Timmy Pt.3

This will make more sense if you have read the previous part of Timmy’s story.

Everything until the helicopter taking the kids disappeared, a short while after the midday meal on the appointed day, was a weird art-house movie, where all the characters seem unreal, and what happens in plain view is clearly not what is actually going on, where what really matters remains totally obscure.

At least, that’s how it felt for me. The only good thing about it, I thought, as I watched Karsh lower his waving arm and turn to walk back to the chalet, was that it had given me time, time to be sure. Not sure that staying was the right thing to do; no, not that— I was almost sure it was a terrible idea— a stupid, stupid thing to even think about.

No, what I was sure about was that I wasn’t going to leave. Madness though that was, the long, quiet nights had been time enough and more for me to know that there was that within me that would not leave. That would not leave. That could not bear not to know whether there was a chance to … to become something, with him. Even if— or perhaps especially because— that thing would not be Timmy.

And even if, as seemed likely, that ‘becoming something’ was beyond me, then at the very least the experience of being changed by him would … what, exactly? Just what was it that I wanted to experience— knowing, intimately, with my mind and body— just how wild and transgressive— not to mention painful and degrading, that experience would be?

The only answer— a shaming answer, to be sure, but the only one— was that I wanted to be controlled— to have all responsibility taken from me. To be ruthlessly and greedily suborned, by someone with both the power, the intellect and the emotional intelligence to carry that domination into the core of me. So that everything— absolutely everything, would be as he ordained— beyond me— above me— outside me.

Thinking these insane and terrifying things in my private time, while maintaining the double life in my ‘on duty’ periods had made the lest few days been excruciating.

Now, though, it was over— it was just me and him, now. I would now discover what he wanted me to be— whatever insanity that might mean, however wild it might be— without having to navigate the complications of the children, other staff, on top of all my own inner contradictions.

The worst thing about it was that I was so frightened. Not ‘run away’ frightened, but ‘can I survive this?’ frightened. This was it. Nothing now lay between me and the uncompromising focused willpower of this greedy powerhouse of a man— a man I had somehow given myself over to on the basis of a few days contact and some extraordinarily abusive sex.

I’m not, I realised. I’m not going to survive this. Whatever it is that I will be when he’s done with me, it won’t be Timmy.

Because nothing about Timmy— not the cleverness, not the savoir-faire, not the academic achievements, not the chic dress-sense, not the the solid family background, not the sophisticated cultural awareness … none of it was of any interest to him.

A cute, sexy dolly that would smile and squeak and gasp; that would suck and be fucked, that would helplessly accept pain. That would at the same time be able to apply intelligence, subtlety and reason to her service. Who would feel his control very deeply. That’s what he wanted of me. Something like that, and I knew it— even though I had no idea of what it might really entail, I knew enough. And yet I had stayed.

I watched him walk toward me, twisting his body for one last wave to his children in the chopper, then back to face me, his easy smile, his direct eyes pinning me to the spot, absolutely empty of intention, of direction, of meaning. A nothingness, awaiting his purpose, his willpower, his certainty to bring it to life.

A nothingness that trembled, not from the cold— although the wind was sharp— for I was well layered against the wind, but in certainty that extraordinary things were going to be done to me, about which I would have not only no choice, but worse, no defense— and worse still, that I had in some sense asked for; invited— already consented to everything. Everything— and anything.

For it would be impossible for me to claim, with the slightest honesty, that I could not expect cruel and degrading treatment from him, should I stay. Neither could I claim that there had been the slightest coercion. He had no power over, had sought no power over me, beyond what I had offered him, in full understanding of what it would likely mean.

And so I stood, in the snow, ten metres or so from the chalet, waiting for him, trembling, watching him as he walked toward me, trying— trying so desperately hard— to look as I hoped he would want me to look, trying to look happy, eager for him; open for him.

As he got closer, his smile unchanged— relaxed, friendly, interested— his eyes making me feel transparent, known, devoid of mystery, exposed, I had no idea at all what might happen next. I was overcome with an extreme anticipation, wondering if this was perhaps akin to how it might have been to be a concubine, hundreds of years ago— certain of nothing except demanding sexual usage from an unknown man; defenceless; certain that, whatever he chose to inflict upon me, it would never be him that would suffer, face censure, or consequences, only me.

He walked straight up to me, reaching out as he halted to the fastenings of my jacket, undoing them steadily, efficiently, then peeled the jacket back and down my arms, where the cuffs snagged on my mittens, bunching tightly, immobilising my arms— me, passive, accepting, still, as he touched me, looking at him as he looked into me, smiling softly.

