This will make more sense if you have read the first part of Timmy’s story.
Well, near perfectly, anyway…
The following days were extraordinarily difficult.
The children were themselves, no problem with them, although they were a little less calm after visiting their mother, a little more liable to backchat their father, but nothing serious – nothing he couldn’t handle, for sure.
The routine re-established itself quickly and calmly,;no real trouble there either, although for me it became clear that something had changed. Where before I had certainly done my chalet girl job efficiently, with a good attitude, I had never really felt like a servant - I had been play acting at it, knowing that it wasn’t going to be my life; doing a good job of it more to prove something to myself than to serve others. This was possible because I knew that I could stop doing the job at any time, that it didn’t define me; that although I wasn’t in the billionaire class, neither was I born to be a maid.
Now though, the experience of having been so comprehensively, selfishly and thoroughly used and abused by Karsh, of cooking for Karsh, all but naked, my ass alternately swatted and fondled at will, of being offered to Ninotsch like a party favour, all this had changed things.
I knew, now, as a bodily experience, what it was to be in someone’s power, to serve because you have no option, to be consumed by the need to serve well, to satisfy, from a place of subjugation, rather than from self-motivation - and what it was like not to be in a position to trust your own judgement - when a capricious master is the only judge that matters.
I had learned what it was to be subservient, without even a hope of any consideration - let alone a voice - in matters that affected me deeply - such as being thrashed with a leather belt, or getting aggressively fucked in the ass.
This new knowledge made simple acts, like putting up a flask of coffee for the kids, or cleaning their ski gear after they’d come in, utterly different. Although on the surface everything looked much the same, my experience had been transformed. Any time I made some small mistake, nearly missed some patch of dirt, or realised that I had somehow only put one glove in the overnight dryer (did I mention that there was specialist drying equipment for every imaginable kind of outdoor gear - six or eight sets in some cases?) - each time, I felt a strong flash of fear mingled with excitement, as if a spanking or a beating were imminent, as well as the dread thought of incurring Karsh’s displeasure.
I said that everything looked the same, but actually, I’m not sure. Perhaps I was more obviously servile, less talkative, more attentive, more eager to assist with any little thing. A couple of times, for sure, this had been obvious, and the children had looked at me, puzzled, so that I retreated, blushing, or became clumsy, fumbled, humiliated. When Karsh was present, this was ten times worse, as he would laugh at me if he noticed. Not cruel laughter, but complacent - satisfied, entertained to see me so flustered. These moments were both distressing - as they made this new experience of servility harder to ignore - and delicious, as any attention from him was now at a premium.
Because my real problem was Karsh. Not that he behaved badly. The opposite, in fact – he paid me even less attention than before the kids had gone away – perfectly polite and pleasant when we interacted, otherwise ignoring me, except for those occasional signs that he was watching, that he understood all too well how it was with me.
This was terrible, because he, this man about whom I knew so little (I had googled him, but found very little, and then realised that Ninotsch probably ran checks on internet logs for security and quickly stopped trying), this man had become the centre of my universe, the axis around which my everything turned, the occupier of my thoughts, my god, my demon, my obsession. I wanted his attention, I missed it dreadfully, even though I had only experienced it for a few hours. Those hours had been the brightest, most alive hours I could remember for at least a couple of years, whatever else they had been.
Nevertheless I resented this annexation of my mind dreadfully, even as I was gratefully aware that thinking about him had displaced the previous default for my churning thoughts - the heavy fact of the pointlessness of my existence.
I couldn’t help it though; he filled my days, on every level.
Although a fair bit of this thinking was the fact that various parts of me hurt, or were so obviously marked that I had to take care to keep covered up, at least half of it, shamefully enough (gloriously enough..), was base desire. I wanted him. I wanted his hands on me, in me, his cock inside me, wanted to be naked for him, wanted to display myself for him (I had decided it would OK to use the internet to order more fancy lingerie, more obviously sexy stuff than my usual choice, hoping to please him), wanted to kiss him, lick him, have him maul my breasts; yes, even wanted to be spanked by him (even occasionally imagined him thrashing me again).
