please, while we finish up.”
And that’s what I did for 20 minutes. Sat, and smiled, and blushed, happily, perfectly understanding that I was being displayed as a trophy of power, and enjoying it!
I found myself playing little tricks, wondering how much I could wriggle before the skirt rode up and showed my naked pussy — until I remembered he his threats if I behaved tartily, and blushed some more, sitting up stright, self-consciously pulling the dress down, making myself more obvious still.
And I giggled and blushed more when he said, as they were finally leaving;
“What do you think boys? Gorgeous, isn’t she?”
Amazingly, I was completely happy to have these strangers, older men, assess me entirely as a visual object, found myself smiling, blushing, bobbing a mock curtsy for them, knowing my breasts would move freely, twitching the skirt hem a little — playfully provocative, accepting their comments happily, astonished at myself, but so grateful to be in Karsh’s presence, to have him pleased with me, that I would probably have taken my dress off and let them both fuck me, if he had asked. But that came later, of course.
I turned to him as they went, heart hammering, eyes shining, ready to go down on knees to offer him my new skills, remembering what he had said.
Instead, he took my hands, looking into my eyes, and kissed them both;
“You look glorious my dear. Please, forgive me for not being ready for you. I have to change. Please, have a look at this — I would be interested in your comment. Excuse me.”
And he kissed my hands again, then left me.
I looked at the papers he had given me. It was a draft of an essay — an essay in a field close to my own. It was fascinating, deeply researched, groundbreaking, in a small way. I was shocked by the change in attitude that was required to even focus on the material — even though it was so familiar to me.
I had read perhaps two-thirds of it when he returned;
“Well?”
“I .. It’s .. it’s very powerful; there are some .. wonderfully sharp insights.”
He laughed; “Well, I am something of a dilettante, but I believe it may have some value — don’t worry — I’m not going to quiz you! Instead, I bring you, these. I hope you will wear them for me this evening.”
A jewel box; inside, a black choker, with a row of white pearls, and earrings to match.
“For you”
He helped me on with the earrings, sympathising as the new piercings sting me, but not stopping, then on with the choker, adjusted it until it was snug.
And the evening just went on like that. A wonderful box at the opera, followed by a simple but exquisite and very expensive meal at a small and quiet, but very exclusive restaurant. I felt, again, like a queen. He wasn’t lover-like, or fake, just excellent, intimate company, and it was me who, feeling a rush of gratitude and a deep need to make him understand how utterly I was prepared to give myself over to him, changed the mood;
“Please .. Can .. can I say .. something — about Paris?”
His eyebrows raised the tiniest fraction, causing ridiculous panic in me;
“Of course.”
“It’s just .. I mean .. ..”
I sopped, in confusion, feeling ridiculous, but knowing I had to say it.
“Take your time” He smiled. God but he was so wonderful. Suddenly it was easy. I was almost fierce;
“I should .. never .. have questioned you. I don’t want to .. ever .. question you again. Please .. I .. I understand just how — lucky — I am to have .. any attention from you at all. I don’t know how … it .. it was rude .. ungrateful. You don’t know how .. how completely wonderful everything .. everything about today has been — for me. A .. a beautiful — wild — dream! And .. and it’s because I let you. Let you, gave myself over to .. to your plan. Everything. And .. and you .. everything..”
Here I was overcome by deep blushes and breathlessness, as the remembered sensation of being fucked so hard, so completely, so incredibly, came over me as if it was now, and I couldn’t speak for a second — or twenty..
And with his perfect judgement, he simply waited, letting my mood persist, waited for me, attentive, interested, calm. It was like being put on the spot, and it was like having the attention of a genius softly focused on me — I was at the same time terrified, flattered and all gooey with the sweetness of it..
At last, I managed to control myself — smiled stupidly at him, giggled like a ten year old, and managed to speak again;
“What.. what I want to say is; please — you don’t ever need to ask me again. Just .. just tell .. tell me .. Tell me what we’re doing; what you prefer, and .. and I’ll be there. Because .. because, it’s like .. like I said before .. only .. only it’s not a joke. Your wish is my command. Sir. It .. it’s true.”
