Earlier version of these stories appeared in a tumblr blog
GOOD TIME GIRL
He found her like this, crouched, panting in a panicky way, at the back of the villa.
She couldn’t look him in the eye, flinched a little as he spoke.
“Can’t face it, eh?”
She didn’t respond, apart from a little twist of her face.
“It’s just honesty, pretty. Look at you, covered in expensive jewellery, otherwise almost naked, tits half out, in a room in a house you’ve never been to before, miles from anywhere, dancing for three fully dressed men you don’t know well, all old enough to be your father.”
A panicky whimper; she shakes herself, as if trying to get rid of something.
He strokes her hair, softly; she quivers.
“We’re all going to fuck you. Of course we are. And you’re going to make nice and squeal and giggle and open yourself right up for us - all your sweet, tight holes, show us that you like it, too.”
A soft shudder runs through her.
“And if you don’t do it right, we’ll let you know - we’ll hurt you; that way you’ll learn fast; learn your place, learn how you need to be for us.”
The tension is going out of her now. He has her, he thinks; they’re so easy, girls like this.
“And when we get back to town, if we like you enough, we’ll move you into this little apartment we have, very nice, and you’ll be ours. And you’ll have nice dresses, and lots of time to shop and hang out, and you’ll belong to the three of us.”
“And for as long as you’re what we want you to be, and we enjoy fucking you and making you squeal, you’ll be safe.”
She looks up then, startled by the implication of how easy it will be not to be safe.
He catches her chin in one hand and laughs at her, not unkindly.
“You’re pretty when you’re frightened. Now, show my cock how good your lips and tongue can be. If I get bored I’m just going to ram it hard and fast down your throat, so do a good job now.”
Then, more softly;
“Don’t worry, pretty, you were made for this.”
Ten minutes later, he leads her back into the villa, holding her hand.
Her panties are gone, and her lipstick is badly mussed, it’s clear she has been crying recently; her weak little smile is an advertisement of defencelessness - an unintended but unmissable message as to the completeness of her vulnerability.
He stops and looks at her - the others lounging, watching, smiling wolfishly, and it’s time for the little speech he’s coached her on;
“I … I’m sorry I … I ran away. It … it was - naughty - of me. I … I am - exactly - the sort of girl you think I am; a … a good-time girl - a stupid party slut.
“And, and I … I do take … take it up the ass, and I have … have had two cocks in me before ..”
She peters out, her head drops, but she makes herself carry on;
“It … it’s just that no-one’s ever … ever made me … not - not like this.”
A little sob catches in her throat, a tear gathers and she blinks it away, her throat quivering; her chest heaves, setting her tight nipples ajiggle.
She pulls herself together, attempting a smile, which crumples immediately, the tears audible in her throat. Yet she knows she must carry on;
“I … I know you’re all going to fuck me, and … and … and you must be cross that I’ve - wasted - so much of your time, so … so you’ll probably be rough with me and, and h-hurt me.”
“Only … only don’t … don’t hurt me too much; please?”
She is very sincere now, tears in her eyes, but holding herself well - tits forward, legs spread, hands loosely clasped behind her, trembling enticingly.
“ … I’ll be really good for … for you all, I promise. Any … anytime you want me.”
The man she knows only as ‘Charles’ is already pulling his belt from its loops, though, and her knees almost give way.
She kneels, suddenly transfixed by the enormity of what is being done to her - not so much the impending sex, or even being thrashed with a belt, but at the impossible vision of an enforced future as a sex toy for these men - under their control.
Although they do indeed hurt her - make her cry out and beg urgently, desperate for respite - it is still more the clarity of these strangers’ determination and casual confidence that they control her destiny that brings out her determination to please, her pathetic frightened smiles, weak and tell-tale giggles, her abject open-ness and acceptance as they take advantage of her - slowly, thoroughly, forcefully, relentlessly working their way through the many uses and abuses of a pretty and helpless girl’s body over the course of the following hours, leaving her at last, softly weeping, a sticky, bruised, limp tangle.