I had a hard time not doing anything flirty or tarty when we were alone, such as when I took his tea, or when he came into the kitchen while the kids were out. But he had made his rules both clear and firm, and disobeying him had become almost unthinkable, so that I managed, with effort, to hold myself in check, not look at him, carry on with my duties and try not to fumble (suffering his indulgent laughter at my clumsiness when we were alone was a special torment; at those times it took great effort not to simply fall to my knees, lift my skirts and humbly, desperately beg him to fuck me).
But there were other rabbit holes of Karsh obsession, too, dark and light.
The light ones were mostly magical thinking - silly fantasies of the ‘Beauty and the Beast’ kind - that he would find that what he felt for me was not transient lust and enjoyment in domination, but was in fact real love (so weak I was, so silly - so needy; poor little Timmy! So lost in an uncaring world. I can’t ever decide whether I am angry with her for being so weak that she delivered me to this fate, or sad for her that she could find nothing more fascinating than delivering herself to this fate); dreams of being installed by him in some Russian castle as his live in maid cum sex pet, living a life of pampered luxury in between exciting games of lust - the stuff of trashy erotic-romance novels, foolish beyond belief, but oh-so seductive, if I could but refrain from pricking the bubble of my own self-delusion..
Which mostly, I could not, thus ushering in the dark, when what filled my thoughts, what tortured me, was the question as to whether I would find myself living my life as some some kind of property, some sort of a slave - whether Karsh would simply choose to keep me; use his unlimited power and obvious ruthlessness to take ownership of me; simply disappear me. It had sunk in how little care he had for rules and norms, and how vulnerable I was, trapped there on the mountain top.
The question of whether I actively wanted him to force this dark future onto me was a second version of this worry. Had I really been ‘turned’ by 24 hours of intensity?
It should have been an easy question to answer - what kind of a person would actively want to be abducted and put to use as a sex slave? But however uncomfortable, however transgressive, however horrific, I often found myself imagining the scene, when, in a few days time, once the children had left to return to their billionaire class boarding schools, I was booked to remain at the chalet for the the following week, with just Karsh to look after (or would it be Karsh and Ninotsch? Just to be having to consider such questions was madness - utter madness!).
These thoughts tended to run along very dark lines indeed, as I imagined K, turning back from waving the helicopter off, simply grabbing me by the hair, throwing me down, violently stripping me and plowing my ass. Then, having sated his pent-up lust, he would fit me with chains and drag me into the chalet’s extensive cellar to thrash me with a horsewhip..
At this point, if I was alone, one hand would be at my crotch, the other grasping my breast, and I’d be bucking my hips and panting, so hot did this grim fantasy get me.
But then, within a minute or two there would come some call, some requirement, and I’d be straightening myself, putting my ‘efficient, unflappable, ever helpful Timmy’ face back on and preparing myself for duty, unsure whether I’d been rescued or cruelly distracted.
The third flavour of dark may strike you as strange - at least that I describe it as dark; it consisted of imagining my life should Karsh decide that he had no wish to keep me after his stay at the chalet was over.
Although in theory, this should have been the happiest imaginable outcome, the one where I escaped with some exciting, intense memories, but got my freedom back, in point of fact it was impossible for me to consider this without the deepest gloom and self-loathing settling on me.
Where, a week before, I had been ready to grit my teeth and return to university, have another go at coping with the meaninglessness, I now found this unimaginable, and would stray to dark thoughts of suicide, or deliberately addicting myself to heroin, or some other pathetic self-destructive cop out.
This, then was the routine of those days, which pressed in on me increasingly. One shocking incident broke in on it, and near destroyed me.
On the fourth day, the kids had gone out early, being taken by helicopter, long before the lifts began running, to some high and inaccessible point, from there to run many kilometres down to the bottom of the snow-line - some famous route that they had been talking about. They’d be gone all day.
I’d been up even earlier, of course, readying their gear and their supplies, and they had got off as planned. I was tired, both from the early start but also from lack of good sleep - strong sexual dreams kept waking me, to add to my disquiet. Karsh had gone with them for once, so that a quiet day was promised, with a late return - they were to eat in a fancy hotel restaurant in some old château just above the big town in the valley.
I was on my own in the kitchen, trying to be busy, trying not to think, when I heard someone come in, noisily.