And here I blushed, because I knew how deeply I meant this, knew that he could see it, and also dimly understood how vulnerable I was making myself.
He smiled, letting the silence hang, letting me calm down. Gorgeous. He handled me so well; made me feel so safe, so free. I could be as weak as I wanted, because he was so sure, so strong, so certain, so full of willpower. I didn’t have to try, didn’t have to manage myself, didn’t have to worry about the way the world was, my place in it, how I ought to be.
With him, all that fell away. I had to be what he wanted — me, but not my inhibitions, not my neurotic constraints on myself, habitual, fearful. He wanted me as I had never been — sexual, open, interested, fuckable, hot. Excitable, willing, uninhibited…
It took a while for me to calm down. I wanted him to fuck me again, right there. In the arse again if he wanted to, no matter that I hurt so badly there already; I wanted to feel his weight on me, his hands controlling me, his occupation of me.. It felt so good to have said that to him, to have told him how it was..
Only now, now I began to wonder if I had gone too far, said too much, overdone it, and I peeked up, shyly, having exposed myself thus, so, so shyly now, needing to see what was in his eyes.
Ha caught my gaze, his face almost expressionless, open, until I sank into his eyes, calmness entering me. It was Ok, it was going to be alright, I hadn’t fucked up.
At last, he spoke, and his voice was calm, normal, clear, so much power in it;
“Thank you, my dear; very prettily said. Your apology is unnecessary — for you can do nothing wrong with me. Please — feel free — be yourself. I will get what I want, never fear.”
And now he grins at me, slow, and wide, inviting me to know that he understands that he will carry me with him, whatever it is, that he will never even break a sweat, doing so — that he is sure of me. The smile is wolfish, greedy, relaxed. He is letting me know that for him, I am easy, that it doesn’t matter what I do, how I react, he is certain that he can handle me. And it’s another version of being held. Overpowering me mentally, just like overpowering me physically, is rude, aggressive, domineering. And I melt into it, gratefully — a small voice inside telling me that this can’t go well, that this is dangerous, and that I ruthlessly suppress.
Whatever this is, I know that I want it, and so what if it is dangerous?
He continues;
“As to consulting you, again, I am pleased to hear that you feel as you do. It is what I expect — entitled as that may seem. But I have a little .. conceit; I always want my people to be — perfectly — obedient; but I require that this be of their own free will. So I shall continue to ask your permission, your consent. But I think we understand, don’t we, that the first time you fail to comply, to be wholehearted — to be pretty about it; sweet, eager, accepting, grateful, as you have been today in your submission to my wishes, that that will be the end of this. Do you understand? Do you consent?”
There are tears in my eyes at even the mention of an end, but I am already nodding and trying to smile;
“Yes, yes, of course — thank you, oh thank you for understanding!”
My pussy wants him then, my whole body does, and I try to let him see it in my eyes; shameless — desperate — eager.
He smiles, lazily, and I keep my eyes as open and inviting as I can.
After a pause, he speaks again;
“I should say that I’ve set a few things in motion, and that one thing I will be asking you to do is to complete your PhD, but in much better surroundings. We have a rather nice flat in C.., that you will be welcome to use — subject to a few requirements. And of course, as a personal research assistant, you will have a little salary of sorts — all this will be worked out. You may also be interested to learn that your lecturer — friend — has had an unfortunate encounter with some ruffians, and is a little the worse for wear — although perhaps his egotism will be be moderated. It may or may not surprise you to know that a little investigation turned up two other pretty students with whom he was spending time.”
It was incredible, the feeling of power and efficacy that radiated from him. I was, of course, officially shocked and horrified to hear that my lover had been beaten up (less shocked but genuinely angry that he had been seeing other women) — but I was also undeniably impressed — and liberated, too. I realised that some aspects of my work would be simpler now — now that I was only interested in impressing Karsh.
