Entrapment
“So your stepfather is going to be at this party, and you think I can get him to alter his will in your favour?”
“That’s it. He’s a notoriously aggressive womaniser. If you dress to kill, then flirt with him, go to his cabin with him, but then get awkward — tell him you won’t let him fuck you. He won’t like it — he’ll get pushy, angry, aggressive — try and force you — rape you. That’s when I burst in with a camera and we blackmail him.”
It had all seemed at least possible then. Standing there in the ‘rape-bait’ dress, in the enormous mansion, set in private grounds, with what seemed like a small army of serious looking security guys in dark suits and shades, she was no longer so sure.
But James’ stepfather was already coming over, smiling his reptile smile…
Would you take me in?
“You have pretty breasts. Do you mind me looking at them?”
“No. … Please … please look … look as much as you want.”
…
“You … you’re the man that … that … that corrupts young girls, aren’t you?”
“If you mean by that that I’m rich and that I’m happy to give board and lodging to a few eager young sluts, then I may be your man. I’m not sure I’ve ever actually corrupted anyone though.”
“Oh.”
…
“Might … might you … um …? Would … would you take me in?”
The Mask
The experience of wearing this mask, for two days solid. Of being used by anonymous men, of being kept on her knees or her back at all times. Not permitted to speak, or use her hands to help herself. Always conscious that she had to get men to come inside her, or accumulate extra whipping points.
The photograph brought it back to her — how powerful it had been, how completely it had changed her, the effects on her psyche permanent.
A year ago; her 21st birthday present.
“I’ve another present for you this year” he said; “A week.”
Fresh Meat
She had worked hard for this, competed for it, fought for it, performed for it.
And now she was here.
A wave of tender sadness passed over her, tenderness for the innocent girl she had been, sadness that the world was shaped this way — that her choices had been so harsh.
She doesn’t need to fight anymore. She had won — she’s a success. From tonight she is to be the new star of Fresh Meat.
Fame for a week or two, as she attempts to remain fresh and interesting to the masses; ravished and used repeatedly every night, intimately beautified and advised by sexual experts each day, live-streamed for 12 hours at a stretch.
As the viewers get bored, she’ll be asked to allow things to get more extreme, and she’ll go as far as she dares.
Ultimately, no matter what depravities she is prepared to accept, her channel will fall below the viable viewing threshold, and she’ll be paid off; the longer she lasts, the more she earns - a very explicit formula.
Who will she be when it’s all over?
Of course, the cameras are on her as she has these thoughts; they are her thoughts, her feelings, but from now on — at least until the ‘Fucking Bronco’(that’s what the crew call the show) throws her off — her thoughts and feelings must be put to work to maximise the interest of the millions.
For they have explained to her that the more poignant the initial violations are — the more it is clear to the viewers that, however hard she has fought for the right to be thoroughly debased on the streaming channels, that she is nevertheless a tender and innocent spirit at heart — the more that this can be emphasised, the easier they can go on her at the start, and the longer it can all be drawn out. ‘Better for all of us, sweety’ as the showruner had said in the morning meeting — in front of the whole core team — all 27 of them; her kneeling on the table, legs spread, in the diaphanous wrap — for this, too was being filmed.
If she did it right, the first night’s show would be a romantic dinner date with two handsome young men and a relatively vanilla double penetration; ‘gentle and sexy’, they’d said, and ; ‘if it goes well it can be three or four days before we have anyone hit you, and a week before we need to start doing rape scenarios.‘
Exquisite Paradox
She could never decide whether she envied or pitied the permanent slavegirls; whether the shocked, quivering, all-consuming intensity of this enforced transition between normal daily life and the experience of being used as an impersonal vehicle for the lusts of vicious strangers was something she would give everything to leave behind, or whether it was the pinnacle of her existence.
In the end, it didn’t matter what she thought, of course. It wasn’t up to her to choose. This paradox also, was exquisite.
Her moan, when the first blow slashed into her soft breasts, was rich with the deep, abandoned tone of despairing ecstasy, and her arms remained relaxed by her sides while the tears dripped softly from her eyes onto her trembling lips.
The Rack
The treatment was long and extreme. He sat with her throughout, telling her how hard his dick was, how vulnerable her breasts looked, occasionally asking the men in the hoods to tighten the restraints, to speed up or slow down. In the intervals, he teased her sex with a feather until she screamed at that, too.
When it was over the two men fucked her, almost mechanically, grunting their climaxes without seeming enjoyment or satisfaction.
“I’ll bring you here every few weeks for a while. You’ll be thoroughly broken after only a couple of visits — but it will take more than that until I’m ready to try something else with you.”
He indicated his groin with a lazy flick of his fingers and she, kneeling, naked, trembling, thighs spread, face streaked with tears, body with welts and sweat, leaned forward without hesitation, tucked her hands behind her back as soon as his cock was free, and softly, smoothly took him deep, right down into her throat.
He could feel her tears splashing onto his pubes, but her tongue was as cleverly servile as ever, and she was remembering to wiggle her hips cutely and keep her tits jiggling, even though there was no-one there to fuck her other holes.
Afterwards, they would go for ice-cream, they’d figure out a date and time, and she’d use his phone to make the call to make the next booking, her sweet, girlish voice asking earnestly for them to be sure to make a note that all operatives should feel free to fuck her at any point of the proceedings.
And then she’d smile at him, and go through the afternoon’s appointments with him, and they’d walk back to campus, discussing how her research reading on the Stoics was going. Last week he’d had to remind her;
“You must walk normally, you know; the fact that it’s uncomfortable — that it’s hard, that it hurts, is sort of the point — you know this. You’re a gorgeous, sexy creature, but you can’t be with me unless you make maximum effort at all times to present yourself well.”
Today, he’d find out how her date with the sub-Dean had gone. His grant review was due in a month and it had taken longer than he’d anticipated to get her to accept that fucking certain people on campus was going to be required of her — that she wasn’t going to be allowed to keep her status a secret.