A few seconds later, Ninotsch appeared, laden with gear - presumably for some new setup. He seemed confused to see me at first, then embarrassed, then far too friendly, stammering his false bonhomie, forgetting his English - fairly obviously unable to process what he had done to me only a few days ago, unsure how to interact with me now, and obviously desperate just to get away into the study to bury himself in work - some weird parallel of my own experience, I supposed, but I didn’t really care. I didn’t hate him personally, but the experience with him had been amongst the hardest to think about, these past days, and I wanted as little reminder of it as he seemed to.
I was glad when he went, and glad to hear the study door close - it was quite soundproof - perhaps I’d be able to ignore him, forget he was there.
Fat chance; just seeing him had brought every minute detail back; being presented to him, naked but for a scrap of an apron, high heels and stockings, cooking his breakfast, having to offer myself to him at Karsh’ bidding, tell him he could hurt me if he wanted, him forcing his cock into my mouth so clumsily, then me, orgasming for him, on my hands and knees, while being hammered from behind, like an animal …
My knees go weak, and I have to hold on to the worktop for a while, then get myself a glass of water, fighting back the tears, feeling my breasts swell, the nipples tighten, hating my reactions, hating Ninotsch (why not Karsh?), hating myself.
And then there was a sound, and I looked up to see Ninotsch, a strange expression on his face, walking quickly towards me, hand out.
Merde.
It was clear what he intended - no words were spoken, and it was also quickly clear, that I somehow lacked any will to defend myself, simply saying softly, ‘No, no no..” as he rather carefully unbuttoned my blouse, flipped up my skirt, pulled my brassiere up and my panties down, and opened his flies. Then he calmly hooked his right hand under my thigh, lifted me back onto the worktop edge, and stuck himself straight into me.
All this took perhaps a minute at most, during which time I was ineffectively pushing, slapping weakly at his shoulders, which he ignored; other than that I did nothing but plead softly and begin to weep. It had occurred to me that since he had been encouraged to use me the other day that this might be legitimate - that perhaps Karsh had told him I was available for fucking while the house was empty - perhaps I would be punished for resisting, perhaps I was supposed to be offering myself, opening myself.. I hoped that wasn’t so, but I wasn’t really confident - nothing that had happened recently followed rules I understood.
But as he entered me I knew, with shame, that he would find me well lubricated - the way my thoughts have kept running, I have been mildly aroused much of the time. Although I was touching myself a great deal, I had for some reason been unable to properly masturbate, so that the combination of constant dark sexual imaginings, regular self stimulation and no release had me mostly in a state of near readiness, which made it easy for Nino as he thrust away at me, going at it like a jackhammer, just as he had before, with no subtlety at all, just fucking my hole.
He was getting close, it seemed, from the grunting (this time, I was unmoved, accepting, but not responding), when there came new noises of arrival, voices.
Both of us froze for a second, then panicked; Nino pulled back, frantically attempting to put his large, stiff cock away, while I was buttoning my blouse, fingers clumsy in my frenzy, too many buttons, both of us almost comically trying to be silent about it, when the boy walked right in.
He saw immediately what had been happening, and stopped dead, looked intently at me for a few seconds, then down, which is when I realised that my skirt had not gone down when I’d flapped at it, and that my sex was on display, all pink and glistening, the pantie gusset pushed aside; his face reddened abruptly, then he turned on his heel and walked out.
Silent, assuming that I was done for, biting my lips to hold back hysterical tears, I continued to put myself back together, as did Ninotsch. What else was there to do?
The silence outside was ominous, but there was no shouting. Low voices only, and then someone going upstairs.
A few seconds later, Karsh came in. He looked quickly at me - now superficially decent - and then at Ninotsch. He didn’t look angry, particularly, but there was something cold about his eyes that I hadn’t seen before.
He spoke rapidly to Nino in Russian, rather low. I didn’t catch much - it seemed to be dialect, or slang. Nino went white, started to speak, but was silenced by a word and stood flushed, weak, obviously really frightened, working to keep control of himself.
There was a long silence while Karsh got himself a glass of water, his movements calm and perfectly normal; he drank, then turned to me and asked in a soft voice;
“What happened?”
What to say? Would he take his man’s side? I was temporary; a whore, effectively - would I be believed? On the other hand, if not the truth, then what? What was Karsh’ expression? What did he want? It was impossible to tell - he looked as calm as if he had been asking what was planned for dinner.
