There was no going back. Well, I suppose, looking back, that I could just have said ‘No, I’ve changed my mind’, and left. But at the time, it seemed inevitable.
There we were, the three of us, giggling, nervous, blushing, looking at the others and alternately thinking ‘What a slut!’ and ‘God her tits are lovely – I wonder if mine are good enough?’ Each of us was kneeling, thighs wide spread, on our own little low table, arranged in a shallow arc, so each could see the others, but such that we were all facing the shadowy group of armchairs – empty now, each of us with a bright spotlight dazzling us in the darkened room.
Each of us wearing a satin corset, topped off with a gauzy bolero which did nothing to hide and everything to accentuate the nakedness of our upthrust breasts, and fringed with a tiny pleated skirt, which likewise served only to draw attention to the nakedness and shaved condition of our spread pussies.
We’d never met before, though we were all there through Madame F.
I imagined the other two were go-go dancers, or escort girls, or strippers – something of that sort – Madame F’s line of trade. Me, I was just a stupid party girl who’d been letting Madame F do some seriously fucked up stuff with my young body - and with my mind, too.
I didn’t really understand what I was doing there - but I had become used to that: just some new wild ride, I guessed, trembling, frightened and exhilarated in equal measure.
Unaware that it was the last ride ever.
Three months before, Madame F had rather intensively seduced me at some wild afterparty, brooking no resistance; it was my first lesbian experience – and I had loved it; a revelation for me, a straight-laced Southern Baptist kid who had gone off the rails with men, but always been far too uptight to do it with girls. She said she had noticed me because of my dancing, and she invited me to dance for her the next night, at a small party she was giving - if I wanted to stay with her, that was…
And of course, I was keen to stay at her amazing apartment, and keen to dance for her, too…
So the next night, after a lovely lazy day in her luxurious life, I danced, for Madame F and a few girlfriends, really making a show of myself for her benefit, and truth be told, quite enjoying making a spectacle of myself for her friends, liking their crude, but flattering commentary on my tits, my ass, my legs, my slutty moves.
And when she encouraged me to strip, I found myself happy to do it. It just seemed safe - the fact that it was just women - even though they were all lesbians, and their comments were as crude and lewd as guys might make; I liked it.
Two of the friends stayed and I got gang-banged by lesbians. Well sort of raped really, in that they didn’t ask my permission before tying me up and gagging me, then taking me roughly, one after the other, a thick, black rubber strap-on in my pussy, and my face full of muff, my poor nipples getting pinched, pulled and bitten. But I came a few times, and when they released me I didn’t scream or fight, just wept a little, and allowed F to bring me to a crashing, humiliating but wonderful orgasm with a lazy finger at my clit before they untied me, after which I meekly ran and fixed drinks for them, and let them play with my tits, and first giggled, then moaned when they fingered my pussy, played up to them, happily allowed myself to be dragged down and roughly, invasively kissed and groped.
Then I danced for them again, naked but for my high heels and stockings this time, playing with a nasty looking whip/dildo combination that F had produced, running it all over my body, caught up in the moment, licking my lips, smiling and batting my eyelids at them, being as provocative as I could, until F dangled a pair of delicate, but purposeful-looking handcuffs at me, and said; ‘Time for you to be restrained again, pretty’.
I was not too sure I wanted this, but wasn’t strong enough to say it, so looked a plea into her eyes – which just smiled back at me, cool and amused, until, weakly, I made a wry little face, and giggled, and said ‘OK, if you really want me in chains!’ and meekly let her cuff my elbows together behind me, then my wrists, then my ankles, after which they (of course) whipped me until I screamed and begged and cried, and then gang-fucked me again.
And I came some more. Lots more, in fact – crying and moaning, gasping and screaming my pleasure, utterly lost in the gorgeousness of being ruthlessly fucked by strangers - the soreness of the welts, the shame of having allowed myself to be so abused just adding to the intensity of it.
And when the girlfriends left and I was curled up on F’s lap, face wet with tears, and she said ‘That little flogging got you really hot, didn’t it, lovely?’ I couldn’t deny it and flexed myself to allow her probing fingers better access to my poor, sore pussy.
‘Well, we’ll have to make sure you get whipped a great deal more often, then, shan’t we?’ Shortly after which I came again, quivering helplessly, without a hint of protest at the frightening idea.
The next morning she laughed at my ginger, stiff movements, and kissed me sweetly. ‘More than worth it!’ she whispered in my ear, as she slipped me a $500 bill, then continued ‘I’ll be out of town for a few days – I’ll call you. Oh, and get your pussy shaved properly – a sweet little brazilian please.‘
And she was gone, leaving me to ponder the speedy transition from lover to whore.