He leaned in, then, one hand at my neck, the other going down the front of the overtrousers, direct to my sex, pressing through the underlayers, and kissed me. And I? I gave myself to him— opened my mouth to his invading tongue, opened my groin to his invading hand, did not fight to free my hands, let my knees buckle so that gravity pushed my sex onto his questing fingers, and whimpered.

After a few seconds only, though, he stepped back, smiling widely now, and looked at me again.

I was too shy, too nervous, too embarrassed, now, at the obviousness of my sexual response to that direct, unsubtle and greedy caress, at the knowledge of the eagerness of my body for more of that, at the knowledge that he knew just how open I was, how ready, how needy— too ashamed to meet his eyes;

“Take off all of your clothes,” he said.

Calmly, casually, as if this was a perfectly normal request.

I couldn’t make it seem real— what did he want? In the snow— in the cold? Really? My hands still trapped behind me, I could not stop myself from looking up into his face, issuing a stupefied query;

“What— out here?”

He let that hang in the air, his eyebrows raised by the tiniest fraction, his smile as relaxed as ever, until;

“You should know better by now than to ask.”

Conversational, unemphatic, this still hit me like a blow; one did not question Karsh. He was never ambiguous. What he wanted, he wanted, and he did not repeat himself.

With a dreadful interior lurch, and a pathetic, meaningless noise of urgent apology and an accompanying deep blush of shame at the fact of his ability to humble me being so plainly between us, I began tugging at my trapped hands, working to free myself from the mittens, the jacket— quickly desperate, panicky, shaming myself further.

But I was stripping myself; more, I quickly clamped down on my panic, certain that I wanted him to like watching me, to know that I was working to please him, despite my foolish questioning. I made myself smile— even if that smile was a nervous, weak, propitiating one.

Picture: Timmy, stripping in the snow

It was impossible, of course, to take off bulky cold-weather gear elegantly— I had to make do with calmness, steadiness and constant vigilance against my body’s instinctive wish to preserve modesty, dignity— in fact I made myself over-compensate against those urges, holding myself so that he could see the sway of my breasts, to present the joining of my legs, smiling nervously for him.

Naked, the wind cut into me, biting; I was immediately shivering, had to fight to hold myself prettily for him, not to huddle against the chill.

Although the chalet was half a kilometre from the nearest other, the piste deserted, a screen of trees at the edge of the property, I felt as if I was on display in a public place. Naked, in the snow, feeling terribly vulnerable, I saw the pleasure in his eyes at my compliance, at his easy power over me, at my efforts to display myself for him, at my shame, and my belly flipped. This was really going to happen; he was going to be as shockingly demanding, as transgressive as he had been before. I was already as helpless as a tiny leaf caught in a maelstrom.

He turned to his left, walked around a large patch of virgin snow, fresh from the early morning fall, then turned to face me again, so that there were now five metres of clean deep snow between us;

“On your knees, crawl to me. Slow. Try to look nice. So that I can’t help but think about fucking you.”

This reality of being controlled, demeaned, played with, was worlds away from the abstractions that had been in my mind for days.

I didn’t accept this— something deep in me didn’t accept it. This was wrong— crazy; cruel— degrading.

On the other hand, there was nothing else in the world I could do— and so, smiling very tremulously now, I told that part of myself that it was too late— that that moment was gone; I had made a decision, and discovered that the implications of that decision were beyond what I had been able to imagine.

But the decision had been made; I was here, alone with him, and there was nowhere else I could imagine being; so— I made myself accept, told myself I was going to obey, even knowing that that acceptance would come back to haunt me.

Shrinkingly, amazed at myself— at him, at the idea that this could really be happening, I lowered myself to hands and knees, quivering at the new chill from direct contact with the snow, from it melting on my skin, and began to crawl toward him.

Picture: Timmy, kneeling in the snow

Halfway there, the cold really hit me, and I couldn’t control a little moaning wail— which was when I looked up, and saw him smiling at me, enjoying himself, in a calm and unemphatic way, inviting me to share his enjoyment of my own humiliation.

“Your arms could be a little wider apart,” he said; “… so that when you lower your shoulders, I will get a good view of you trailing your nipples in the virgin snow for me, so that they get really cold, and stiff. It never hurts for you to keep the tip of your tongue visible, either. Why don’t you put your face in the snow, right now— push it right down— get a mouthful of it? Then you can show me it melting on your tongue.”

