NO WAY TO HIDE, NOT ANYMORE
She served the stranger as prettily as she could — doing all she could to predict and satisfy what he desired, what he demanded of her, because her lover had asked her to.
Towards the end, though, it came over her that she was responding powerfully to this experience — that the fact of having been so explicitly ‘whored out’ as her lover had described it, answered something in her, and she shuddered and sobbed as a powerful, undeniable orgasm ripped through her, suppressing desperately the outward signs of this as best she could, superficially acting with as the same pragmatism at the end as she had at the beginning.
Later, she had rejoined the two men, who were talking generally; they ignored her — treating her as her lover had told her they would — as ‘the whore’. With this role, with such treatment being new to her, she could think of nothing to do but sit quietly and offer a willing, servile little smile when they looked at her; a smile that accepted the reality — that everyone knew she was there to be fucked — weak and stupid and sshamed though this made her feel.
God help her, she liked this too; liked the feeling of being the whore; of acting the whore. She felt foolishly special, and also strangely comfortable. Nothing was required of her — she had given herself up for fucking, she had made efforts to present herself sexually, now all she had to do was look nice and wait until they wanted her to fuck again. And she did … (hard to admit, even in the privacy of her own mind) … she did hope that they would want to … want to fuck her again.
It came to her, sitting there, that, having done this for him once, she was going to be doing this often — that he would require it of her; somehow, the idea was OK with her — even welcome, even though she knew it ought not to be. She reset her position, moving her bum forward on the seat, her back straightening, breasts swelling, shook her head a little. It just seemed right — to display herself more clearly as available — interested, willing. There had been something about coming like that, impersonally fucking a stranger — serving his pleasure — at her lover’s command, her lover watching on — something about that which was … intoxicating — addictive.
At this, her lover laughed out loud at her, and when she, blushing, feeling weak and vulnerable, asked why — her voice small and meek, without a hint of challenge — he said;
“Because it’s so ridiculous you sitting there dressed, when you’re a helpless slut who can’t stop thinking about being rutted. You made such efforts to hide how much you liked being used like that, it was hilarious.”
“Don’t worry, though. This is just the beginning for you.”
She knew she ought to protest at this, that such a thing should be said to her, and in front of a stranger too. But she couldn’t think of anything to say that would make any sense, and in the end, she just lowered her eyes (keeping her head up, though; not wanting her breasts to sag even the little that they would if she had let her head fall), looked at her lover’s feet and let the blushes come, letting them laugh at her, her mind helplessly filled by the idea of ‘being rutted’, unable to stop the slow heave of her chest as her heart began thumping. Using it, letting the way it made her breasts move become as obvious as she could make it.
Accepting their laughter, taking it as a compliment, making herself smile again, even as she could feel her belly fluttering in fear at what this might be ‘just the beginning’ of.
AT A CERTAIN POINT …
At a certain point in the proceedings, Chloe would agree to anything, anything at all, if only Alice would — well — carry on doing to her what Alice wanted to do to her.
It was through this vulnerability, which Alice so enjoyed teasing her with, that Chloe had experienced being whipped across the breasts, being gang-banged by five men picked up from a night-club, had learned just how it felt to have hot candle wax dripped into her wet sex, discovered exactly what it did to her self-image to suck off four strange men in a row in the toilets of a local pub, all of them watching, egging each other on to force her to take it more deeply, to make her gag and retch.
And still she refused all invitations from her friends, so as to be available, to be able to respond to a call at any time;
“Want to come over, so I can play with you?”
Tonight, Alice wanted her own name tattooed above Chloe’s sex, in large letters. Chloe hated tattoos, but that didn’t matter, really; it was only a question of time.
TRYING SO HARD
The line between ‘failure to display yourself provocatively’ and ‘looking too proud of yourself’ was one which she repeatedly failed to negotiate.
She was becoming increasingly desperate about this — the punishment was usually immediate and stung her poor breasts like a hornet — but her desperation prevented her from realising that she would never — would never be allowed to — consistently get it right — because the temptation, the entertainment to be had from swatting those perky nipples, hearing her pitiful but accepting yelps, was all that really counted.
Of course, her pretty eagerness to satisfy his requirements — somehow both innocent and slutty — was highly arousing, so that she was often pushed forward, her newly tenderised breasts mashed into the mattress and her tight little bottom vigorously speared, eliciting further soft cries that only excited him more.
It might be a while before he got bored with this one.
NEEDING WARMTH
It destroyed her somehow more deeply than other, cruder, more overt humiliations — this need to cuddle up to, to gain reassurance from, any strange man who had been permitted to violate her.
Offering herself as if she were a grateful lover, full of soft tenderness, to these men who use her warm wet holes as though she were nothing but a high quality sex dolly.
And yet she could not help herself.
She knew, deep down, that she was broken, now. Utterly broken. That the only thing she could hold on to was the breathless excitement she still experienced while being sexually degraded. Even though it was that experience which brought on the shameful need in her to act as if she loved them.
CHANGED, FOREVER
She had never done anything like it before — only glamour shoots, and only two of them.
The experience changed her, decidedly — but not, as you might imagine, by waking her up to the increasing darkness of the scenes her agent booked her for, to the need for her to draw a line, somewhere, before things got dangerous.
What changed was her self-image.
Now, when her agent told her that she had ‘lost it’ — lost the gloss that proper models needed, he said — she felt it, knew it to be so. She couldn’t smile at the camera any more, not naturally, anyway, couldn’t look at a camera, to be honest, without feeling ashamed, and so she accepted that the only bookings he could take for her were the increasingly hard-core, sadistic, degrading scenarios, where she found herself working very hard indeed to please, becoming one of those girls she had previously despised, or pitied — the girls who would stay behind after the shoot and let the photographer and the client fuck them, and take other pictures, more intimate, more shameful still; pictures which, inevitably, seemed to find their way onto the net; images so shocking that other people’s image of her was forever changed also.
It was too late.
IN LOVE WITH HELPLESSNESS
It was so terribly sweet, to be so totally powerless.
She had been placed in here at the beginning of the evening, and several men have used her so far — all strangers.
But this — this is her boss’s boss — and he obviously knew to expect her, expected to see her like this. The shock, the embarrassment are all hers — he’s grinning a little, pleased, enjoying the anticipation as he picks up the leather clad riding crop.
And there’s nothing, nothing at all she can do — except open her lips and take his stiffening cock into her mouth, trembling, do her best to please him, offer herself as completely to him as she can, hoping that he won’t be too cruel.
The feeling is so intense (sweetness? Is it really sweetness? Or has she become so habituated to agony that it registers as sweetness?) that she finds herself serving him with more than usual devotion, pushing herself to take him deep, deeper still; to hold him there, keep her thighs open for him as he grabs roughly at her soft pussy, deliberately shaming her, even as her heart is breaking, even as her body screams for air.