I on the other hand was trembling like a leaf, frightened, horribly ashamed, feeling unbearably degraded; I could hardly trust myself to speak at all - there was little chance I could invent some alternative version of the situation and in any case, why should I? Such are the weak thoughts of a girl who values herself at less than nothing.
He was waiting, not impatient at all. Ninotsch was watching me, fixated, white, his face working, obviously terrified. But I couldn’t save him - didn’t know how.
Just tell your truth.
“He .. came in, fast, from the study; didn’t, didn’t say anything, just, just started to undo my clothes. I .. I couldn’t .. couldn’t stop him; too, too weak, didn’t ..didn’t know if .. (it was so hard to say this, so hard..) .. if he was .. I I was supposed to .. if you wanted him .. to.. Then, then he was f-fucking me until we heard the door.. Not .. not long..”
There were tears on my cheeks now, and I felt like dirt. To say out loud that I had considered it possible that I had been assigned for use by Ninotsch, that I would have accepted such a thing if it had been true was entirely different from thinking it privately. I was ready to sink into the ground, to dissolve.
I had been staring at Karsh’s feet, but I had to brave a quick glance, had to know what was in his eyes. He was doing the looking through me thing again, but he didn’t seem angry - the cold glint wasn’t there.
More silence. Nino began to breathe, audibly - he was getting hysterical, perhaps. I didn’t care; I was looking at Karsh. Somehow his steady gaze was calming me, making me feel less panicky, safe.
“Get the large chopping block, and the cleaver, also a big chopping knife. Light the gas, put the knife blade in the flame”
Nino gasped, began to babble in Russian, stumbling over justifications, nasty things about me - clearly willing to say anything to stop whatever it was that he expected.
I did as I was told. What else was there to do? I was the chalet girl, and effectively Karsh’s slave - as an emotional reality if not as a result of any explicit event. It’s no excuse, I suppose, but it’s what happened.
Karsh shut Nino up with some guttural words, something along the lines of;
“Be a man, take your hit. Otherwise it will be worse.”
The block was laid on the heavy rustic table, right over the solid corner leg, and Nino, trembling, took himself in hand and stepped forward, to lay his left hand on the block, the fingers curled under, with the exception of the pinky.
Karsh checked the knife in the flame - it was a dull red now.
It took only a few seconds.
He took the cleaver from me, almost casually, lifted it, Nino closed his eyes and let out a low, keening wail, shivering more violently, and then with a thunk, followed by an anguished shout, the cleaver took his finger, almost unbelievably neatly, right at the knuckle join with the palm. Only the blood told you that it had ever been there - that and the finger itself, twitching grotesquely in a growing pool of red.
Now Karsh took the knife, lifted Nino’s hand, and pressed the glowing blade flat onto the red oval where the finger had been. Nino screamed, while Karsh’s body briefly tensed, betraying the strength he was deploying to keep hand and knife together, without movement, and then relaxed, letting Nino go, carefully placing the knife where it could safely cool, turning off the gas, a man doing a simple practical task with care and precision.
There was a smell of seared meat, that turned the stomach when you thought of what it was that had burned.
Nino was crying now, trying not to, but sobbing, swearing at himself under his breath, falling to his knees. Instinct kicked in, and I rushed for a clean cloth and began to wrap it, tightly over his hand, pressing hard.
Karsh was already at the door, calm as ever;
“Clean that up, then come straight to the study, please. Bring tea. Don’t speak to this piece of shit. He will be gone very shortly - you won’t see him again.”
I couldn’t look at Nino any more, couldn’t bear to be near him, and turned to get cleaning kit. I heard him stand, stifle another sob, then almost run from the room, from the chalet. I never saw him again, as promised. He took his finger.
The clean-up was simple - almost nothing to it. I put the bloody cloths to one side, somehow knowing that these would be burnt, rather than laundered, and wiped everything down with disposable cloths. I’d never thought about any of this, but I suppose we have all seen forensic police programmes now. I protected Karsh (not that he needed my help, realistically). But I did, without ever thinking of any other path. I was his, now, I knew it in my bones. He had done that to Nino for using me without permission, and so I belonged to him. Perhaps this logic makes no sense written down, but to me it was both relentless and indisputable; a done deal; a truth.