Weirdly, I knew that I was safe, then— not safe at all, of course; quite the opposite— but safe in my choice. He really was the monster I needed him to be; he really was going to demand absolutely everything from me.

And I did just as he said— performed with care, with attention, letting the shame wash through me— feeling an absurd pride, too— pride that I was degrading myself for him, and doing it as prettily as I knew how— pride that he had chosen me to do this to, that he was enjoying doing this to me, that I was worth his time. Determined to be worth his choosing of me.

He let me kneel before him, naked, in the deep, soft snow, shivering, my nipples grazing the surface, hard as stones, and hurting now, from the cold, feeling the windchill, quivering, arching my back, knowing I should, to lift my buttocks for him, though it made me feel like a whore— a slut in a porn video.

He put his foot on my head, then; pushed it down into the snow, and I … I let him do it, let him push my face deep into the soft snow, the weight of his boot on my head, and kept my pose as sexually inviting as I could, though I was jangling inside with the weirdest mixture of fear, lust and humiliation.

When he bent and began stroking my lower back, my bum, I lifted as high as I could for him, feeling ridiculous, but knowing it was right— what I needed to be for him; I was rewarded by his fingers at my sex, parting my labia, investigating without hesitancy or consideration of me.

“Open— open more. Good. Now, move your hips— move your pussy against my hand; get yourself hot and wet for me. Show me that you are an easy, eager slut. That you like this.”

And indeed, it was shockingly easy for me to get myself wet, just by rubbing myself on his fingers. Days on end of thinking about sex with him, of not daring to pleasure myself, of feeling his eyes on me, watching him, wanting his hands on me, had built a tinder box of desire, and it was easy to set light to it, even like this.

Now his other hand was reaching for a nipple— pinching and twisting, hard, then harder still, purposefully cruel, and I screamed into the snow, cold intensifying the pain; managed not to grab at his arm, pull him off me, stop the hurt, managed to let him hurt me— but it was hard; hard and cruel. My shaking was bad, then.

Then he was moving round behind me, with strong hands under my thighs, he lifted me in one smooth, powerful motion, spread me open, and then, all of a sudden, his cock was entering me, he was moving, he was fucking me. Deep, easy, knowing just what he wanted and taking it.

“Get your arms up, spread them in front of you— palms up— helpless— let me see how weak you are— keep your nipples touching the snow; move for me— help me fuck you— rock your hips, nice and slow. I don’t want to see your face— breathe snow, pretty, while I fuck you.”

I was half suffocating in the snow, parts of me cold past endurance, parts of me shockingly hot and wet, shaking and shivering— but he was fucking me, and I was surging against him— seeking sensation of whatever kind— pleasure, pain, warmth, and awed by the experience, too— that I was naked, in the snow, face down, being fucked by this man who was a force of nature, who was hurting me even as he was pleasuring me.

And then he pulled out, repositioned himself and began to seek the entrance to my asshole, and again I cried out, still sore there from his last assault; horrified, fearful, but also, willing him on …

It hurt as much— or more, even— than I had remembered, and I yelled into the snow that muffled me as he pushed himself inside my tight, fear-and-cold clenched ass-ring, leaving my pussy wet and exposed to the cold chill of the breeze— the sensation all the more intense for the abrupt change— crying real tears; soft tears, weak tears, helpless tears, shamed tears, which sank immediately into the snow.

He came quite soon, with a shout of simple satisfaction, thrusting hard and fast, hurting me again and again, then pulled out. He was breathing rapidly, and I felt stupidly happy to know that he had had pleasure from me, that he had wanted me so urgently. Foolish, pathetic? Of course, but that doesn’t change the fact— that I was happy that he had used me like that— since it had given him pleasure.

He dropped me, then, like a used toy, and, after only a few seconds of silence, I found myself scrambling to get back into some sort of pose, thighs spread obscenely, feeling his come oozing from me, feeling the pain— throbbing and stinging both, biting my lip to stem the tears.

“Stay like that. Don’t move. Crotch open, face and nipples in the snow, hands out, useless.”

Before I had understood this, his footsteps sounded, crunching away from me.

He left me; naked, just fucked, obscenely posed, head down in deep snow, having told me to stay just as I was.

Picture: Timmy, naked, face down in the snow

I couldn’t take it seriously. Being fucked, being degraded and fucked— that was one thing. Being hurt, too, I could have— should have— expected; but this— this was insane.