She hadn’t got to me, not really, or so I told myself; but after a couple of days I realised just how much of my time I was spending just waiting for her to call, wondering if she would ever call, planning what to wear when I saw her next, remembering how it had felt to be treated so crudely by three beautiful older women, and masturbating my newly shaved pussy while thinking these things. I was losing interest in other parts of my life.
What had happened to me was so surprising, so intense, so much more real than anything had been for years, that I lost any perspective I might have had.
Eventually I did the one thing I’d been promising myself I wouldn’t do; I rang her assistant. Who stonewalled me.
I rang her again a few hours later with the same result. And then again the next morning.
“Ah yes, Clemmie. Madame F asked me to give you a message. She is now a little irritated by your calls. She specifically told you that she would call you when she next wanted you. If you wish to hear from her again, there is a little service that you will have to perform for her. You will not see her, but you will serve her pleasure nevertheless. Are you interested?”
I had got quite indignant during the speech, and just put the ‘phone down, fizzing with anger. How dared she have her PA speak to me like that? Five minutes later I had realised that I might lose her for ever if I didn’t play along - and that that would feel terrible. Ten minutes later I was back on to her assistant, claiming my ‘phone had just gone dead.
“But you heard that there is something you can do for Madame F, Clemmie?”
“Yes. Yes, I did.”
“And you are willing?”
“Yes. Yes, of course; really.”
“Very good. Madame F would like you to go dancing at G’s club in town tonight. Wear something sexy, but not much of it, and go with the flow. That’s the message. Don’t let her down, Clemmie.”
She couldn’t (or wouldn’t) tell me any more. So did I go? Of course I did, and wearing my flimsiest, slinkiest minidress, high heel strappy sandals, a tiny thong and slinky brassiere. And I got myself a bit drunk, and I danced. And danced some more, and still got nothing beyond the usual stupid guys making come-ons.
I was waiting for something more sophisticated. And, at last, I got it – a seriously elegant woman, about 35 or so, olive skin, long black hair, with deep green eyes in a flawless face stood swaying lithely in front of me. She was so impressive, so gorgeous, it took me a little while to realise that it was one of Madame F’s friends who had left after my first dance the other night.
She smiled a lopsided smile at me, and began to dance more with me than in front of me. I smiled back, nervous, but with a tingling in my belly. God, but she was lovely. If she had reached for my pussy then I wouldn’t have pulled away. Instead she just danced for a while.
Then she leaned over and said, softly, in my ear;
“I’m sorry I missed seeing you whipped.”
There was no real answer to that but a blush. My heart began to hammer, and my nipples tightened. She knew what had been done to me the other night! And that she was here meant Madame F had told her about me, which meant she knew how wildly I had come – knew I had been unable to avoid my own response after being whipped and gang-fucked by strangers. For a stranger to know this about me was doing terrible things to me - terrible and fascinating at the same time.
She stood back from me and watched. I looked up, wanting to see her eyes, see what she thought of me, frightened, but needy too. Her smile was like hot acid – I was set on fire and scourged by it. Her face made it clear that she knew everything and was going to exploit my weakness to the full. I was drowning in her gaze – had to look away, utterly confused, my heart thumping, knees weak. I wanted to run, but couldn’t. I wanted her to take me in her arms, there and then, but she didn’t. I looked back at her, knowing, but not caring, that she would see the weakness in my eyes.
“Please, what do you want me to do?”
“Dance sexy for me now. I want to see your panties.”
And she lifted my chin and stared deeply into my eyes, until my nerves got the better of me and I looked down and bit my lip.
“Show me what a little slut you are!”
And her voice, her look was so assured, so wonderfully strong, that I wanted to please her, really wanted her to find me sexy. Really wanted her to like me. She knew what I was like! I wasn’t going to be in charge of what happened next. Thinking about whether she would tie me up. Hoping she wouldn’t hurt me…. but imagining it anyway…
Terrified and excited at the same time, I smiled a tiny smile at her, and began to move. Daring only little glances up at her as I swayed, to see if she was watching, to see if I was pleasing her, I danced as sexily as I knew how, forgetting where I was, lifting the hem of my flirty minidress, running my hands over my body, parting my thighs widely, until she caught my hand and pulled me to her.
“You understand you’re going to get beaten and fucked tonight girly, don’t you?”
I couldn’t answer, couldn’t do anything but tremble; my eyes trapped by hers, helpless. Slowly, a crooked smile spread across her face. She was sure of me. I didn’t need to answer. Deliberately, she ran a hand up my thigh and up into my crotch. It was obvious to both of us how aroused I was, even without the little gasp I couldn’t hold back as she pinched at my poor clit between two long, lacquered nails, but which made her laugh.