All this was in my head as I made tea, my hands trembling. Within 15 minutes, I had been raped, seen as a rape victim by a chalet guest, watched a finger amputated, the wound cauterised, in gangland retribution style, and mentally accepted slavery. I was in a strange, strange place.
I walked into the study expecting Karsh to lay me over the desk and fuck me, there and then. I would have let him. I’d probably have let him cut one of my fingers off, too, if he had decided that was what he would do - I was not strong at that moment.
Instead, he simply explained why it was that he and the boy had returned early - there had been an upset, the boy’s skis were damaged, and they had decided to come home. They would travel down the mountain by snowmobile shortly to meet the others for dinner. Would I care to join them?
My heart fluttered; could I? I wasn’t sure I could walk up the stairs.
“You are free to decide for yourself, pretty - but I would be pleased if you would accompany me.”
No choice, then..
“Of course .. of course, Sir, I’m .. thank you.”
I tried, in those last words, to convey my gratitude for believing me rather than Ninotsch, for having reassured me, but there was nothing in his stare for the longest while, and I thought I must go mad, until a small smile appeared and he nodded a little.
He understood, and my heart was flooded with something that I can only describe as joy.
“There’s a formal dress code - do you have something? Otherwise we can go shopping down there. This would be good, I think. There is a hotel suite to get changed in.”
Another decision made.
“O .. OK, tha-thank you.”
I didn’t normally stutter, but the events of the previous hour had been extraordinary.
And thus began the second phase of my time with Karsh - what I called my double life.
Double, in that most of the time, like that first evening, I was acting the part - sort of at least - of a normal person, but at the same time, all of the time, I was his helpless whore, a willing victim of his greedy and cruel desires.
This double life was forced on me - without him ever explaining it - because he clearly expected me to behave at all times like a normal person; without any hint that there was anything more to my role than being the chalet girl - a dogsbody assistant, until it suited him to use me in some other way - at which point he required me instantly to change mode.
So, that evening, I had somehow to fold up and put away until later all the jagged, conflicting emotions stemming from those unbearably intense minutes: the rape, the discovery, Karsh’ shocking punishment of Ninotsch, my own sudden understanding of my being somehow Karsh’s possession - all of it had to be firmly and resolutely suppressed, as I rushed up to my room to gather what I would need to present myself at a high-end casino-restaurant.
To say I was dealing with a cauldron of emotion would be an understatement - so many conflicting feelings, so many powerful and contradictory urges. Nevertheless, it was clear what trumped them all - a fierce joy that Karsh wanted me to be at the dinner - wanted me to look good, would buy me clothes, that I would be with him.
The inescapable, sharp conflict of the double life hit me powerfully only a few minutes later, when I came into the hallway to get my outdoor gear, only to find the boy, Sergey, there already. The last time he had seen me I was half-naked, obviously having just disengaged myself from Ninotsch’s unwanted fucking (although come to think of it, he had no way of knowing then whether I was being raped or was a willing partner). But then again, what had Karsh told him when he had run out, or while I had been upstairs?
I faltered, feeling the heat rise to my cheeks, tried for cool, tried to act as if nothing had happened - at least as if that moment of revelation was not something to be acknowledged, but I had reckoned without Sergey being Karsh’s son. His version of Karsh’s stare, which I had never experienced before, was nowhere near as unsettling or merciless as his father’s, but made it crystal clear that whatever he had thought of Timmy the chalet girl before - and he had always been friendly in a polite way - he now considered this Timmy - the one whose pussy he had seen all pink and puffy from recent fucking - as a sexual being, and one that he had little respect for, but nevertheless found sexually interesting. He was grinning at me with a sneer that burned.
And after all, he was right; what had I become, those few days ago - some sort of slut, some sort of whore, a wanton? It had been my choice. If I had not let Karsh use me like that, Nino would never have felt so confident that he could simply fuck me without permission. Sergey was right, and I knew it.
Nevertheless, here came Karsh, wanting to know if we were ready, telling us the helicopter would arrive in a minute or two. Karsh saved me; his requirements were clear, and strong, and I was instantly, deeply grateful - I didn’t to have to rely on my own confused instincts; it was simple, just do what Karsh wanted. Be what Karsh wanted me to be.