Strangers? Indeed. She had met them, briefly, the night before, at a party, and given one of them her ‘phone number. Invited for lunch at his hotel, he had told her that they’d go to lunch at a friend’s in the countryside instead. She’d been so happy to ride in the swanky european convertible, hair blowing in the wind, hot funky music blasting out, dancing in her seat, making her breasts move for him, knowing he was watching. But the house seemed more like an abandoned farmhouse, the rooms like the Marie Celeste, and there had been no lunch, only the three of them (she’d seen a couple of others in dark suits outside, with the cars, but they hadn’t come in, thankfully). She’d danced for them, because they’d asked her to - and then all three of them had wanted to touch her - started mauling her - until she had shrieked and run off, leaving her dress in their hands.
Suddenly realising that she has been left alone, she starts, pathetically feeling hope blossom that she has, against all odds, been let free, pulls herself upright, naked, hair a mess, one heel broken, looking feebly for her clothes, her purse, when a burly man in a dark suit walks in.
He has a pair of leather cuffs in his hand, and a black velvet cape over his shoulder. He’s casually calm, as if he does this sort of thing every day.
“Mr Eric has your things, miss, and you’re to come with me.”
She’s putty; her hands are cuffed at her back, the cape draped over her shoulders, and a leather leash clipped to her necklace before she really understands what is happening.
When he notices her broken heel, the man effortlessly sweeps her up and carries her to the black SUV with dark windows.
She can find no ounce of inner will to resist, and closes her eyes on the soft tears that come, as a delayed reaction to the casual brutality and thoroughness of the usage to which she has been subjected overcomes her; sex, anus and throat all sore, buttocks and breasts smarting from lashings with leather and stinging palms, clit and nipples terribly, terribly tender, and she cries on the servant’s shoulder, soft and helpless, allowing herself to be taken; acknowledging to herself that she has been conquered, defeated, knowing that this means she will need to remember, think hard about what they have done to her, so that she can learn how to please them. She doesn’t want to do this, but she is solidly convinced that she must, that she must convince them that she wants it that way, too; that they have made her happy.
HE KEPT PUSHING
He kept pushing the conversation further along!
He … he wouldn’t do this if he wasn’t - interested … would he? She so wanted him to be interested in her..
“Honestly?”
“But of course!”
Giggles
“Well … Well I … I was imagining that you were a rapacious billionaire pervert, who would kidnap me onto his yacht, never to be seen again.”
“Interesting. And … what kind of life would you lead - on the yacht, with the billionaire - er, pervert?”
Blushes, more giggles
”Well, well, I guess, um, hang out on deck, sipping champagne on ice, and … um … and having … um … wild … wild sex with him…”
More blushing - but she makes sure to look into his eyes, difficult as that is, to show him that she means it. Because she suddenly knows that, if he means it, she wants … she doesn’t know what she wants, but she doesn’t want this to simply end.
“Really? I would have thought he might demand more of you than occasional sex, if he was really going to save you from having to return from holiday to your humdrum life. I would expect him to treat you like a whore, at the very least - perhaps even require you to be his sex slave.”
She’s challenged now. This is the most fascinating conversation she has had in her young life - something deep in her belly is responding to this man, to this situation. But he has just as good as called her a whore - she can’t let that pass, surely?
She tries to make a joke of it;
“Are … are you calling me a whore?” but it doesn’t sound funny. She’s suddenly terrified that he will be offended, walk off.
Instead, he comes straight back at her;
“Didn’t you call me a pervert?”
She’s got butterflies in her belly now - the way he’s looking so directly at her, not angry, definitely fully engaged, but also quite challenging.
For a girl not used to topless beaches, being exposed like this to a strange, handsome, laconically smiling man is very confusing. IS he looking at her breasts? She would like him to like her breasts. Most men seem to, seem to like looking at them. The bodyguard (he must be, the massively muscled guy in the dark polo shirt and shades) - can he hear this? Yes, yes, he’s hearing all of this, of course he is, you silly trollop!
“Perhaps you’d rather be a sex slave than a whore?”
A way back into flirty conversation, at least;
“Maybe I would!”
Desperate giggles - had she really said that out loud?
She looks down, blushing hard, but instantly raises her eyes again, needing to see his face, to get some clue as to his reaction. Is that really his yacht? Because he must be something like a billionaire if he is.