It couldn’t …

He couldn’t …

Except that, as the seconds stretched and became minutes, it was impossible to ignore that he had, that he wasn’t coming back anytime soon— that he must want me to feel this shame, this abandonment, this cruel cold, this helplessness.

As the minutes dragged by (in truth, I had almost no idea of what real time was, lost in my thoughts, in my shame), the experience of cold began to dominate everything— I couldn’t see anything, couldn’t move, could hear nothing but some far off wind in trees, the occasional bird call, a hiss from the boiler flue of the house, and I couldn’t think about anything but the encroaching cold

I couldn’t move. Of course, I could move— but he had told me not to. And so I couldn’t— despite the cold.

At first, I had thought I was as cold as could be— certainly, my body had been telling me it was at the extreme of cold. But after a while, I realised that that was just my body warning me that I was on the way to getting dangerously cold— that the pain and discomfort were signals, not real cold. As the minutes passed, I found out about real cold, about the agony of it, the fear of it, the way it grips you— it is an internal feeling— less a feeling of pain than of sickness— an internal awareness of deep physical distress.

My shivering became violent shaking, my toes, my fingers, my nipples went past burning and into a dull, but intense aching, that crept along my arms, up my legs, into my face. I was weeping continuously— soft, warm tears— wasting heat.

After a while it became easier not to move— less of a struggle with my instincts— because I was too tired to move. Something in me was wondering if he meant me to die here— if he would ever come back. I knew I should be panicking about that, but at the same time I was too cold to find the energy— I was beginning to be disoriented.

And then I heard steps— the crunches as before. Him? I had no way of knowing. Was it shame or obedience that kept me in position— or fear? Maybe all of those; in any case, despite the upsurge in my heart, the return of hope, I stayed as he had asked me to stay— indeed, made efforts to present myself well— lifted my butt, flexed my hips— dying mentally, as well as of cold, as I experienced the depth of my own shameful need to please him.

Whoever it was (I hoped so desperately that it would be him, knowing in my heart, though, that he was happy to share my humiliation with others, that even if this was him, that another time it would not be, that there was nothing ‘exclusive’ about his requirements of me)— whoever, they were close by now, still. Looking at me? I had no way of knowing. It became agony to continue to endure the cold with another person so near— a person who was not rescuing me, but was instead watching me in my subjugation, undismayed by my suffering— enjoying it.

Somehow I stayed in position, fighting my body now, fighting a will to live discovered only in extremis.

Then a hand— fingers— (his? I still couldn’t be sure)— at my pussy, vigorous (as he would be), knowing (as he would be), seeking; then at my clitoris, and more so. I was almost sure it was him now, and his voice was like balm, despite the words he spoke;

“Get hot for me, pretty slut. Find a way. Go deep, use my fingers. Move.”

‘It’s madness,’ I thought; ‘insanity!’ but there was nothing else in my world, and so I tried, shocked to experience his fingers as cold inside my sex— realising that there was still heat in my body, despite my certainty that I had been near death. I was horribly cold, yes, but nowhere near finished— this had been about obedience, about willingness to suffer for him, not any threat to life— a test.

This realisation gave me determination to satisfy him, and I moved with purpose, with intention, with a will to finding my sexual heat again for him, wanting to do that for him. I wanted, simply, to show him what he wanted to see— Timmy the dirty, slutty bitch, however shameful that might be.

I was so cold, though! So cold.

It wasn’t working. I was moving, I was trying, but everything was too strange, I was too cold, beginning to feel fear at what he might do if I failed, when the words he had said that had begun this insanity came into my mind, when he had said;

Timmy, I will take a woman tonight. Most straightforwardly, it will be you. I am rather demanding— but I pay very well, of course.

And then it was easy— the fire those words had lit in my belly kindled again. I was no longer moving myself in order to get hot— I was moving because I was hot; moments later, I knew I was wet again, and heard him laugh;

“Whatever you learned about yourself then, pretty, you will do well to remember it— I have little patience with dry cunt.”

It was strange beyond strange, to be at the same time so hot and so cold … so very cold. I was crying even as my sex was loosening and lubricating itself in the hope that he would fuck me. Such strange and intense experiences! Is it any wonder that the young and inexperienced woman I was then lost herself so completely, so fast, so irretrievably?