“You are easy, little whore. Come over here and dance for my friends. I want them to see what a delicious little slut you are, before we take you away from here and brutalise you.”
Shocked at the thought of others, I nevertheless followed her obediently across the dance floor, smiled a desperate, frightened little smile at her friends, two women and a man, and looked down, blushing as she told them that I was theirs for the night, courtesy of Madame F, that I was already excited, had a wet pussy at the prospect of getting whipped and gang-fucked, that Madame F had told her to be cruel to me, because I liked it.
She didn’t seem to care who overheard – and people obviously did, because they stared at her - and at me, too. I could do nothing but stand there, trembling, while they looked me over, gazes that hardly touched my face, but lingered at my tits, my thighs, my ankles, desperately ashamed, horribly embarrassed, completely entranced.
This time, when she asked me to dance, I was nervous, unable at first unable to get moving, but gradually I got going, doing my best to lose myself in the movement, so I wouldn’t have to think about what might happen later. And it worked; I wriggled my hips and shook my breasts for them, and swished my hem to show them the tiny thong, lost in my moist slit after the woman’s thorough investigation of my tingling pussy (realising with a lurch that I still didn’t even know her name). I found myself needing to know what they thought of me, so I made little glances and saw how they were looking at me – cool, amused, predatory; exchanging lazy comments about my tits, my ass.
Other people were looking at me as well, women sneering, men leering, and for the first time I really felt like a whore. I should have walked away, but I didn’t. Instead I made myself concentrate on my body - on making it attractive, enticing, promising, embracing the idea that these strangers were going to use me as a sex object without the slightest interest in me personally; it made me go weak at the knees, even as the shame lapped at me in ever bigger waves.
The tall blonde one caught my eye then, and I looked away, then as quickly found I had to look back, letting her see right into me, probing me, letting it be clear to her - wanting it to be clear to her - that I was going to let her do what she wanted to me, that I wanted her to use me, that I would respond to her desires, whatever they were. All this in a split second that left me reeling, while her only response was a mildly amused, cool smile.
I wanted to die then, so weak and helpless and unnecessary did I feel. I knew I would do anything for her, anything at all, just in the hope of getting some spark of human warmth from her, while they seemed only mildly interested, sneeringly amused, taking me for granted. They had finished their drinks, and paid the bill, and then it was time to go; I went along with them meekly, obeying a casual flick of Green eyes’ hand, asking no questions. The man brought up the rear, opening doors for me, smiling at me in a friendly way, even making small talk, to which I could hardly answer. At the same time my one moment of indecision, when I might have escaped, was smoothed over by him simply placing a gentle hand on my hip, steering me forward. And so I was taken.
Once outside, they led me round the corner to a quiet alleyway, then, without warning, almost conversationally, Green Eyes said;
“Legs apart, and stand still, cunt.”
Breathing fast, I couldn’t at first understand what this meant, couldn’t relate it to me, until eventually I realised that I must be the ‘cunt’. A tiny surge of protest rose in me, then died almost before it arose: confronted by Cool Blonde’s calm, amused expression - daring me to let them down, to fail - I blushed and slowly obeyed.
The man immediately held my wrists behind me as a leather belt was used to tie my arms above the elbow while another was looped around my neck. While this was happening my little thong was cut away and fingers got busy at my pussy, still hot and juiced up from that other world in the Club. Another world, only minutes gone, when things were dreamy and sexy. For my sex to still be this way now, in this cold, dark, hard-edged alley, with strangers being crude and scary, made me feel horribly vulnerable, horribly frightened. Someone else cut the shoulder straps of my dress and bra, exposing my breasts, offered up by the lacy, underwired cups, nipples stiff in the breeze.
Within a few short seconds I had been transformed into a half naked and helpless sex toy, weak and trembling. I was terrified, but had no thought of, let alone capacity for, running away. The man behind me had to support me, or my legs would have given way. He chose to do this by crudely grasping my crotch from behind with one hand, lifting me slightly, while winding my hair into his other fist, forcing my head back. I wailed, soft, low, weak.
The third woman now had at least three fingers jammed hard into my sex and her thumb on my clit, her other hand on my hip, controlling me. I was writhing, but not seriously offering any resistance – resistance didn’t even occur to me as strange, soft gasps and cries were forced from me.
“Like this, don’t you slut?” she asked.
She forced my chin up with her other hand. I saw Green Eyes and Cool Blonde either side of her, watching, smirking; obviously enjoying the sight of me being humbled. I bit my lip, trying to keep quiet, not to betray myself. I didn’t trust myself to speak. I had nothing to say, in any case.
“Maybe she doesn’t like it after all? Okay bitch, we’ll let you go. Do you want us to do that?”