“I’d never take on a sex slave without a full inspection beforehand. Why don’t you take off the rest, so I can get a good look at the pussy I’d be taking ownership of?”
She hears herself squeak - out loud - at this suggestion, a pathetic, girly little noise, shocked, and blushes madly. He’s not laughing - it’s not a joke!
Breathless, voice very small and soft now, appallingly aware that her nipples have stiffened, she says;
“I … I can’t! It … it’s only a t..topless beach” she hasn’t stammered in years.
“Nonsense! I can see ten girls from here stark naked.”
And it was true - some girls seemed shameless. And now the adrenaline from the shock is encouraging action, and, crazily, she’s untying the strings of her tiny bikini briefs, pulling them away, letting him pull them from her trembling fingers, and, following through on the idea that he’s ‘checking the merchandise’, she’s lifting her arms to behind her head, shifting her feet to open her thighs, offering him her lifted breasts (with the nipples stiffening, so obviously) her soft pink pussy, and neatly trimmed pubes, blushing and breathing in rapid small sips, pulse thudding in her ears, shame and crazy pleasure mingling strangely.
He’s not saying anything! The tension, the humiliation, the neediness in her, all intensifying by the second..
“Please! … Please!” she is begging him! Begging! She wants, so desperately, to relax her pose, but it is as if he controls her - she cannot move until he releases her.
“Please, what, pretty?” He’s looking into her eyes again, smiling a little, but very cool now. Her trembling increases; this is serious now.
Suddenly, she’s glad it is, knows what she wants;
“Take me. Please? Please, take me?”
More deep inspection of her face, more desperation for her, then he reaches out, quite casually, to take a breast in one hand, his thumb flicking the nipple - which is suddenly as sensitive as it has ever been, bringing a soft gasp to her lips. It is as if no-one has ever touched her breast before, so completely does the sensation command her attention.
“Do you mean - please take me as a sex slave?”
Why does he have to be so - so hard about it? Can’t he see she’s offering herself to him? Isn’t that enough?
“OH! oooh … This … this is crazy … I … I mean … I … I can’t! I can’t just … no! Only … Only I don’t … you’re right, I don’t want to … to go back to work. Can’t I … can’t I just … I mean … please?”
He’s grinning at her openly, enjoying himself, enjoying her distress - the bastard - and at the same time he’s still playing with her breasts - the other one now - and it’s good, very good, even though - even though those people are looking, pointing, grinning at each other..
She should go. Must go. Must go. Now! … But in fact she can’t even bring herself to pull her arms down, to break the display pose, to lose the feeling of his hand on her, risk losing his attention, lose the chance of being on that yacht, never to go back to work…
“No. No, pussy - you can’t ‘just’ become a sex slave. I mean that’s a ridiculous notion. To give up your human rights, just like that? Give yourself to a man you think is a rapacious pervert, let him take you away on his yacht, do god knows what with you - with your lovely soft body, these pretty tits, those delightfully tight-looking pink-lipped holes. At the very least, I think you’d have to convince me you actually meant it - that you consented to such a thing. Wouldn’t you?”
Oh god - he is serious. Although his voice hasn’t changed, his touch, his manner remain just as light and casual as before, there is a hard question in his eyes. He wants an answer.
A real answer.
He wants to make it real. Real for her. Take her on that boat and keep her. Keep her naked. Fuck her when he likes, how he likes. Treat her like a whore.
She can’t! She’s not a whore! I mean, she’s not even had more than a couple of boyfriends … she’s just … I’m just a girl!.
She wants to cry, now, but knows she can’t - can’t act like a little girl. She’s 19, all grown up, an adult. She can make an adult decision. I need to make an adult decision.
And the adult decision, of course, is to laugh it all off, see if he’ll take her for a drink, maybe come back to her room, but put an end to all this sex slave abduction stuff. But that’s why I’m crying. Because … because I don’t WANT to put an end to that stuff.
Oh god I want it. I want him to … to have me like that. NonoNo! He’s looking away - getting bored, looking at his watch!
“I will … I … I want to … to ..” she can hardly speak, blurting the words out, rapidly, ashamed to be saying them, fearful that if she doesn’t say them out loud, now, right this moment, she’ll never say them; “ … to … to convince you. Yes. All that. Please. Now .. O god!”