In any case, it seemed he had no plans to use me right then— he had simply been making a point. That I would get myself wet for him— not for myself. That I would be ready for him, needy for him, at any time, whatever the circumstances— just in case; in order not to be judged as ‘dry cunt’.

He had stepped back, away, leaving me, face down in the snow. My heart was hammering— he wouldn’t— he couldn’t— be leaving me again— not like this?

Except that I knew that, if he wished, he certainly would, and that, if he did, it was unlikely that I would do anything but comply.

It seemed, though, as if he had other ideas;

“Up!”

Standing was shockingly hard— from the weakness brought on by cold, by the shaking, by the shock at the exposure of those parts of me which had been insulated by the snow when suddenly exposed to cold air, which made me cry out and writhe, almost falling.

But it was doubly hard— because to stand naked before him after such a terrible ordeal, brought on by my own weak compliance, rather than by any enforcement from him, was a shockingly awful acceptance— a fire of humiliation, a flower of fear in my belly had tears brimming in my eyes.

That it was true that nothing but softly voiced requests had been necessary to bring me to this state. To have the knowledge and evidence of my vulnerability undeniable between us. I knew that I had been lessened, that this demonstration of his power over me was destructive for me. That I had let him take something from me— something I could never get back. He had degraded me; I had accepted and— more— not even protested that degradation— had striven to make it entertaining for him. This was now known between us; part of me. That I would not easily recover from this— if at all. I would never forget it, could never pretend that I had offered the least resistance, never forget that I had worked to offer him a hot, wet cunt, despite his smoothly barbaric cruelty, that i had been pathetically happy to oblige, that I had been pleased to offer him my slippery sex.

I couldn’t look at him. I couldn’t stand well for him, either— the need to curl in on myself, huddle— not so much from the wind— although that was awful, too, but to handle the fear— all that was at war with the need to have his approval— since to be so vulnerable to someone and fail to please them seemed horribly, horribly dangerous.

The need for his approval won out, though, agonisingly, and I straightened myself up, despite the chill breeze, pushed my breasts forward, put my hands behind me in a way I hoped he might approve of— I presented myself to him as a naked girl, wanting to provoke sexual desire, and I didn’t know why the shame, the fear, the cold together hadn’t at the very least made me faint, if not stopped my heart.

There was to be no such easy release for me, as I held my pose, heart tumbling over itself, all rhythm apparently gone from me— my breathing equally random, my thoughts even more so.

Of course, such inner chaos makes it easy for a master manipulator to mould a person, and this was why he was doing this to me. At the time, though, I had no insight at all— I was just surviving each second as it came.

He had lessened me— and all I could find as a salve was that I had pleased him— that he had not rejected me, that he had found me entertaining in my distress. In my despair, I clung to that. I had pleased him— maybe I could continue to please him?

He held out a hand; in it he held a simple white plastic shopping bag— the sort they give away.

“Take it, please, Timmy. Now, I want you to take a few deep breaths— as best you can. Let me see your pretty tits move.”

My best was pathetic, but he carried right along, seemingly uncaring;

“Pull the bag right over your head, now; tuck your hair into it. Straight away, please— no thinking.”

As if a robot, a thoughtless slave, I obeyed, only considering what this might be when it was too late;

“Good.”

“Now, hands behind your neck— gather up the slack, pull it in to your neck, tight. Tighter now, twist, hold it tight. Very tight. That’s it.”

“Now; you have limited oxygen. So you need to listen and obey, and try to keep calm. I want you to walk— walk straight ahead.”

Wondering, amazed, but in some sort of a daze, his voice strangely calming me, even as this new weirdness begins, so that I start walking, just as he asks. Caring— caring about how my bottom looks for him, wanting to walk well. Somehow, crazily, trusting him. I couldn’t see, of course— even though the bag was translucent, it was dense, and white, and the world was white, too, so my steps were hesitant, tentative. And I was so, so fearful, trembling, utterly without hope. Was this it? Was he going to kill me? Was I so pointless that he didn’t even want to fuck me again. Was this all I was?

I had no ideas that I could be anything else, at that moment, and so all I could manage was to obey, try to please him.

“Left now, left more. I’m behind you, keep moving left again … a little more.”

I thought we had walked away from the house, but now we’d turned; I was already lost, unsure, reliant on him entirely, in my frozen, white, frightening world, naked, feeling the value of each breath diminishing as the air in the bag grew warmer and moister.

He issued further commands every few steps— turning left mostly.