In any event, what did it matter what I thought? I blushed, and looked down, accepting everything by my silence, feeling his eyes on me. Embarrassingly desperate, suddenly, for him to want to fuck me, I faked a sigh to set my breasts moving, and looked up shyly into his eyes, hoping that he could read my need.
He caught my gaze in his, his eyes penetrating deep into me, and I felt myself weak, helpless, needy; I giggled, dropped my gaze, feeling utterly ridiculous, and then, needing to, I looked at him, tried to show him in my eyes just how desperate I was to please him, how completely he had possessed me. A phrase came into my head, from the Bible; “It is a terrible thing to fall into the hands of the living God”. I was shaking. He smiled a little at me, and I melted, smiling widely at him through misty eyes.
After leaving the restaurant, we walked a little way through the night, his hand gloriously on my bum, casually possessive.
As if by magic, we found ourselves in the warm, welcoming foyer of a small but obviously expensive hotel, where they knew him by name (it later turned out that he owned the place), and without formalities handed him a key to what turned out to be a magical suite on the top floor, with a view of the city.
I stripped and danced for him, slowly, as sexily as I knew how, without being tarty, trembling for him to like it, to approve, to want me, stroking myself; my breasts, my legs, my thighs, my belly, while he stood, mostly talking quietly on the ‘phone, arranging some business in China, he said, not always looking at me.
It was hard, knowing I was making myself so obvious for a man who had so obviously seen a thousand girls just as eager to please him, but I was still grateful to be there, accepted it for what it was, and that night began the dark journey which has brought me here, that proceeds as much inside my head as through the things I do, and that are done to me; I began to think of my body in terms of its appeal to another, began to value myself only in terms of my utility, my desirability — to him, and to seek always to maximise this.
Of course, that was just the beginning, but I began to love the idea that I was naked and displaying myself for him, and to think as best I could how he might want me, glancing up as he did now from his intense ‘phone conversation, me rubbing my hands slowly up my thighs, parting them, trying to convey just how ready I was for sex with him, wriggling my hips slowly as my hands passed over my hips and up my sides, crossing to cup my breasts, offering them to him, humbly presenting them for his attention, hoping he would find them pleasing.
At last, his call was finished, and he had me pour him brandy from the lavishly stocked bar, bade me kneel on a low table beside the easy chair, made it clear he wanted my thighs spread, me complying immediately, blushing, but embarrassingly eager to show him my pussy.
He reached out and caressed my breast. I sighed, so wonderful was this touch to me.
“Poor pretty Suky! I have hurt your lovely breasts today.”
The livid bruises can have come as no real surprise to him — he had bitten me so very hard, wrenched my breasts this way and that with his teeth and had no doubt done it to many other girls, but there was none of this in my voice as, after a silence I said, completely sincere;
“But .. but you .. you wanted to , didn’t you? Wanted to hurt me — there? Enjoyed it?”
“That is indeed true; I did, pretty; I wanted to see the pain in your eyes, wanted to see you accept pain from me without resistance, enjoyed the act of hurting your soft breast, enjoyed hearing the way you tried not to upset me with any rough cry of pain, but instead whimpered so sweetly — you are correct, yes — I wanted to hurt you. I am, in plain truth, an unapologetically sadistic lover. You will notice that although I empathised with the hurt you must feel, there was no apology. There will be none. And even the empathy, you will see, serves to remind me that I hurt you.”
I felt dizzy, hearing this — so gently said, so harsh the words, so searingly honest, so terrifying in their implications, so glorious to hear.
Glorious? Yes. That’s right; I could please him, just by simply letting him hurt me. I could do that — and he liked it; liked the way I had managed myself under the pain. I could please him — give him something that most girls wouldn’t.
None of this meant it wasn’t frightening — the thought of giving myself to a man who could so straightforwardly tell me that he was a sadist; for I certainly was not a masochist. Not then — and really, still not — although that might surprise you if you have seen me brought to racking, moaning orgasms under the whip. But I assure you that my nature is still my nature — whatever distortions my choices have led me to, however real my orgasms under pain, however much I dream about being subjected to cruelty, seek out cruelty .. . So much complexity..