I still couldn’t speak. She took her hands from me, jerked her chin at the man behind me. I was released, the ties removed as quickly as they had been applied. Then all four of them turned and walked away, leaving me, naked breasts cool in the night air, feeling as sick and desperate as I could remember feeling when abandoned by any lover. I sank to my knees, in torment for a few seconds of indecision, then:
“Please, please, no, don’t … I do… I do like it!… Please?”
Ignored, I cried out in desperation, reaching out, heart hammering - this was insanity!
“Please!”
And at last they turned, stood staring at me, then slowly returned. The man stood directly in front of me, unbuttoning his fly to release a semi stiff prick, thick and veined. I knew what was expected of me – I had to do this, or be spurned. Tears were in my eyes as I opened my lips and leaned into him, taking the fat cockhead into my mouth, tasting a strangers cock even as my arms were drawn behind me and tied once more, leaving me at his mercy as he began to crudely fuck my throat, without interest in any technique on my part, just thrusting deep into me, making me gag as I was held from behind.
In self defense, I made myself relax, allow myself to jerk like a ragdoll as he fucked my mouth, tits bouncing around, my own weight helping him penetrate me more deeply, the tears flowing thick and fast, and then mixed with jism as he came in my mouth and it spurted from my nostrils, choking me.
He shouted with laughter as he came, jerking out of me, come spattering my face and hair as I collapsed in a heap, nipples, shoulders, thighs scraping on the sharp gravel. I was broken.
The night became a black, gold and red dream. It had to be a dream, because if it was real, I must have died at the pain, and fear, and shame of it.
Kicked viciously in the cunt - something so beyond imagining that I found it impossible to process as reality - I was forced to stand, pulled upward by the man by a handful of my hair, squealing pathetically. The same hand controlled me so that I was walked to their car like a marionette, sobbing brokenly, then simply bundled into the boot in a heap.
At a big house, I was stripped of all but my shoes, then handed a tiny frilly apron, which I was too scared not to put on, all of them watching me; watching my breasts move, I remember, as I fumbled for the cotton ties, trembling with fright and shame, wanting to go home, but daring not to do anything that might make them upset.
I was made to serve drinks, while they entertained themselves firing paper pellets at me from little BB guns, giving themselves points for hitting my tits and pussy, laughing and shouting and drinking and making crude comments about me - about my body, about my morals, Green Eyes telling them everything that F had told her about how I had been treated that night, how I had asked for more.
I was frightened to begin with, and the pellets stung, but gradually I managed to calm myself down, knowing I had to, if I was to survive this, and I began to make myself smile at them, as a victim smiles at her bully, helplessly hoping for mercy.
And then, somehow, through some tiny kindness - a soft slap on the behind that was almost a caress, a compliment on the way my breasts moved, how sexy the brazilian was that F had ordained, I found myself giggling for real, a little hysterically, to be sure, but trying to tell myself this was fun, that these people were cool, that I liked their attention.
And then it was true, I realised - I did like them looking at me, I did. And, too, that I liked them knowing they could treat me badly, that I was naked for them - that I was here for it too. I knew at the same time that this was a bad situation - very bad indeed; that terrible things were going to be done to me - but also that it was going to happen anyway, that I could not escape, so that I might as well try to retain some dignity by acting as if I wanted it. All of it - even that cruelty.
Oh, it was hard - waves of extreme emotions flooding through me, impossible to camouflage, so that they kept laughing at me as I screwed my face up, trying to hold back tears, or tried to pretend that my shriek of pain when a close-range pellet caught my clitoris was actually an excited giggle.
I saw where the power in the group lay, too, and began flirting as much as I could all the time with both the hostess – Green Eyes - and with Cool Blonde; encouraging them to touch me, giggling at them when they demanded that I play with my nipples for them, or lift my apron so they could shoot at my poor pussy.
Later I was sodomized with big strap-ons, then double penetrated - the man in my ass and a strap-on in my pussy, during which I orgasmed helplessly; loudly, desperately, gasping, sobbing, begging them to fuck me harder, wanting to be taken out of myself, even if only for a few seconds of delirium.
Then came the terror: I was thrashed by all of them, not tied up or gagged, just locked, naked but for stockings and heels and the silly little apron, into a large empty room with four sadists and various whips and crops. I ran and crawled, cowering, squirming and begging, screaming with fear, but they beat me mercilessly, laughing with each other, passing vicious, humiliating comments and congratulating each other on particularly cruel strokes, until I pissed myself with fear and pain; a wild and desperate animal, driven way beyond hysterics.
I was vaguely aware that two of them left, then - the man and the third woman, leaving me with Green Eyes and Cool Blonde, who firmly but gently led me upstairs, shivering and shaking, and then showered me, calming me, stroking me softly, telling me how gorgeous I was, how pretty, how sexy, how exciting - then caressed and fingered me until I was surprised by helpless excitement, gasping, moaning, sighing in their arms.
