Shit got real
She replays this event in her mind every day, sometimes many times.
It defines her, it explains her, it transfixes her.
It had been an ordinary evening, ten or fifteen of them out on the town, laughing, drinking a little, smoking a little.
David, as usual, had been getting a bit too full-on — hand up her skirt, pulling her face to his crotch, telling the others how rough she let him be with her. How he had her tamed.
And as usual, she was laughing and blushing and trying to get him to shut up. It wasn’t a secret, really — everyone knew what David was like — a couple of the other girls had been with him too, and they didn’t take him too seriously. So it was embarrassing, but not really too bad. He was a cool guy in other ways.
All she had to do was to hide how much being treated like that turned her on. Hide how far it had got between the two of them. Hide the fact that she had let him whore her to truckers a couple of times, that she had sucked the sheriff’s cock once so he’d let David off a speeding fine. How that had got her so hot she had jumped David the second he drove off, beating him with her little hands until he got the message and slapped her as he fucked her, building an orgasm that frightened her with its intensity.
But this night, for some reason, David wasn’t shutting up.
“I tell you’s she’s a fucking born whore! A total fucking slut!”
“David, put a sock in it man, it’s getting mean, and it’s been boring for weeks. Fuck’s sake!”
“Ok, Jon. Would it bore you to see Tammi here, naked, on her knees, taking it up the ass — right here, right now — in the back room? Would it?”
“I guess not, but really dude — like that’s gonna happen. Like I say, give it a rest.”
And that was all it took. David stood up, came to her and took her elbows behind her back, holding both arms in one big hand in the way he knew made her go limp.
“No … no, please David” she said, a little panicky now, but he ignored her, turned her to face Jon, pushed her forward;
“Tell him Tammi. Invite little Jonny here to see how you look when you’re giving your ass up to a man.”
She was desperately working up the calm to try and laugh it off, deflect this situation somehow, when it happened. She caught Jon’s eye, saw the look of smug anticipation on his face — anticipation that she was going to humiliate David by refusing to go along, how much he was going to enjoy that.
For some reason, she can’t imagine — even after trying so many times each day — she suddenly flipped; 180 degrees, turned her head back to David’s and kissed him, deep and sexual, squirming against him. When he let her, she turned to face him and lifted one knee, moulding her crotch against his thigh.
Out loud, she said;
“Tell me again, baby. Tell me what you want. I’ll do it. I like to do what you tell me to.”
And that was it; in the dead silence, David did tell her exactly what he wanted her to do, in graphic, vulgar, humiliating terms, and she smiled, and blushed, and did it; straddling Jon’s lap, grinding her sex into his, flaunting her cleavage at him, asking him, smiling, wouldn’t he like to watch how she took a cock in the ass from a real man?
God, but she had been so turned on that night. They’d gone in the back, and she’d stripped, blushing but weirdly proud too, and David had pushed her onto her knees, put his cock into her throat, and then had her on all fours, face on the floor, hand on her head, ass lifted high, and pushed it, hard, right into her asshole, which had hurt like hell, but she’d swallowed the scream, and moaned instead, like she liked it, until a few minutes later, as always happened, she really was liking it, and the knowledge that they were all watching, all seeing what a slut she was, what a wanton, was like acid burning into her, like a cleansing fire.
And when it was over, most of them had left, shock and disapproval heavy in the air, apart from a few boys — and of course, David had had her suck and fuck them all — teasing them, encouraging them, flexing her body for them, until she finally broke down in tears, exhausted, and they left.
She’d broken up with David the next day, never spoke to him again — he’s left town now, doing something important in the city, they say.
And she. She went, the next week, up to old Judge Thorn’s, and he’d let her in, and she’d sat facing him, in her sweetest little girly dress, short and frilly, low cut, in her high heels, and he’d looked at her, face hard, impassive, as she trembled. They both knew why she was there. Jenni Grey, the last town bicycle, had been his maid until a few months back, when she’d left town.
“Heard you let David J and some of his friends fuck you in the ass, with all the others watching.”
She’d been unable to speak, but had nodded, blushing, her gaze trapped by his.
The silence had been long.
“I keep you, I’ll pay thirty dollars a day, plus board and lodging, I’ll supply your clothes, not that there’ll be much in that way. You’ll do whatever, and like it, or I’ll thrash you and then you’ll do it anyway. Understand?”
