She knows it for sure, now. The photographer and that old guy who runs the advertising agency are going to fuck her. Why didn’t she leave half an hour ago? Why did she agree to remove the brassiere?
Why has she got this sick, hot, helpless feeling in her belly that she knows won’t go away until they have both used her? How is it that these photographs at the end - that she never gets paid for, that are never used, only passed to special clients - are always the ones she works hardest for?
Moments like this were so, so dangerous; so, so tremblingly exciting - so shot with cold fear…
She would do anything, agree to anything, beg for anything, just to have these moments extended, for so little, for so little…
And it was her joy, and her terror, to make her weakness, her need, her desire, plain for all to see.
What usually happened was that this inflamed one or more of the onlookers, which amused Madam, who then offered her to the most apparently wild of those clamouring to use her.
She keeps coming back.
Each time it gets weirder, harsher, and much harder to face him afterwards. To try and talk to him as if she inhabits the same world as him.
But she keeps coming back.
This time she hasn’t looked him in the eye once. Not when he opened the door, and not since. She won’t be able to, not ever again, she knows; the shame is too great. She inhabits a lower plane of existence than him; that sounds weird, in her head, but makes perfect sense of the reality of being around him.
There’s another girl sitting in the corner, but he didn’t introduce her, and so she acts as if they are alone, letting him order her around, use her. He’s much rougher this time, frightening her; issuing orders rather than requests - but the resolution is, as always, the catharsis she has been needing for days.
It was in her. Inside her softest place.
So deep.
So solid, so dry.
Every wriggle drove it deeper. It felt as if it was burning her.
People came and went through the hall; some stopped to watch for a while; others walked past, apparently able to take her, and the awful thing which has been done to her, for granted.
She was so, so eager for the chance to explain how changed she was, how grateful she would be for the chance to prove how clearly, now, she understood what she had done wrong, how ridiculous her previous attitude had been.
So pathetically, tremulously, desperately eager to thank them, as she had seen other girls do, on her knees, in urgent, sincere tones, for having done this terrible thing to her, for having taught her a lesson. She had despised those girls, then. Now, she sees that she will beg to become one of them, will wiggle her bottom, waggle her tongue tip - make all those slutty little moves they do, then giggle and moan and gasp as she is rutted by any men who grabs her, acting as if she loves it, grateful again - anything, anything, to avoid having this done to her again..
To be fucked like this, in front of strangers…
To be unable to contain her moans, or hide the intensity of her feeling…
The fat one had told her he would choke her with his cock.
She knew now that she would let him. That she wanted him to.
That once he had, all of them would use her like that.
Her sex no longer belonged to her. Everything about it was controlled by them. The only time she touched it was when ordered to bring herself off for their entertainment. She was brought up against this reality twenty, fifty times a day.
She knew that she could never go home now.