But then, I had no idea, really, beyond these fears, of the reality this would mean for me. All I wanted was to please him;
“Well .. well then — it’s OK — no need to apologise. In fact, I .. I need to thank you. What .. whatever you want from me .. or .. or to do to me — is what I want too — offer myself for … aahhuuhooh..”
His hand had buried itself in my pussy and I was immediately on fire, hips surging, heart thumping.
I returned from Paris four days later, dressed in sexy, skimpy clothes that had cost more than my annual budget; my breasts bearing fresh bite marks, my anus torn and terribly sore, my throat raw from too much work on overcoming my gag reflex, and with a slow panic growing in me.
On the return flight I had finally had time and distance during which the tumultuous events of the previous five days had forced themselves into my mind, demanding consideration, review, reconciliation.
None of which I could provide. In the end, each increasingly fevered round of questioning, remembering, suppressing, agonising, blushing, squirming could only be resolved by desperate bouts of masturbation, from which would be wrenched an almost painful, shamefully debilitating orgasm, arrived at by concentrating on the most demanding and intense points of Karsh’s uses and abuses of my body, after which I would lose the ability to focus, find it possible — easy — to stop thinking, and out of which came an acceptance that this was simply the way things were with me — that as long as he wanted to use me, I would want him to be completely satisfied with the way in which I offered myself up on the altar of his whim.
I would lie back and deliberately, wantonly, open my thighs, lift my hands and tuck them behind my neck, spread myself, press my hips and breasts forward, offering myself to him languidly, dreamily, lustfully, even though he wasn’t there to see.
Of course, the acceptance didn’t last, would fade, or be shattered by some encounter with evidence of my former self that was incompatible with the situation.
Somehow, though, the periods of calm were enough to help me get back to work, and immersion in my work — which, after all, had been commanded by Karsh — was what helped best to hold self-examination at bay. And if, soon after stopping, exhausted, at some late hour of the night, I immediately showered and commenced to stroke myself, conjure up the jarring , exciting, all-consuming memories, then it was mostly possible to hold off the terrors for 24 or even 48 hours at a time.
The combination of money, allowing me to work when I wished, and the reality that work was the best way to avoid tormenting self-doubt meant that progress was better than ever before, and quality too — I found the need to continue to impress Karsh with the quality of my thought far more useful than the comments of my supervisor, who seemed a lessened man after his unfortunate encounter with city toughs and the uncomfortable revelation to more than a few girls of his simultaneous philanderings. At this rate, my PhD would be complete within a year.
As weeks passed, my time with Karsh increasingly took on the character of a dream — more and more unreal, although no less powerful — my habit of intense masturbation sessions and powerful climaxes had kept details of much of our time together very clear, without reducing their shock value one iota. I found myself growing apart from the world — no-one else, it seemed, had such intense experiences, searing memories that so consumed them — I certainly had never had such before Karsh.
Did I miss him? That was an interesting question. The intensity of my time with him had been glorious, exhilarating, wildly pleasurable, intoxicating — all of those things. At the same time it had at different times been frightening, shocking, painful, shaming. At others he had ignored me altogether, said very direct things when he disliked some expression or reaction, been abrupt, demanding, harsh — while at others the soul of charm, humour, delicacy, concern. In short, it had been by far the most challenging few days of my life — an intensity beyond anything else I had experienced.
Did I want to experience it again? Yes — yes, I knew that I did.
Did I miss him. Yes — yes , I knew that too.
But did I mind this period of peace — of time to work? No. No I did not. His presence was so powerful, so strong, that I never for a moment felt beyond his influence. Whether he was here or not, whether he called or not (he never did), whether I knew where he was or not (I rarely did, unless I succumbed and scoured the net for some mention of his attendance at some charity or learned function), whether I knew whether he thought of me or not (I never did), his presence was constant and unquestionable.