That last because his hand has dropped, now, to her crotch, and he’s running his fingers along her slit, discovering the wetness there (how did I get that wet, so fast? How is it that I want him to do this to me, even though it’s so embarrassing I want to die?) - and there are people - strangers, watching - watching her move her feet so that he can really grab her pussy, get easier access to her slot, see that he’s putting his fingers right into her - oh god, oh god oh god!
“Well, and maybe you might convince me, pretty, maybe you might. I do like these titties, and this little fuckhole is inviting. The thing is, though, that I’m due at the golf club in half an hour, so I can’t test you out for myself - find out how convincing you really are.”
“So here’s what you’ll have to do; go with Karl, now,” he nods at the bodygaurd; “.. back to the boat, and see if you can convince him and any other crew that fancy a go with you that you really mean it. Then, when I get back, I can ask Karl what he thinks. If it’s a thumbs up, I keep you, and if not, then we’ll put you ashore with a nice little pile of spending cash for your trouble - enough to buy a few bikinis with, and more.”
And without waiting for a reaction from her, he turns his head; “You get that, Karl?”
“Yes sir, Mr Karsh. I heard.”
“Great; thanks man - I’ll drive myself to the golf - no worries - ” he indicates the electric beach car parked a few metres away; “- you and the guys put her through her paces for me, then - enjoy!” - and he turns, not looking at her.
For some silly reason, the only thing she can say is; “My … my bikini?”, at which he laughs, throwing the scrap of cloth far away, and slapping her, hard, on the bottom, so that she yelps; then instantly stifles it; can’t have anyone on the beach thinking anything bad is happening to her - not now; everything will be ruined. He walks off, then, without a backward glance, wiping his fingers on a snowy white handkerchief.
She’s stunned. Terrified, suddenly - he can’t leave her alone, naked, pussy still missing his invasive fingers, the object of curious stares and knowing smirks. Terrified, mortified, she looks at the only possible source of help - the bodyguard, who simply grins, waves a hand, inviting her to walk toward the motor tender at the shoreline, and beyond that, the boat.
“Anytime now, little lady - or I’m gone.”
Ridiculously, all she can do is giggle, pathetic, and gesture weakly at the sand, stuck;
“But my … my bikini!”
“You won’t need it, pretty girl. Not where you’re going.”
His tone is not at all unfriendly, although neither is there any hint of compassion, still less mercy, in his body language.
She finds herself looking at the man’s groin, looking for a bulge. Bizarrely, going straight, in her mind, to wondering what it will be like to have this Karl fuck her - for her to be trying very hard to please him, so that he will tell Mr Karsh (she has no other name for him, she realises - knows nothing at all about him) that she’s worth keeping.
Shocked at herself, she looks up, to have his eyes catch hers, grinning, letting her know that he knows just were she was looking, that he knows what it means;
He snaps his fingers - not loud or aggressively, but still, snapping his fingers at her…
And it works; she jumps a little, looks at him, her eyes very large and round - wondering - and then, without really thinking about it, she’s walking toward the boat. Naked. Trying to walk well for him. So that he’ll want to fuck her. So that he’ll tell other crew members she’s worth fucking. So that they’ll tell Mr Karsh to keep her as a sex slave.
A voice in her head is going crazy, screaming at her, telling her that this is insane, madness.
It just encourages her.
Madness. She wants some madness. Some mad fucking. To know what it’s like to be a whore. Wants it enough that she forcefully suppresses the fear, that voice of sanity, and walks as beautifully as she can, blushing, belly quivering madly, eyelids lowered, but still awfully aware of the stares of those on the beach as she passes, knowing that this craziness will wreak terrible destruction to everything her life has been; drowning herself, willingly, gloriously, in the wonderful intensity.
He has her kneel in the bottom of the boat, spread her thighs, put her hands behind her neck again, facing him, tells her - quite kindly again, but with clear finality, that she doesn’t get to look men in the face anymore - that she had done the right thing before, looking for his cock. That she needs to concentrate on cock, now, because cock is now her life.
She’s trembling, violently, ridiculously grateful that he has commanded her into this pose, since it gives her something to occupy herself with - presenting herself as he wants her; presenting herself as worth fucking, as obedient, as willing.