They talked to me then, gently, sweetly as to tone - but what they said!
They wanted to whip me some more, they said – it would be cruel, they would hurt me as much, maybe more than before – they wanted to hear me scream and cry again, take me past any limits I might have. But they wanted me to ask them for it. I cried, I shivered, said I couldn’t. Begged, through broken sobbing, to be allowed to please them any way I could, just as long as they didn’t whip me.
In the lounge again, both of them stroking me, licking me, kissing me deeply, making me quiver with desire, they explained again. They wouldn’t whip me unless I asked for it. But whipping me was what would please them, so would I please, clearly, firmly, beg to be whipped, cruelly whipped?
I sobbed, horrified, but they didn’t let up until, at last;
“Just .. just a few, then. And only on my ass..,”
They laughed: three fingers slid deep into my sex, making me gasp, realise how hot I was, how dirty I was, how shockingly eager - needy - stupidly grateful….
“Oh, you silly, sweet little girl - you know you can’t bargain with us – you’re just a lovely, naked piece of cunt we’re playing with. You don’t have anything to bargain with - F has already given you to us, hasn’t she? You’re ours. Ours to do whatever we want with. Once you’ve told us you want it, we’ll whip you any way we please – cruel and hard – and you will scream and cry and suffer for us, just as long as we want you to. Now stop being silly, and admit that you want it.”
They were relentless, and I was lost in craziness anyway, and five minutes later I heard my own voice saying;
“OK” in a half whisper.
But that still wasn’t good enough for them. They laughed, and praised me, and kissed and stroked me - had me gasping and wailing with desire - but it still wasn’t good enough. I had to ask for it clearly, out loud.
“Look into my eyes, pussy, and just say it. Ask me to chain you up, whip you, hard and cruel, on your ass, your tits and between your legs. You know you’re going to do it, so just do it now, and make it pretty, eh? Just for me.”
Green Eyes’ masterful, clever fingers were at my pussy again, and it was glorious, and I loved the attention, and the knowledge that Cool Blonde was watching, that she would see me beg, and that she would be whipping me, and I looked deep at into those lovely, cruel eyes, and in a small, breathy voice, told her that I wanted her to whip me, that I wanted her to be cruel, that I wanted her to make me scream and cry, that she should ignore my pleas for mercy.
And when I had finished, I couldn’t stop myself from looking round to the blonde woman, to see if she was watching, and she was, and she saw the need in my eyes, saw how turned on I was, and laughed at me, and I found myself smiling at her – a small, pleading smile;
“Don’t worry pretty, my whip is as cruel as hers.”
And then the tears were splashing off my breasts, and I began to shake with fear, begging, mumbling my pleas for mercy, crying that I hadn’t meant it - unable to believe what I had just done; they laughed and paid no attention; blindfolded me, bound my wrists, and put a thick leather collar on me, before lifting my linked wrists over my head and fixing them to the back of the collar – which they then linked to some chain fixed to the ceiling.
They took their time now, enjoying my quivering apprehension.
“Now you can’t protect your lovely tits even if you want to – your pretty nipples are going to feel what a dog whip can do.”
Where the first whipping had been more psychological, this was more physical – they concentrated on my arse and tits, with occasional vicious cuts between my legs, and simply took turns, whipping me thoroughly, slow and steady, for what seemed like hours, but was probably only ten or fifteen minutes, until I was hoarse with screaming, my body limp from kicking and thrashing - no matter how pointless it was, I had not been able to stop myself from jerking around wildly on the chain, futilely seeking escape from the vicious strokes, knowing, with desperate shame, just how pathetic I must appear, their cruel, laughing comments burning into me all the more, since I agreed with them.
Then, without removing the blindfold or comforting me, they double fucked me with fat strap-ons – my knees held high so that I was obscenely split open. At first it was agony, and I screamed and moaned but they took it slowly and steadily, talking to me, kissing and licking me, stroking me, until, shamefully, horribly, by degrees I felt the lust rise in me again as I got caught up in the power of it all over again, and began to move, and my moans became pleasure as well as moan in pain, and at last I came like a steam train, crying out my orgasm as if it were pain, unsure, any more, of the difference, then weeping softly and hopelessly, helplessly, all the sensitive parts of me alive with the intensity of it all.
They left me then, I suppose. Left me crying softly, feeling so unutterably wrung-out, vulnerable and shamed that I would have welcomed death.