Rather soon, I was fighting to control my heart, my lungs, the incipient, increasingly demanding panic— fighting to obey him. Certain, somehow, that my life depended on him, more than on air, more than on bodily warmth.

I obeyed. I fought my body. I cared about the way my breasts looked for him as I turned. I wanted him to fuck me at least once more, even if he was going to kill me.

I needed his touch desperately, but in its absence, I held onto his voice behind me; crying now into the bag— hot, and steamy— my face tingling as it warmed rapidly, my feet numb, my nipples aching, my chest heaving, fighting myself to keep my hands in place, to obey.

Then came a change— another turn and I knew, suddenly, that we were at the entrance porch— the door open, a feel of the warmer air from inside the house like a lifeline— a lifeline of heat, perhaps, but I had no air!

I felt I must black out, then, but his voice held me;

“Keep your hands tight, pretty cunt, you can hold on for me; I know you will. Hold on. Hold on for me.”

Behind me, the door closed, the warmth increased, but my hands were slacking, vision blurring, and I stumbled on the blocks of ice that had once been my feet.

“Here, let me help you.”

His voice was calm, friendly-sounding, close; then his hard hands were on mine, keeping the bag tight.

Was I grateful for the help? Or did I blame him for killing me? It didn’t seem to matter, not compared to the glory of the warmth from his body, so close to mine …

Again, my ideas about what it would take to kill me were calibrated by the fear of death, rather than what it would actually take to die.

I had blacked out, and I came to, probably only seconds later, lying on my side on the floor, the bag gone, my eyes open, sucking in air, shivering, shaking, having apparently pissed myself, crying, sobbing. I could see him, squatting, nearby, watching, face clam, interested, smiling, looking into me in that disturbing way, so that I closed my eyes, unable to bear it.

But I found myself, in my need, in my shock, curling toward him, needing him, needing his certainty, his willpower; the only thing I could rely on, having lost myself to him.

His hand was in my hair, then, tight; keeping me still, holding me down. Controlling me. It was welcome.

“Shush pretty. Calm yourself. Calm. This is just the start. Calm yourself. I like to play these games. Of course, they will terrorise you— but you must learn to recover.”

“Now, listen; when you’re ready, you’ll tell me, and we’ll go back outside, and we can do it again. You’ll do it more sexily next time, see if you can get me to throw you down and fuck you halfway through. You’ll do your best, I know.”

My eyes opened wide, then, searched for him, horrified; it was impossible that he had said what he had just said, impossible! But at the same time I knew that he had, that he was serious, that somehow, what he wanted would happen. It always did with Karsh.

I was glad of his hand holding me, but as the enormity of his demand took hold of me, I became unable to restrain the hysteric thrashing that took me; the screaming, the wrenching, the writhing— all feeble, of course, my body still so, so cold, my mind so overset— but still, a paroxysm of rejection of the knowledge that he was going to have me tell him to do all that to me again. I was his, though, so much his that it was only a little while until all was apparently calm again, my little fit exhausted, and he was stroking my face, my breasts, my flanks, my thighs; gentle, appreciative, kind.

“Easy now, little Timmy— easy. This is just how it is. I’m using you, making you, taking you. You have given yourself to me, and I will do what I do with you— you must know what it’s like, straight away. I must know how you respond, right away.”

“So far, so far, pretty, you are doing very well— did I tell you that you are beautiful in your fear, in your distress, in your vulnerability, in your shame? Very beautiful— very fuckable— and also, for me, an inspiration to great cruelty.”

He had kissed me then, pulling my face up to his, and I, helplessly, after a very short time, was kissing him back, eager, needy, grateful beyond imagining, leaning into him, into his hand as it roamed my body.

When he touched my pussy at last, it was like electricity, and I nearly lost it all over again, so troubling was it that I was so desperately sexually responsive to this monster of a man; I had to clamp down on myself, make myself lift my body, open myself for his fingers, force myself to move against him when he stopped, to make myself hot and wet for him again, tears in my eyes, but not letting myself sob.

He stopped then, and began to stroke me, softly again, and now, now I needed him, and quite soon was arching myself shamelessly, urgently for him, seeking to entice him to take me, to use me, to kiss me again.

When at last he did, it was as if a fire had been lit in me, and I pushed myself onto him, grinding my body against his, while he laughed and slapped at me— play taps, welcome, until he stopped me, simply— his hand in my hair again, head pushed to the floor, held me down, until, at last, there was nothing for me to do but say:

“I … please … … I … I don’t … I don’t know if … if I c-can…”

I was still cold to my marrow, could still feel the hysterical panic at the impossibility of holding a bag tight over my face as I ran out of air, and all of this was overlaid onto the awful vulnerability of being kept naked, helpless, having allowed this juggernaut of a man to have me at his mercy, of having offered myself to him without a whimper.