There are a million questions in her mind, but somehow she knows that it will never be the time to ask them. That her answers will come only in the form of experiences. She’s going to be a sex slave, on a rich man’s yacht - and that’s what she needs to know.
Swallowing the lump in her throat, she shuffles her knees a little wider apart, pulls her shoulders back a little more, taking what she can from Karl’s amused chuckle.
A HARD BARGAIN
It had been a hard bargain, but straightforward.
She was backpacking, then overstayed her visa, then been robbed, lost her passport and her money.
Suddenly, everything had been hard. She’d slept on the streets a couple of nights, terrified. Then she’d looked in some bars, asking for work, and he’d asked her to come up into the flat on the floor above.
There was no job for her, but he had another offer. He’d fuck her once a day, in the afternoon between shifts. She would have a room of her own in the flat, to sleep in, and some pocket money. She wasn’t to bring anyone back. She would do the cleaning, and wear a little apron and nothing else, ready for him. He didn’t want her in the bar, ever. That was the deal.
She’d looked at him with round eyes, shocked, and he’d grinned, totally relaxed.
If he’d looked at all tense, or creepy, she’d never have done it - but he seemed so genuine and friendly, so straightforward, that, somehow, she’d said yes.
It had been so, so strange, the first time, stripping, putting the apron on, going into the kitchen, pointlessly running over the already shining surfaces with a cloth, heart racing, trembling, blushing, jumping at every little noise.
But then he came in - she had really jumped then, let out a pathetic little shriek, blushed until she thought she’d burn, been so nervy she got fidgety - and he had just smiled his simple smile at her;
“You look perfect”, he’d said, and she’d been so grateful that she had almost cried. He hadn’t really said anything else, just turned her round, bent her over, opened his trousers, spat on his fingers to moisten his dick, then slowly, powerfully, forcefully, lazily, fucked her.
She didn’t come - not even close - too tense to think of it as sex, even, but he’d pumped and pumped into her, grunting contentedly, then wiped his dick on the apron and gone to take a bath - his habit, it turned out.
When he reappeared, he’d changed, she was dressed. She was all shy blushes, but he chatted normally, inconsequentially, laughed at her bashfulness;
“It’s just sex, you know.”
And left, to meet his friends for a meal before the evening shift.
It hadn’t got any easier, somehow - worse, if anything.
The second day she had been even more nervous, but if he’d noticed, he hadn’t cared, just positioned her as he wanted and fucked her hard, again.
Talking later, she was still jumpy and nervy, and he was as unfazed and gently funning about it as before.
The third, fourth, fifth days, were like dying. She was becoming a whore! Why had she ever accepted this? Why hadn’t she left?
Then on the sixth day, she realised, as he arrived, that she was wet for him - she had no idea how or why, but there it was. She knew he must feel it and wanted to die, but at the same time gloried in the feelings.
Afterwards, without a word, he had pushed her to her knees and had her clean him with her mouth, instead of using the apron. She had resisted, nervously - she’d never done this before. But without there being any sense of conflict, she had found that she somehow had no choice. He was in her mouth, and she was licking their mingled juices from his softening dick.
The seventh day, she came, noisily. She went to her knees without him pushing her, and took him willingly into her mouth, while he lazily played with her soft breasts.
It had been easier then (easier? no, it had been actually welcome, her orgasms getting easier, better), for a few days, until she had read something in the paper about a woman who had been kept as a sex slave for a decade or so, and she began to feel strange again.
How was it that he hardly spoke to her - nothing more than the lightest chat - that he didn’t want her to sleep with him, but that he fucked her so masterfully?
It wasn’t normal.
She’d frozen up again, and now he had to manhandle her as he had in the first few days. But he didn’t complain, and he was very strong. Perhaps, she thought, he didn’t even notice?
She stopped coming, got stiffer. The only change that made was that he held her tighter, and fucked her more forcefully. Against her will, a few days later, she came, and came hard, crying wordlessly for him. He rammed his cock right into her throat this time, kept at it until he was stiff again, then spurted into her mouth. She wept, but dutifully cleaned him.