In any case, they weren’t present when, some time later – how long I couldn’t tell – strong hands lifted me down and took off the restraints. A man – not the one who had buggered me earlier – somehow I knew he was a servant, carried upstairs me to a large bedroom, with a huge bed and a bathroom en-suite; gently showered me with cool water, rubbed soothing lotion into all the tender places which hurt so much, ignoring my feeble and ridiculous attempts at modesty, while being perfectly practical in his movements, and put me to bed, finally attaching soft leather cuffs at my wrists, ankles and throat, and chaining one wrist to a bedpost.
Only after all this did he lean over and lay two cool fingers gently on my swollen, sore pussy mound. He spoke softly in my ear.
“They will burn you, here, soon. I hope I am able to watch.”
He left me then, naked, with soft, warm covers, and at last I slept, a deep dreamless sleep. It felt late when I woke. A tray on the bed had a light, delicious breakfast, and a key. I was sore all over, but also somehow warm, relaxed and calm. I had done what Madame F wanted, had been a complete whore, even begged to be abused. I had also come in bucketfuls. However shameful the circumstances, there is a lazy pleasure the day after multiple orgasms – the body is soft, relaxed, dreamy. The wrist chain was gone.
At length I looked around – a skimpy white cotton dress with spaghetti straps and high heeled white suede mules were laid out and a white leather collar, wrist and ankle cuffs, all with nice little steel rings, just inviting someone to chain them together. No underwear, of course.
I showered, applied some more of the soothing ointment that I found in the bathroom, dressed and, after looking at the collar set for a long, shivery moment, eventually put them on too. I was sore, yes, but nowhere near as badly as I had imagined I must be - and the marks on my honey skin were not so dark, either. In those days the psychology of being beaten was so intense that it magnified the experience, the expectation of pain. I am more violently and throughly whipped these days, with less impact.
Feeling shy and nervous, excited, but somehow not scared, I ventured out. The dress was very short and almost backless, the heels very high; my breasts moved freely. I found my way downstairs, heard music and voices, and found the main room – where last night I had been abused, humiliated, whipped and double fucked.
Now it was a sunny, LA morning room. The two women who had used me so cruelly the night before were lounging about, smiling and chatting easily. They jumped up, welcomed me in, gently took my arm, kissed my cheek and laughing, led me to a comfy chair.
They wanted to know all about me. It was really quite flattering. Green Eyes did all the talking, making plans to go shopping together, even – Cool Blonde just looked on. I kept turning to find her cool, smiling gaze on me, and having flashbacks of her face just after I had asked for the whip.
The dress was so short that, relaxed in the low seat, without panties, I was aware that my pussy was often at least somewhat visible. I began to wait for them to ask me to strip. To want them to. I began to get hot. I began to think about the inevitable – that they would hurt me again. Whip me. I kept thinking about them whipping me. I got hotter.
After a while, there was a lull, some organising with the manservant – I wasn’t paying attention. When it was calm again, I found I had to ask the question that was uppermost in my thoughts.
“Are … Are you going to whip me again?”
They laughed at me then, looked at each other, sharing the joke, left me waiting, turning my gaze from one lovely, cool face to the other, my breath coming only in shallow sips; weak, vulnerable, feeling it, living with it, letting myself feel it, this new sensation - like being a fly on a pin; the eight year old boy about to pull my wings off, trapped by the intensity of the foreknowledge …
Cool Blonde got lazily, elegantly up – I was mesmerised by how controlled and langorous her movements were – and knelt beside me – she was still taller than me as I sat in the low seat. Gently, almost tenderly, she advanced a fingertip, delicately slipping up my inner thigh until it just touched my warm sex lips. Automatically, my legs stiffened. She smiled, slightly, looked me deep in the eyes, and said;
“Don’t you ever close your legs to me, little whore. Open yourself to me, beautifully, or I’ll take my cigarette lighter and ruin your cute little nipples.”
Her voice, her face, had changed - there was no friendliness, no warm smile, no shared mood; she was cold and formal, so that I had no doubt that she meant every word of it. And I obeyed her as prettily as I could, fear like a hot knife in me.
“I … I’m sorry, M .. Mistress.”
Then a sharp, soft moan as she took my clitoris and nipped it between two lacquered nails. It was glorious and terrible at the same time, and I was pathetically eager to open myself.
“Now, pussy, what was your question?”
It was a little while until I could speak, then;
“Please, I, I asked were you going to … to whip me again?”
A pause, then she smiled, and said;
“What do you think?”
I stared at her for a second, then dropped my gaze. She nipped my clit, hard. It was glorious;
“A ah -o-oh!”
”Answer, when you’re asked a question, naughty little cunt.”
“Sorry, sorry, mistress. I … I think. Yes, you will whip me again.”
“When?”
It took me a while, but I got the point in the end;
“I guess, when, when you want to.”
“And how cruel will we be?”
There could only be one answer…
“As, as cruel as you want to be, mistress.”