“Take your clothes off now, pretty girl. I’m going to loosen you up with my belt across your ass before I test that pretty throat of yours.”
Tears in her eyes, she had made herself smile and started to strip.
That was over a year ago, and things could be worse. Say what you like about Judge Thorn, he buys her pretty lingerie and sexy shoes, and he knows exactly how to feed a girl’s growing nymphomania.
It was ridiculous
When she thought it through, it was ridiculous — so silly it couldn’t possibly be true.
She’d moved in three months before, with three boys — two postgrad students and an older one who did something impressive at a bank.
It wasn’t ideal, living with three boys, but she’d grown up with brothers, and the rent was amazing value (of course, she realised now… ).
They were all quite macho, and there was a fair bit of joshing about how hard it was on them all that she was so pretty, and had such gorgeous lips, tits, etc. Looking back, it had got quite out-of-hand, but at the time it had seemed somehow all good fun. She liked them, they were cool, and they were generous, too — she never had to pay her share in full, and they often took her to the pub, or out dancing, to the cinema, or for meals, which was handy because she earned so very little.
They had managed to keep the porn under wraps for six weeks or so, but then one evening she came back from a crappy blind date to find them all watching porn and laughing at it, and she felt so pleased to see them, and they were so funny, that she ended up sitting with them, drinking.
After that it became a bit of a thing, they watched porn together two or three times a week, one way or another.
They began to tell her she was prettier, and sexier, too, than the girls in any of the things they watched, and also to moan about their hard-ons, their lack of outlet, and it being so hard with her in the house.
And somehow, one evening, she had made some stupid suggestion that she’d happily give them all blowjobs if they’d only get the dishwasher fixed and get a cleaner in to deal with their horrible mess.
There had been a silence, and she’d quickly said; ‘As if!’
But something had changed.
Two days later a new dishwasher arrived, and the flat was immaculate when she got in from work.
No mention was made of blowjobs. Indeed, everything was apparently as normal. But something had changed.
She’d ruined it, she realised, with that stupid comment. She’d have to move out.
And then she realised that she really, really, didn’t want to move out. That she felt safe here, with her three men.
She cried a lot that night, and had a very strange day the next day, irritable and unsettled. She didn’t go home after work, went for a walk instead, wanting not to think the thought in her head.
In the end, though, she walked home, went straight to her room, changed into a skimpy dress, did her make-up, high heels and waited until they were all in the main room — she could hear them, gaming.
She went through, and sat on a cushion, waiting. Eventually, the banker guy, Tom, looked up and said;
“What’s up, pretty? You look … Well, you look fantastic. But your expression…”
She couldn’t speak, and the room went quiet, until Jack, always the smart one, said;
“It’s blowjob time! Toni’s going to make good!”
It was John, though, who grinned, and simply walked over to her, stroked her hair, and pulled down his tracksuit.
And so it happened. All three of them came in her mouth that night. And then they wanted to see her breasts, and then they were hard again, and all of them fucked her.
And that was it. She became their girl. She knew it was weird, knew it was wrong, but she didn’t care — she had her men again, she was safe in her home, and she found that she had a previously un-imagined appetite for mindless sex.
At 6am, Jack, always up first for the insane presentee-ism banking demanded, would arrive in her room, morning woody in full effect, and fuck her awake.
The other two rarely got up before she went out to work, but the evening became one long fuck-and-suck-fest.
It was Tom, hard-eyed Tom, always the greediest and most aggressive with his cock, who, three weeks later, suggested that she give up work, that they give her pocket money and pay for for everything, that she become their live-in whore.
He used those words; ‘live-in whore’.
She’d been moaning about her job, but still. Whore?
When she didn’t say yes, Tom walked over to her, lifted her bodily out of her chair, turned her round, spread her legs and fucked into her. It wasn’t, to be honest, much different to how all three of them had got used to treating her when they wanted sex, but in the context of a joint conversation, it had a powerful impact.
But she didn’t protest.
Jack came to her once Tom was spent; she was panting heavily, excited but not having come. He lifted her head, looked into her eyes.
“It makes sense, you know — and you’ll still be here when I get up, so you’ll get more of my cock, too. And if you’re a whore, you’ll take it up the ass if I want it — and I do.”
He stared into her eyes for what seemed like hours, but can only have been seconds. She could not respond — simply had nothing to offer, and soon he was working his cock into her virgin rear passage, and she was mewing her distress, but not otherwise resisting.
