BURNING CHEEKS
Her cheeks are burning. How can it be that she has so quickly been brought to this?
Not just acceptance of this status as a sexual plaything of these people, kept naked, abused, slapped even - that was bad enough. But now, conscious of the two young thugs watching her, she was totally focused on the deep, urgent need for them to find her attractive - sexually attractive.
The consequence of which, she well knows, is that she is likely to be bent over the low fence, out here in full view of all the main windows, and used by both of them. And it keeps getting harder to hide her arousal, resist orgasm.
She closes her eyes, to embarrassed to look, but nevertheless tosses her hair, feeling her breasts sway, a breathless part of her eager for it - for all of it.
LEASHED AND SCARED
She’s truly terrified, for the first time in her life.
Why has he dragged her, naked, into this cottage on a leash? He’s never done anything so crude before, and she’s been accepting handcuffs and collars for over 6 months now. And who are these three men? Wearing balaclavas and black tee shirts, they look seriously menacing, although they are obviously calm and relaxed.
More urgently, why is she obeying his curt order - ‘Squat, thighs spread’. Her heart is breaking. He’s going to have them fuck her - it’s obvious. And she isn’t going to be able to fight - it’s not the collar, or the leash, although they are powerful symbols. No, it’s her. She won’t fight them, she knows.
Her chest heaves. He knows her fantasies. But she had never really meant it…
Had she?
NEVER DRESSED
She was rarely presented naked - but then again never properly dressed either.
They liked the girls presented in clothing that made it obvious they had prepared themselves to invite sexual use. They liked to have something to rip from her as well - to heighten the sense of violation.
She had become addicted to it in a way that was eating into her more each passing day. She was no longer just a frightened girl, but an accomplice in her own subjugation, employing subtle body language to encourage them, to offer herself for abuse.
He was here again tonight - the scar-faced, cruel guy with the cold eyes, old enough to be her father. Halfway between tears and lust, she pulled back her shoulders and turned a little toward him, flicking her hair, needing him to choose her…
SOLD, NAKED
Although she had, in some sense, asked for this, the reality was completely and utterly beyond anything she could ever have imagined.
To be restrained, naked, displayed, helpless, in front of these well-dressed strangers - who were apparently discussing her in their harsh language - was the strangest feeling in the world.
She was terrified, horrified - she told herself.
And yet, there was a part of her that needed to see, to look into their eyes - to challenge them, to know if they were looking at her breasts, at her naked sex.
Her heart was thumping. He was taking off his coat, while the other gave her ‘boyfriend’ a fat wad of banknotes.
She was melting, unable to believe that this was real, weak and softly shaking.
She had been sold. He was going to rape her. Right now, in front of everyone.
IN LOVE WITH HER OWN IMAGE
She had fallen in love with this image of herself, with a picture of herself as a submissive slave girl. Corsets, collars, heels, cuffs, chains, these were her paintbrushes, her body the canvas.
The reality that she could only be such a thing at the price of terrifying and outrageous sexual mistreatment had gradually become her normality, so that the two things - the image and the abuse, had become one in her mind.
Dimly, she knew that she was lost. Occasionally, she cried to herself at night.
Mostly though, she worked hard to lose herself in being the perfect, desirable slave girl.
ANONYMOUS USE
For the first time she understands what it meant to be used entirely anonymously, but to give herself fully nevertheless.
She has no idea whose dick it is that is ploughing her sex so deeply, and she is just one of ten or more girls chained here in the gloomy basement for the use of revellers, but she finds herself responding as if it were her lover - her ex-lover, anyway; the man who had betrayed her into this life.
She feels him begin to move differently - faster, jerky, and, wanting to with her whole body, pathetically grateful, gives herself to him as fully as she can, opening her thighs, angling her hips so that she is maximally vulnerable to his greedy thrusting; soft, sweet tears coursing down her cheeks as he pumps his seed deep into her belly.
There is no contradiction for her, any more, between tears and gratitude; she is crying because it is shameful to be grateful for such usage. She is grateful because, these days, she needs such usage in order to cry. Tears and gratitude are real, important to her, and she welcomes them; welcomes this brutish rutting because it brings them, working her belly muscles to give his shrinking dick a feeling of tightness as he finishes himself off, imagining his pleasure, feeling it as a sweetness in her, too, working for it, for him, fully committed, sincere, losing herself in it.
She has learned that inner conflict is where the real pain lives, and - at great cost, through agonising experience - learned to seek to experience everything as one - pain and pleasure, shame and gratitude, moments of freedom, hours of tightly constricted claustrophobia, ecstacy and deepest grief.
For these extremes define her now - what is left of her, at least. She read something about buddhism, once - years ago, and occasionally wonders if she has become some sort of holy woman? Not that it matters. What matters is living each moment with acceptance, not fighting it, offering herself to it without reserve, whatever it brings; inviting it in, taking solace in the pleasure of others, inviting them to find their pleasure in her - the cost to herself all one with their pleasure.
“How’s that one?”, a voice says. The man who is pulling out of her replies simply;
“It’s a warm, slick hole; scratches an itch, I guess, like all the others”.
Already another man is pushing a cock into her face, not waiting, and she opens herself for him, feeling his size, knowing already from his manner that he is going to want to choke her with it - but also that he needs encouragement to feel free to do this to her, and hears herself;
“Please, rape my throat, mister, stick your big dick into my mouth and be .. be rough with me; please? I .. I like it like that.”
She is happy to hear her voice so soft and girlish, breathy and seductive, hopes she has pitched it right for him, even as her whole body is quaking at the callousness of his laughter, his raucous call suggesting he has friends with him.