“And do you want us to?”
It took a long time to answer, but we all knew I would say it in the end, and in fact, it was a relief to say it;
“Yes, mistress, I … I do want you to whip me again.”
She stroked my face;
“Good pussy. Lift your knees up now, open yourself wide, and kiss me.”
And the kiss was marvellous, all engulfing, all consuming, as the hand at my sex became the points of four fingers and slowly, relentlessly, invaded me, until the pain began, and worse, as her knuckles forced my pussy open and her whole hand was in me, moving, the hairs of her wrist tickling my labia. Tears of pain squeezed out of my eyes as the hand bunched itself inside me and at last formed a fist!
Cool Blonde leaned back and smiled at me as she slowly, remorselessly pistoned her fist inside my poor pussy, her eyes sneering at me as she fucked me, showing me her disdain for my wantonness as I began to be aroused, to gasp and pant, to lose focus, to buck my hips, opening my thighs as wide as I could, to cry and call out my pleasure at being so used.
Even though Green Eyes leaned over me from behind and began playing with my nipples, I was denied release, time and again, until I was near screaming with frustration. At last, Green Eyes spoke to Cool Blonde;
“We have to be in Beverly Hills in a half hour or so.”
“Yes, of course. I’m looking forward to playing nasty cop with that luscious red head. I’ll just wash up and fetch my bag.”
And she pulled her hand from inside me without ceremony and left the room, perfectly poised, leaving me bereft. I wanted to cry, to collapse, curl into a ball. Green Eyes was over at a side table.
“We’re done with you. Alan will call you a cab. I’ll call you up someday, if I feel like hurting a pretty slut. No - don’t you dare move, hold that pose, sweety - it’s so perfectly dirty, and your face is just too cute for words. Open your mouth now - wider!”
She stood over me and pushed a fat roll of banknotes into my obedient mouth.
“Stay there for five minutes now, won’t you – I want to think of you like that for a while!”
And indeed I didn’t move for a long time. Just sat there, hands pulling my knees up and back, dress rucked up to show my gaping pussy, mouth distended with the wad of bills, tears rolling slowly down my face. Eventually, sure that it must have been long enough, but still fearful - even though I knew they had left - I pulled myself together, straightened myself. Told myself I was going home. She had given me $3,000!
After a while, I stood up, found Alan in a small room off the hall, watching a small array of security screens. Yes, there was the chair I had been sitting in. He must have seen everything.
Alan was the man who had put me to bed the night before. I had no secrets from him, yet I didn’t know him at all. He was perfectly polite, respectful even, and said certainly he would call me a cab. In the meantime, would I like some tea, an iced drink, or did I want to stay and have a swim in the pool?
I just stood there, a little stupidly, and eventually half whispered that I would just wait, thanks, only - could I please have a glass of water?
I sat on a little stool in the hall and drank my water. He stared at me the whole time, mildly enough, while I felt unbearably self-conscious, feeling every move of my breasts in the tiny little dress, desperately conscious of how short the skirts were. I was trembling all over by the time the taxi came - and the ride home wasn’t much better, with the driver leering at me in the rear view mirror.
This initial post continues on from here, but Part 2 of Belonging to Madame F starts from this point, and goes into more detail.
I slept most of that day, woke, showered, ate a little, then slept again. I didn’t allow myself to think, much - I suppose I was in shock of some sort. Intense flashbacks would seize me momentarily, leave me cringing, or panting, or grinding my nails into my palms, but each time I simply forced myself to shut down. Eventually, I simply zoned out, and slept for something like 15 hours straight.
I awoke, bleary, confused, sore, stiff, throat dry, shaking from the after-image of a disturbing and immediately forgotten waking dream. I sat up with a shock when the reality of the past 48 hours hit me, trembling, and began weeping.
I wept, softly, for a while, hugging myself gently (whip marks were turning darker now, almost purple, all over my body, I was bruised and sore everywhere - throat, sex, asshole not the least) - and then stopped; stood up, dropped the couch blanket I’d slept under, and walked into the bathroom to look at myself in the big mirror there.
I was a mess; but I felt no horror, no shock, no shame, no anger. Rather, I marveled. This was me. Little, hopeless silly girl me.
Marked as I was, naked, hair all tangled, eyes full of the reality of what had been done to me - what I had allowed - asked - to be done to me, the feeling I had was - believe it or not - pride. Utterly bizarre, but true. I was proud to be the girl who had been the object of their desire, the object of their cruelty too - to have been the focus of attention of those magnificent women. I was the one who had let them do that to someone. There couldn’t be too many girls that would have done that for them, could there?