Simple doesn’t mean easy, of course, and sitting in the helicopter, feeling Sergey’s eyes on me (and not daring to look up to see if this was actually true), feeling that he was looking at me now as some sort of sex object, that he knew something, something at least, about what had been going on with me, was truly awful, made my stomach churn. Worse still, the reality that I had no way of knowing exactly what he did understand about my position - had his father told him anything? Everything? Some half-truths? I had no choice other to sit and endure, however excruciating, however humiliating.
But not just sit and endure, for the other side of my double life was also present. I was in a helicopter with Karsh, and he too might be looking at me. Strange that I would be happy to know that he was looking at me with just the same thoughts as Sergey’s - I definitely wanted Karsh to know that I was wanton for him, that I was happy to be his sex-object - so, far from holding my body in, making myself drab, trying to make myself non-sexual, uninteresting, in the hope of deterring Sergey from looking at me that way, I was determined to make myself attractive to his father.
The balancing act of that helicopter ride was, in one way or another, my reality for the following peiod - wrestling with the insoluble problem of, most urgently, enticing and inviting Karsh’ greedy usage of my body, without embarrassing him in public, but equally without enduring any more of the bitter shame that my true condition as a degraded whore brought with it than could be avoided.
It was, of course, Karsh’ masterful manipulation of me and of such situations that meant I never once got past the idea that this triple impossibility was my responsibility - that it was my own stupidity, weakness and sluttishness which kept me constantly pulled in different directions, constantly failing, constantly castigating myself for getting everything wrong. That Karsh himself was simply a violently passionate, greedy and fatally fascinating man, with whom I had become obsessed due to some character flaw.
The reality - that it was me who was the naive simplistic, passionate one, and that Karsh was the driver of all this - simply never occurred to me, not for months and months. Not until it was far too late for it to do anything but put the cap on any thoughts of avoiding my fate.
For Karsh never appeared to be doing very much about me; mostly, it seemed, his interactions with me consisted of smiling and laughing at me, clearly seeing my trouble - the look in his eyes sympathetic and friendly - but more often just entertained, offering no help at all beyond that - not taking my agonies, my embarrassments, my troubles at all seriously (and, by extension, not taking me seriously - and of course, since I was already convinced of my own fundamental lack of seriousness before I met him, this fed my own inner weakness oh so very neatly).
The whole evening was like that; sitting in the restaurant, in my expensive and sexy new dress (which I loved and was in awe of, not really knowing how to carry it off) with Sergey and the girl, Marina and a couple of Karsh’ staff who were staying in the town; trying to live up to Karsh’ expectations (without in the slightest knowing what they might be), dampen down Sergey, and give the staff (strangers to me) no excuses to despise me.
And all the time having no idea what any of them really thought of me. My only comfort the knowledge that Karsh wanted me there, that Karsh had enjoyed buying clothes with me, insisting on coming right into the changing room of the stupidly expensive boutique he chose - it being so close to closing time there were no other customers, and the lady Patronne clearly knew him and would have done anything to keep him happy, so that I stripped and dressed in front of him several times as he chose lingerie and dresses for me, spending I don’t know how much but clearly a great deal, judging from the glow of pleasure on la Patronne’s otherwise flinty face when we finally left.
He had reached out at one point and lifted my breast - the one he had bitten so hard, the mark still just visible, and grinned at me - like some fierce bear, I suddenly thought;
“I want you always to carry marks of my making”, he had said, grinning at me, as I trembled (how could his touch be so electric, so unbearably desirable?);
“I’d like to mark you - with a knife - cut you. May I?”
Naked, his hand on me, melting with the suppressed desire of the last days, frazzled with the emotional intensity of the last two hours, this was impossible to process - just impossible. Earlier, I had found myself stuttering for the first time. Now, faced with this casual, lightly asked question, with such terrifying import, I could make only incoherent noises;
“Bu… Nu.. na..”
I thought I was trying to say ‘No’. I thought I was. But who knows? In any case he was ignoring me, reaching into his pocket and pulling out an elegant little stainless steel pocket knife, that opened with a sinister and sexy ‘snik’.