So much so that I never once wore panties or trousers, or anything that would have made access to my holes (as I now called them to myself even) anything other than easy for him.
I wore high heels even to write, only taking them off to bathe or sleep — higher now, so that I could walk elegantly (I practised) in 4” stilettos.
I exercised for him, too, concentrating on supple strength and leanness rather then definition, as I had learned this was his preference. I did kegels every hour.
I visited the same beauticians at the expensive hotel twice weekly, maintained myself as he had ordained.
I took larger bananas into my throat, for longer, rammed them more roughly. My gag reflex wasn’t going to disappear it seemed, as I had read that it did for some girls — all I could do was develop a tolerance for the intense distress it caused me, learn to accept the panicky certainty that this alien presence in my throat must, at all costs, be ejected, lest I die, and yet remain open, take it deeper, take it for longer.
He had told me, when I had suggested in Paris that I should perhaps buy some waterproof mascara, that he liked to see tear marks on my cheeks, and so I ritually put heavy mascara on before my practice sessions, and didn’t consider myself done until the stains reached my lips. My voice, when I used it (which was increasingly rarely, so much a hermit was I becoming), was often obviously hoarse, and I grew to like the sexy huskiness of it, and its absence a sign that I should push myself harder at my next session, which should be soon.
I ruthlessly disposed of every item of clothing I owned that I was not certain he would approve of, got rid of much more than those I kept. I spent more than I could afford of my allowance on ones I thought he would like. Shorter skirts, flippy ones, translucent blouses, chokers, heavy leather bracelets. I was in love with the version of myself that I felt he liked, and did everything to become that image.
His assistant messaged me one day and said that they had noticed I was buying lots of new clothes. Were they ones that Karsh would approve of? When I said yes, that I hoped so, she asked, would I send pictures? I took considerable trouble to dress up and get good selfies - she said the phone’s photos were accessible to her. The next week, the allowance was significantly increased, and I began to send new pictures - sometimes daily.
Those old friends I did see (I went out very little, pleading work when invited) noticed the change in me. A few approved, said how well, how lively I seemed. Others disapproved, silently or vocally, of my ultra-feminine, highly sexualised new look.
I dropped them.
Thus it was at once strange and also perfectly wonderful to hear his assistant’s voice on the ‘phone (the black, military-looking mobile I had been given — secure, I had been told, only to be used for Mr Karsh) — at once welcome and terrifying, exciting and disabling; after the days in Paris, I knew that she understood my position all too well. My nipples, sex, buttocks tingling, my heart tripping, chest tight, tongue tied, knees weak, I could hardly speak. My god, but this was powerful.
“Miss S? Are you there?..”
I had to clear my throat, softly, desperately; “Yes, yes, sorry , it .. it’s just ..”
“Yes, this is Suky.”
“Excellent. Can you, please, arrange yourself on your knees — wherever you are?”
“Um .. oh! Oh — yes — yes of course!”
Even that small evidence of non-instantaneous compliance had me jittery, and I rushed to comply.
“You are kneeling?”
“Yes, yes .. ahh?”
“You should call me Madam. Very good. Are you able to remove your skirt, open your blouse?”
Quicker, this time; “Yes .. Yes, Madam.”
“Now, your knees — are they as far apart as you can make them?”
“Ah .. ah — now .. now they are .. Madam.”
This was awful — I could feel hysteria mounting — nervous giggling threatening to break out, uncontrollably. To be spoken to so, by a woman I don’t know, to find myself so pathetically eager to comply, to make myself ridiculous, do this slutty thing; it set my heart racing — my cheeks were hot with embarrassment.
But there was no anger, no resentment, no thought in me of refusal. I was grateful — grateful for this evidence that he cared about me, had issued instructions for me — even if they were relayed through this unknown assistant.
“Very good. Please listen carefully. Mr Karsh is still in China. He says to tell you he’s sorry he can’t visit you at present, which he would like to do, but in the meantime, he has a favour to ask”.
“Of .. of course, yes.”