The next morning, Tom rang her work and told them she had resigned.
A few weeks later the inevitable happened. Two friends came for a drinking session, and it quickly became clear that they had been told how things were with regard to her.
It seemed impossible to refuse them, to resist, and so that night she took two strangers cocks into her soft holes, and for no real reason, made as much effort to please them as she did to please her own men.
After that, things became more utilitarian. There was little memory of the feeling of a close friendship. New men — and occasionally women — came to use her.
All the way
She had asked him for this.
Not in words, of course — it was months since she had said anything to him but ‘Yes Sir’, “Thank you, Sir”.
But she had seen the other girl used like this at a place she was taken to. She had been used there too, of course, by several men unknown to her, and by an older woman who had been very cruel, and brought her, in front of them all, to the most distressing (and shatteringly affecting) orgasm of her young life after which she had been used again and again, the sight having aroused a couple of them to further desire — which she had, of course, sweetly and helplessly encouraged them to expend on and in her sore and tenderised holes.
It had been a powerfully disturbing evening, and she cried herself to sleep for several days afterward, and had to work hard not to attack him, useless as it would have been — her wrists permanently cuffed, ankles hobbled, all but naked, collared and leashed.
At last, though, the peace had come. The peace that, these days, only really worked after something extreme, after she had processed it somehow — when the events of the evening, terrifying, humiliating, degrading, screamingly intense as they had been at the time, were somehow transformed in her mind into a fascinating, heart-stoppingly exciting story.
A story that had her kissing him back as openly, as hotly as she dared, exaggerating the splay of her thighs for him, panting for him, opening herself for him, impaling herself on him…
God but life was getting dark…
But through all this, the image of the girl, her head in a box, fixed in position — used not even like a sex-doll, but as — as just a piece of furniture — had haunted her.
Haunted her in a bad way. It wasn’t that she had envied the girl — far from it; the memory, her thoughts of it filled her with horror and pity. She could bring herself to the point of hysteria just thinking about it.
But there was the problem. She couldn’t stop thinking about it.
Thinking was what had gotten her into this mess in the first place — thinking about awful things men could do to her.
She had seen him slap his girlfriend in an upmarket bar. Seen the slap — not a lover’s slap, not an angry slap, not an act of passion: none of these but rather a cool, emotionless, sadistic slap; deliberately hard — the girl had cracked her head against the mirrored wall at the end of the booth. She hadn’t been able to look away, had seen it building, fascinated and horrified by the expression in his eyes even before she knew what he was about to do, fixated by his interested, detached expression as the girl desperately pulled herself back together, stifled her cry of shock and pain, tried desperately to smile, to apologise (presumably — it was impossible to hear).
She’d been with her boyfriend of the time — what was his name? Jim? It didn’t matter — he’d gone off in a huff quite soon after the man, catching her looking, had trapped her gaze with his calm, cool eyes and walked over.
The boyfriend had blustered, the man had sneered; ‘She can’t take her eyes off me. Look for yourself’ — and then Jim had tried to bully her into paying attention to him — which had seemed annoying and pathetic, and she’d ignored him, and he’d gone. She’d been half-pleased, half terrified, but the man had done nothing but write a number on the inside of her wrist, pay for her drinks tab and more, then go back to his table — the girl had returned from repairing her make-up, and they left, without any further acknowledgement.
She’d lasted three days before calling. And when she did, her tone was brittle, fake, tense as hell;
“I’m calling only to tell you that you are a bastard for slapping your girl like that. And … and a cheeky bastard for giving me your number. This is all you’ll get from it. Goodbye!”
And she’d jabbed her finger viciously (pathetic, she knew it) on the red button to end the call.
When it rang again, she didn’t answer it. But she couldn’t resist reading the text that came in;
“I don’t know your number. You just called and said some rather strong things. Please call back and tell me it was a wrong number. I live alone and get frightened.”
It was the same number, but the last digit was off. She’d misdialled. It was an old man, very quavery, obviously badly upset, and she spent almost a quarter of an hour calming him down. By the end of it she didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, feeling ridiculous, stupid, ashamed.
And somehow, when she dialled the number — carefully, slowly — a half hour later, after sitting staring at the floor, dithering, she couldn’t find the angry tone.
“I … I saw you. In the bar. Slap that girl — so hard; it … it was cruel — I saw your face. You … you shouldn’t do that…”
It sounded pathetic, weak, even to her. Voice a little shaky, even.