“That’s OK, pretty girl. I can wait. Don’t you worry. Everything is fine— there is nothing you can do to change anything, now.”

He was stroking me again, gentle, smooth, hardly touching me, and suddenly I couldn’t bear the certainty that it was, all, going to happen again, and needed to have it over, have committed myself to it; anything to end this building of tension, his terrifying patience…

And then I was in tears, on my knees, head right down, almost on the floor, hands behind my back;

“OK. OK, please … please … do it to me. I … I’m ready, only … only I d-don’t know if … if I can without … without you m-making me…”

A long silence.

“Good girl. Now, I know you can do it for yourself. Good little girl. Come, take my hand. I guarantee you will find yourself stronger than you think.”

And he was right; my tears dried as he helped me stand. I still couldn’t meet his eyes, couldn’t look into his face, too ashamed of my weakness, my sluttiness.

I could though, somehow, make myself walk, walk prettily, to the door, as long as he held my hand, although I couldn’t hold back a wail of despair when the door opened and the cold air hit me. I was trying, trying hard for him, remembering that he had suggested I could manage myself more beautifully this time.

The snow on my feet was terrible, but the pain in my heart was worse as he let go of me, directed me;

“Off you go, lovely— over to the right, now, to that patch of untouched snow. Good girl.”

Nevertheless, I obeyed. Immediately. As prettily as I could manage. Going to my death— or at least putting my life in his hands.

“Kneel down now; keep your thighs parted— that’s good— see if you can push your pussy into the snow. Lean back, now— all the way— lean back into the snow— hands out to your sides, palm up, that’s right. Right back, now; legs spread; wide— wider. Good little whore.”

Picture: Timmy, going down in the snow

He was kneeling behind me now— if could have brought myself to look up, I knew I would have seen his face.

I did see his arm as he smacked me, hard, between the legs, his hand filled with snow.

I yelled— in shock as much as pain— it wasn’t really sore, that first time— more surprising. I had to fight the impulse to close my legs, though, the urgent desire to protect myself. My heart was full of pain— wasn’t it enough to get me out here, naked in the snow again— did he have to hurt me, too?

“Good girl, stay open for me now.”

He did it again.

… and again,

… and again — many times, until it wasn’t just hurt, but screaming pain, the snow crystals become a hundred tiny knives, each blow forcing a cry of hurt, despair and shame from me, until, mercifully, he was done with it.

I had survived another ordeal. Almost, now, the cold was normalised— the low level agony of the chill creeping into my bones part of my reality.

“Such a beautiful red, down there, pretty— glowing, almost; exquisite, and so nicely displayed for me. I’ll enjoy it while I’m fucking your throat. Up … up now, Timmy, up onto your elbows, let your head fall back— right back, now …”

And then his cock was in my mouth, working its way directly into my throat, his balls banging on my eyelids, cock filling me, my chest heaving, belly bucking as my body sought to reject this sudden and forceful invasion.

“Good, good little slut; just stay open. I’m fucking now. You’re just the hole. Your job is to be a good hole for me to bring myself off with. Imagine, now; for me, all I can see of you is jiggling tits and opened pussy— nothing else; no face, no arms, no legs, just tits, pussy and the feel of your throat clenching on my cock.”

He took his time; thrusting deep, slowly pulling back, pushing deep, then deeper still, staying in me, rutting into me, until I thought I must break somewhere, then speeding up for a little hard fucking of my face, grunting to himself, leaning forwards sometimes, than arching back on himself; ever deeper, ever more impossible to abide, utterly beyond any power within me to resist.

There was nothing of me— just as he said; I was nothing, nothing except the determination not to do what my body wanted me to do, not to bite him, not to do what every part of me urgently wanted— to force him to take his cock out of my throat, and all the time the terrible cold creeping into me.