She hid in her room that day, so as not to have to sit with him before he went out. She did it the next day too, and the next. Now he never spoke to her at all, unless in the morning he pointed out something that needed cleaning. He didn’t seem to mind.
The fucking was intense, though - hard, relentless, and both of them were noisy as they came. He was pushing his stiff dick deep into her throat now, holding her wrists together in one meaty hand, the other at her neck, forcing her.
She cried most days, alone in her room, feeling him still in her sex and in her throat.
Somehow, she had given up on her attempts to find other work, another flat. She went out only to shop for necessaries. She was ready, naked apart from an apron, earlier and earlier, trembling, her sex tingling, nipples hard, hating herself.
After a month or so came a day when he’d rung, to say something had come up - he wouldn’t be back - she should get on with her day. He wouldn’t need her.
And it had cut her like a knife. Why? She didn’t love him (But, did she? No. No!). She didn’t think that the way he treated her was OK, did she? (No. Hell no - it was terrible - he was a pig, to have taken such advantage - and a monster to be so impersonal about it).
But she couldn’t get rid of a cold grasp on her stomach, a fear. What if he was tired of her - might he ask her to leave? How would she cope? She seemed to have forgotten, in such a short time, how to be herself, how to be independent - how to live for anything but that half hour each day of being fucked, face down, like a whore. She’d done nothing, nothing at all about getting a passport back; kept putting it off.
The next day she spends extra time bathing, making herself pretty - hair, nails, face, gets the prettiest apron, is ready earlier than ever. For some reason, she thinks to put some new heels on - shoes she has bought for him, from her little earnings.
He arrives with another man. She is too shocked to do anything - just stands there, naked but for the silly little apron and the tarty high heels. Her chest heaves with the shock - and her breasts pop out either side.
They laugh, she is dying inside.
Then, of course, she is flipped round, face down, and he ploughs straight into her - talking to his mate.
Talking about her. About her cunt, about her tits, about her cock-sucking technique, about how easy it was to get her to accept this; no, he says, he’s never fucked her in the ass - not his thing.
And … and it’s glorious to hear that he approves of her. He likes her cunt, he likes the feel of her throat around his cock, likes the way she licks him clean, likes her tits; ‘look at them swing, man’. She comes with him, and cannot keep herself quiet, desperately as she wishes she could.
They laugh at her; ‘I think she likes it!”, “She certainly does mate.”
He only lets her clean him - doesn’t push into her throat; then, as if he were offering a cup of tea, he offers her to his mate.
And without seeing how anything else could have happened, she is leaning on the counter again, taking it slowly, painfully, but relentlessly, in her virgin rear passage, olive oil as a lubricant, hearing their running commentary on her sad little helpless moans, how tight she is, the mate saying how much fun it is to put a dick in a girl’s mouth after it’s been in her ass - show her what she’s for.
They both come in her twice - she does everything they want.
Then she isn’t given the option of going to her room - she is to make snacks while they take turns to shower. Still in nothing but her apron and heels. The mate seems to like to slap her arse as she passes, and there is nothing to do but squeal and try to smile - even though it hurts.
Then she has to sit on the mate’s lap while he gropes her and the two of them play some computer game.
At last it’s all over - they’re off out to work.
She spends the evening in a daze. How could that have happened? How could she allow it? What’s going in? Was that planned all along, or did it just happen? Will it happen again?
Of course it happens again.
And again.
These days, she feels odd if she hasn’t had at least two men come inside her on any given day, and not surprised if she’s had five.
None of them talk to her really. She never wears clothes anymore - only aprons and (higher and higher) heels.
Often, she comes when they fuck her. Especially if they are rough with her. She wonders if she is becoming a nymphomaniac. She’s learned their likes and dislikes - partly because it seems like the thing to do, and partly because they seem not to mind giving her a slap or a spanking if they get annoyed.
She’s also beginning to like it in the ass, although she still cries when two of them use her at the same time. That only makes them laugh, though.
But days like today, when it’s just him and her, and he fucks her hard, like he used to, then comes again in her throat, are the best. It’s almost romantic, even though her ass is sore from the two guys who had come in the afternoon and had both used her that way, swapping her end-to end.
There are more ‘Easy Pieces’ stories here - or go back to the main page.