“Well, hello to you too. You know, she begged me to do it. I’m her slave, you could say. I only do what she begs me to do. I mean, don’t get me wrong — I enjoy it, no doubt about that. But her … it turned her on so much she begged me to take her out of there and I fucked her in the alley at the back of the bar. “
She was speechless, shocked by the flush of heat between her thighs, the phone gripped painfully hard in her hand, trying not to let him hear how harsh her breathing had become.
“She’ll explain it to you when we meet. Eight this evening, the hotel bar at the Carlton. Somewhere you’ll feel safe. Assuming that you want to. Feel safe that is.”
He’d made her smile! And she did want to know, did want to understand. And she did want to feel safe, but the fear was exciting, too. So she went, even though she’d decided not to.
Valerie, the girl was, and she was intensely irritating — a high voice, seemingly a little stupid. But she readily admitted that sometimes, she ‘wanted a good slapping, to get her in the mood’.
He, Eric, had said very little, smoking and smiling at the two of them. And then after a while, two older men, very well dressed, had arrived, greeted Eric, ignored herself and Valerie; a little small talk, the two men looking at both girls in an unsettling way — if they hadn’t been so well dressed and urbane, if it hadn’t been the Carlton bar, she might have given them a put-down or two. But now Eric was talking to Valerie, in her ear, and Valerie was looking pink, a bit shaky, and then she was gone with the two of them, one of them holding her elbow behind her back, all nervous smiles, panicky undertones to her giggles.
Eric had continued to smile, and to smoke, and to look at her.
“What?”
“What?!?”, she’d said, at last.
Silence, then;
“Oh, I’m just trying to imagine what the first thing you’ll beg me to do to you will be — what you want to get you hot.”
She’d desperately hoped that her blush wasn’t visible. She couldn’t speak; the more she worked to suppress the images that had been in her head these last days, the more they surfaced. She didn’t trust herself to speak, couldn’t meet his eye; she couldn’t escape the knowledge in her that she was posing for him, hard.
He’d got rid of the girl. He must … he must … want her… Heart thudding. Had she chosen the right blouse? That other one had deeper cleavage … but the fabric was too coarse …
He’ll think she’s stupid, too — unable to speak like this. But her tongue is trembling!
“Will it be getting hold of both your wrists — behind your back, clamping them tight … or, will it be … grabbing a fistful of your hair and forcing you to kiss me … or, will it be biting your neck … or … maybe you want me to come up from behind you and put my hands through your legs, lift you and split your thighs…”
He’s grinning at her openly now, seeing her inability to control herself. Watching her squirm; drawing the moment out…
“Or maybe I’ll just spank you. Hm?” His voice is harder, now, and her belly lurches.
“You! … You wouldn’t dare s … spank me!”
As soon as she’s said it, she knows she’s lost. Such a stupid cliche — any girl who ever said that in any movie got spanked, and liked it. Some image of John Wayne in her head, a girl across his knee — so small, so weak, in his big, strong hands…
He’s laughing again.
“If the lady asks … but let’s talk about this upstairs.”
There’s no more talk of spanking — or much talk at all, until after they’ve fucked — and it is fucking, not love making, both of them urgent, strongly physical. No roughness from him, though, none at all.
The tension builds though; builds in her mind — all through the room service afterward; champagne, oysters, steak and ice-cream, through the cuddling and the kissing and the giggling and the increasingly intense foreplay which meant they were going to do it again.
She needs him to say something. Dammit it’s his weird thing — she shouldn’t have to bring it up!
In the end, it just comes out — unplanned;
“Would you … would you really have spanked me?” God, her heart is thumping! Why is she so stupid?
He sits up, shuffles back a little, a quizzical expression, a long, long pause;
“Milady, I am but a slave. If you had asked me to, I could not have refused you.”
She had cried a little then; soft, sobbing tears. Cried from a mixture of sexual yearning, of fear, and of a bizarre feeling that she’d come home. And, of course, her voice — all of its own accord, had said, out loud (out loud! not just in her head, as it ought to have been!);
“Well, perhaps you’ll have to … have to …”
He’s looking at her with that interested, detached expression she remembers from the bar, after he’d hit the girl, and her belly flips…
“Spank me! Please … please spank me. Quite… Oh shit … quite hard … now … please?”