When he leaned forward and put his hot mouth on my sex I screamed past his cock— so shocking was the heat after the snow cold, my whole body bucking and jerking as if I was being subjected to random electrical shocks, aware of a remote sort of entrancement at the urgent noises that come from him as he started filling me with come, choking me, some of it coughed up through my nose, some of it spurted onto my face when at last he pulled out, laughing, leaving me wrecked, snorting, coughing, hacking, gagging, wailing, quaking…

It seemed he had had pleasure with me, at least. There was nothing in me of happiness, this time, though— I was nothing but a fucked doll now, nothing, all my being somewhere else— in a world of cold, and not enough oxygen, and pain, and bewilderment at how I came to be in this condition. Wondering at my inability to conceive of being anywhere else except here, anything else except his.

He was standing up;

“Stay like that. Actually, spread your legs wider, push your hips up, show your pussy more obviously.”

Heaven help me, I was trying, trying to do what he’d asked me, even now, even as he was leaving me, once again, naked, in the snow, to freeze.

“That’s it Timmy, that’s right— make yourself obvious for me.”

Crunching footsteps, retreating, pausing…

Something hit me then, hard, on my thigh— cold, scratchy.

A snowball— he was throwing hard snowballs at me! The next one hit square on my sex, making me squeal, then sob.

“Bullseye!”

The next ones hit my face, my breasts, my sex again; I was sobbing, moaning, devastated, destroyed.

Picture: Timmy, despairing in the snow

He made a noise, a half laugh; a noise of satisfaction, of self-congratulation; he had achieved something, and it was over, as he left me there me, without a word; simply abandoned me, naked in the snow, crying softly, lost, abandoned, demeaned, undone; a useless thing, with nothing, nothing at all to do but endure.

The cold began its slow, cruel march again, and this time, knowing what was to come made it harder— less fearful of death this time, there was more mind-space available to feel the aching pain of it, more time to consider the dreadful implications of having allowed him to do this to me, of my pathetic capitulation to him during the session inside, what it meant for my future.

Picture: Timmy, enduring in the snow

Perhaps I had learned a little, already, of the endurance I now have, for it did not actually seem so very long before I heard footsteps; I was surprised, somehow, to still be conscious.

He had to help me up— my joints were so stiff, my shivering and shaking so fierce. And I … I was grateful, pathetically, horribly grateful to him for coming back to rescue me, and I nodded, and tried to smile as he asked me if I could stand, stand sexily for him, let him enjoy my tits, lifted my arms behind my head (so desperately slowly), to show him that I could display myself for him, shook my shoulders, tried to giggle, even.

He held out the bag;

“You know what to do.”

I was too stupefied to do anything but stare at his hands.

I could sense him, watching me, interested— relaxed. Smiling a little, as if he were encouraging a friend to take some small risk— a new ice-cream flavour, perhaps; something of no real importance— but interesting and a little fun, nevertheless.

While I contemplated dying in this humiliating way, all my own fault, having given myself to a cruel and dangerous stranger.

I thought this must be it. That his hands with the bag would be that last thing I ever saw, as I reached out and carefully— so slowly, so cold, so clumsy, so carefully— pulled it over my head, obsessively tucked the ends of my hair in, knowing that plastic against wet skin would be more airtight, twisted the slack against my hands, tight— tight, took my first breath of my last ever air, and started walking.

Almost welcoming the end; surely, I couldn’t last much longer? If he was going to kill me like this, then I should try to go with what dignity I could manage.

Unbelievable boiling thoughts jarred against each other in my mind, none making sense. Impossibly, I felt in control of my body, just as if I was calm, as if I was performing for him.

A hard, a really hard slap on my freezing buttock, stung as if it was a burn;

“Turn right,” he said; “ …more, now straight.”

I was lost again, unable to do anything but try to walk well, trying not to think that I was murdering myself, trying to think about staying elegant, staying sexy, trying not to black out.

Some sort of tunnel effect took me— the world turned grey— only his voice, walking, thinking about my bum, my hips, ignoring my hands I cannot stop them from killing me— I can’t, until, a shocking, unbelievable, unhoped for miracle— the hard stone floor again, a feel of less frigid air.

I was to die inside, at least, and not in that terrible snow…

Out of insane gratitude, I was able to tighten my grip on the bag— feeling the helpless craving of my body for oxygen taking over everything, but somehow certain that I must not, must not let go.

His voice was in my ear, then; his fingers at my groin, at my clitoris, softly, cleverly moving…

“I’m not going to help you this time. You’ll hold on for me, hold on. Try and come for me now, see if you can come while you think you’re drowning.”

It was all madness— everything was a hallucination at that point— so what did it matter— and actually, I do remember a building of sexual tension in my crotch, momentarily, before everything faded to black…

Read the next part of Timmy’s story.