They had wanted me, wanted to do extreme things to me - wanted me to behave perfectly so they could do it to me, and I had satisfied them. And I had come for them, shown them that I was for real - not just acting for the money - I hadn’t even expected the money - just done it because Madame F had asked me to.
Madame F! The money! So many surprising aspects to this strange experience.
I was a different person - I had been changed, and so profoundly, within the space of a week. Parties, wild living, my girlfriends, these no longer interested me much. Instead, all my thoughts were of intensity - of the fear and glory that doing Madame F’s bidding had brought; of how pale and lacking in meaning my life had been - for the last couple of years, really, until I had met Madame F.
And I would tremble at the implications of it all. However stupid a life I had been leading, I wasn’t actually that dumb. I knew just how dangerous it could be, to let cruel and greedy rich people use you up - I’d seen other girls have experiences (although nothing quite like this, as far as I knew), and be full of it for a while, glorying in excess, in wildness, until they got seriously fucked-up, or just dropped-out, or simply disappeared, leaving behind an uneasy feeling - had they just got the bus back home? Why did they never call their former best friends?
I had no illusions, either, that Madame F cared about me - still less her fascinating friends, Cool Blonde and Green Eyes.
Nevertheless, I was living with my reality, and - for now at least - that reality meant staying at home, in my little apartment, and waiting for the ‘phone to ring.
I had meaning; I had purpose. And that meaning was to be the most fascinating, the most exciting, the most desirable creature in their minds. The one they looked forward to fucking, the one who did what they wanted, the one who squealed for them, danced for them, fucked for them, suffered for them.
My attention was focused on my body - it was what Madame F liked, what she wanted, and the better it was, the more entertaining they found it, the longer they might keep me around.
It was frightening - because of what I would be subjected to - yes, of course. But I had proven to myself that I could survive intensity. No, what was frightening was who I would be, how I would survive the reality of being dumped - of being discarded, as it was obvious I must be, sooner or later, in favour of the next tasty little morsel that offered itself up.
But that wouldn’t be this week - or next week, or even the one after, and I craved the intensity, the contact with those people that those weeks could bring - craved it as I had never craved anything before. Needed it as I needed to breathe.
I knew this, because at one point, it had all become too much for me, and I’d started shouting at myself - in my head at first, then out loud; telling myself this was insane, that I had to break out of this, that no good would come of it - that it was a sign that I’d been here in LaLaLand too long - that I should admit defeat - go home, back to Arkansas, back to my drab old life, look for a job, forget excitement, settle down and accept that I can’t handle the big city.
Except that after five minutes of telling myself that’s what I’d do, I had the first full-on hysterical panic attack since adolescence, and frightened myself badly.
What worked was getting myself back in front of the mirror, naked again, and tracing the whip marks on me, putting fingers in my mouth, in my sex, reminding myself how it had felt to have Cool Blonde put her fist into me, how unutterably alive I had felt at that moment, to tell myself she would do that to me again - and more.
I didn’t need to suffocate - I needed to burn up with that intensity.
Later that day, a knock at the door; a delivery guy with an unmarked, heavy box. He seemed bored, just doing a job, and I knew he was nothing to do with Madame F.
In the box was a screw-eye bolt with a sharp tip, a big pair of pliers, a hammer, a leather collar with cuffs and a chain attached, and a chunky weird looking padlock. A piece of paper had some instructions for fixing the bolt - into the door frame of the bedroom, just above head height - and a crude diagram of the arrangement of the cuffs and chain.
On the other side, it said I should undo the lock on the front door - propping it closed with a light chair so it wouldn’t swing open, than get myself naked, put the collar on, padlock the chain through the eye bolt, put a paper bag over my head, then fix the cuffs. The lock was clockwork - it would unlock itself after an hour. I should spend as much time as possible in this position. I should sleep for no more than four hours at a time, and should have spent at least two hours chained between sleeps. At some point, I would be collected. I was to go with whoever collected me, do whatever they asked, without fuss. There was nothing at all to indicate who had sent it, but it wasn’t necessary.
I cried. I cried with fear, of course, but I also cried with relief. They wanted me. My heart was pitter-pattering. She had found a way of making it intense, even though I was alone. I was humbled by that attention to the detail of my reality, by the careful, cruel simplicity of the regime.
I’m pathetic with mechanical things, and it took forever to fix the bolt (it probably would come out if I even fell awkwardly while chained - but it was strong enough so I couldn’t actually pull it free, and the chains and cuffs felt heavy and solid enough).
Within an hour of taking delivery, I was naked, chained, cuffed, helpless; my front door unlocked, a paper bag over my head, listening to the tinny little whir of the internal workings of the padlock, feeling the fear rise, my imagination working overtime, waiting to be collected…
Part 2 of Belonging to Madame F starts from a point farther back than this, with more detail.