And of course he had, and she’d got so gloriously, desperately hot — all inhibition gone — and then he’d fucked her again, and she was lost.
Slowly, sweetly, wonderfully at first, and then, deliciously but fearfully, gradually more swiftly, more thoroughly, more terrifyingly, suffocatingly, gloriously lost.
The fact that it felt like coming home became more deeply disturbing, but she didn’t allow herself to think about what that meant, much. Stupid.
Stupid, but oh so addicting; that feeling of being transformed, taken beyond herself, taken beyond anything apart from the moment’s intensity, the need for the next moment to go further, go harder, go deeper… And he gave it her; gave it her so well, so surely; no mercy, no sentiment, no game-playing; just took all responsibility from her and did what he wanted — which turned out to be just what she had needed, but could never have even imagined, let alone described, still less ever asked for…
Until now, when she drew the box; drew herself (he’d know it was her because she’d drawn the tattoo on her buttock — his mark — drawn it so carefully ). Drew herself, naked (of course), legs apart (of course) — head locked in the box — and left it on his desk.
And it was truly terrible. Terrible and glorious. Worse than her worst imaginings. The useless but nevertheless totally uncontrollable, desperate, panicky struggling, the awful claustrophobia of the box (always fighting to breathe — the crude invasion of the big penis gag constantly nudging the top of her throat as her body jerks, and is jerked), the forced penetrations that could not be resisted no matter how fiercely, how piteously her whole body refused them, every fibre rebelling; the maulings, the manipulations, the shameful, devastating orgasms, the yawning humiliation.
The bite of the whip for some reason a hundred times more searing, more unacceptable to her whole being, the rending awfulness of the nasty little shock prod between her legs, at her nipples, the ice cubes, the hot wax, the chilli sauce, the inability to make her most gut-wrenchingly urgent screams — the ones which mean that she has had enough, that this must stop, immediately, that she cannot bear it a microsecond longer; screams that she puts everything she has left into, rendered nothing more than muffled, pathetic protests of the most pitiful sort.
The helplessness; the utter helplessness in the face of casual, laughing degradation; the timelessness — there being no end in sight, no limit, no way of communicating anything except that which she knows serves only to excite them further, to bring more attention, more abuse, more laughter.
Laughter at this, the most deeply serious experience of her whole life. That she knows will change her forever (again). Light, casual laughter; banter.
It’s not that they’re enjoying it; enjoying doing this to her (to the anonymous girl with her head in a box) — it’s that it is so obviously nothing more than a bit of fun to them. They are not the sophisticated sadist types that he sometimes shares her with — they’re just brutes, uninterested in the intensity of this for her. There’s no real intensity for them, either, apart from a fleeting moment at orgasm, perhaps; but then even their orgasms are performative as they compete to make her sticky all over.
The knowledge that the feed from the camera in the front of box is up on the big screen on the far wall, recording the agonies of her expression through it all; her last source of pride — her ability and willingness to present herself as pretty, as sweet, as desirable — deliberately and callously proved uninteresting, illusory, simply another weakness to be taken advantage of, to be amused by.
Total, abject powerlessness in the face of casual, cruel and untrammelled degradation by total strangers.
Now, a week later (ten days? — a month? she’s hazily unsure; time seems to have changed its nature, but it’s hard to care), having pulled herself back from the brink of what seemed at times like a welcoming insanity — now she really is lost.
A lost girl.
Really, really, lost.
Because once she has become a piece of furniture, once she never knows who it is that is using her holes, then it won’t matter to him who’s using her, and those two men — the ones who took Valerie — or some others like them — will come for her.
And a part of her wants him to do this, as well, to her. To take her all the way.
All the way where, though?
She has several times asked him about Valerie, why she never saw her after that first time, and he just smiles, off a little, and shrugs — disclaiming, but at the same time obviously knowing something. Something that he does not care to tell her. He doesn’t lie, really — but he rarely tells the whole truth.
Something in her, though, wants to find out — to know where ‘disappeared’ is. If for no other reason than that there is nothing else left. She trembles, violently, and the trembling makes her think of being in the box, and then she is overwhelmed by the need to be fucked. And by the knowledge that he has told her that she will only be fucked in the box from now on; made her look into his eyes and say it back to him, this new policy for her, tell him that she knows that this is right for her — where she needs to be taken next, asked her to explicitly consent to it, to beg for him to impose this policy on her. Because, as he still insists, he is her slave.
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