Then I was just making breathy little micro-moans, ever so softly, with each out breath, trembling violently. My hands had gone to his shoulders, but I wasn’t pushing him away as he squatted, his face level with my sex, and lifted the knife.
‘No, not my pussy - no! no! He can’t cut me there! No!’ - the thought screamed in my head, but, trembling so much, I couldn’t actually do anything, couldn’t look, couldn’t cry out, couldn’t do anything but wait, wait, tears already rolling down my cheeks. I told myself to close my legs, tight - but nothing happened. My hands on his shoulders clinging on as if for my life - in fact I was gripping him so tightly in an effort to prevent myself from doing what I dearly wished to do - fight him off, knock the knife out of his hand, fold myself into a protective ball; hide.
And then I felt it, soft, but hot, so hot, but so gentle, just to the left of my sex, just clear of my little bush, a stroke, and again, and again, and he leant back, head on one side, appraising - looking.
Was that it?
Then he leant in again; I felt his hot tongue on my skin, and then wailed, softly, as I could feel it now, the cut - it must be just skin deep - all sting and no real pain - but with his licking, it stung and stung - and suddenly I was so turned on. He had cut me. I had let him cut me, and it - it was.. was so fucking intense…
I almost fell over backwards when his tongue moved to my sex, and my pussy burned, ten times more than the little papercuts he’d marked me with, and I was thrusting my crotch into his face, jerking, wanting him, hearing myself, not moaning, but urgently rasping with each out-breath;
“haa-erh … hhhaa-aaHaerh .. hhaa-hhhaaa-aer .. “
An animal, working towards its desire - a climax that will obliterate all need for thought, eradicate all doubt, remove any possibility of meaning with pure and extreme sensation…
He was biting me there too, softly, but I could feel his teeth and I knew he was going to hurt me and I opened myself to it and moved my hands to his head to pull him in to me, offering myself to it, to his cruelty, to his desire, to his will, to my god, to the pain…
And then he pulled away, looked up at me, smiling, grinning, laughing, until I began to keen, to cry with frustration, and then I was laughing too, laughing through the tears, and my knees gave way and I knelt there facing him and his hands were hurting my nipples and I was kissing him over and over and saying;
“Thank you, Thank you, Thank you!”, through the kisses, doing everything I could think of doing to tell him I had given myself to him, that he owned me, that I was his - just not saying the words, not having the words, not daring the words, until, softly, he pushed me back, held my shoulders, smiling at me, his eyes frighteningly intense, looked deeply, deeply inside me, and I calmed down almost at once.
Such is his influence, his magnetism, his power over me - far beyond the physical strength, the financial and social muscle; it was the intense and personal force of his will that held me so cruelly, so gorgeously, so completely; and I melted into the safety, the certainty of being his possession.
My breathing was still loud, though, in the little room - and I could hear his, too; knew that he was not immune, not completely cool - it gave me such joy to know that I excited him! Me!
My thighs split as wide as I could get them, opening for him, hoping to show him something of what I felt, what I offered, what I had surrendered, willingly, hopefully, humbly, happily…
He laughed, then, reached out and, putting a hand deep into my hair, gripped, pulled me slowly, irresistibly, downward, hurting my scalp, and I went with him, happily, even though it was awkward in the squatting position and in the end I had to let myself topple, fall awkwardly somehow, instinctively understanding something that I was later taught - that I was not to use my hands to help myself, until my face was in his crotch, jammed up against his obvious hardness, breathing through the fabric of his trousers, holding my hands out at my sides, loose, facing backward, palms open, fingers limp - instinctively wanting to make them useless, make it clear that I was helpless - in his hands, completely, feeling deep shudders of emotion rack through me, feeling my hips still bucking at the memory of that intensity, of his mouth on my sex, stupidly, pathetically grateful that he had seen fit to cut his mark into my flesh.
Then his hand is in my hard, taking hold, and he pulls my head back, so that i am forced to look into his eyes. It isn’t rushed, cruel, or painful, or even aggressive, just that there is no point in doing anything but go along with him. He is inevitable.
His voice is soft, almost a caress - but with a diamond core to it;
“I am thinking that I will take you all the way, little Timmy. All the way.”
It’s almost a question. but he’s not asking me.
