An Estate Girl offers herself for ‘House Duty’
He had always fifteen or more naked young women around the estate. They were well paid, for three month stints. Nothing more was expected of them than that they showed themselves, held themselves well, endured the looks and stares.
It was surprising, though, how competitive they became for the small bonuses offered for ‘Sweetie of the Day’, ‘.. of the Week’, ‘.. of the Month’ - looking for ways to present themselves more attractively, more sexually than the others.
It was even more surprising how many volunteered for ‘House Duty’ - even though no secret was made of how such girls were used - how thoroughly and aggressively they were debauched, how harshly disciplined, in return for a doubling in compensation and an extended contract, true, but it never seemed to be about money.
Nevertheless, fully one in five of the naked girls volunteered - more than were ever taken on, so that once again they were competitive in their desire to be selected - often offering themselves sexually to the male staff or visitors beforehand in the hopes of earning a reputation.
He had long since given up on names - house girls were simply tattooed with a large number on their bellies and buttocks.
This girl is on her way to volunteer herself. Yesterday, blushing fiercely, quivering with emotion - shame and determination weirdly mixed - she had offered herself, blatantly, to a young guest, opening her legs, lifting her hands to the back of her neck, feeling her tight breasts lift - only to end up being used by his two friends as well.
They were rough with her, over-excited.
She had cried a little, but did not otherwise complain, did her best to please and accommodate them, even when two of them sought to use her at once, front and rear, something that had never occurred to her as being even imaginable prior to that moment.
She has not since been able to shake the image of herself, speared by two rampant young cocks, helplessly bleating out her weakness, her dismay.
Nor the feeling of utter powerlessness it had engendered - the incredible intoxication of it.
She has no idea why she is doing this, now. No idea at all. Except that if need be, she knows she will kneel and beg for the opportunity to be taken into the house, subjected to such treatment at will, for months on end, that she covets the rings at her sex and nipples, the thick leather collar, the high heeled clogs - even those discolouring marks left by the riding crop.
And the cocks, the cocks…
She has heard of girls offering to pay.
It’s the first thing she says, as she presents herself at the back servant’s entrance;
“I’m willing to pay, if He’ll only take me. Please.”
Babbling, crying a little, when the butler’s hand cups her sex, she opens her legs and offers herself to his invasive fingers, as he laughs and comments on how hot and wet she is.
That the tattooed, big-breasted redhead standing submissively behind the butler, naked but for the tight bustier cupping her mounds - his girl for the day - is looking on through lowered eyelashes is completely unbearable, and at the same time has to be endured.
All her effort is going into pleasing this man, while avoiding hysteria.
Her life is over, she suddenly sees. She will be a whore forever. No degree, no career, no family, no children. Just cocks.
It’s like a punch in the belly, but it has to be endured, because here He is, coming up behind the redhead, with the three young guests.
She is lost.
She wants to be lost.
Bondage modelling can get under your skin
She’d begun modelling fetish stuff for a bit of cash.
She needed money, and had been considering escort work, when a friend had offered to introduce her to the photographer.
It seemed infinitely preferable to having sex with strangers. Generally the people involved were pleasant and civilised - much milder than the imagery they produced. They were polite, paid decently, and respected her inclinations as to what she was happy with.
At first, she had been more amused than anything else at the costumes and poses - so stiff and ridiculous.
As time went on, though, she had begun to like the way her body looked in the pictures - the pictures got better as she tried a little. She began to feel almost professional. More bookings came, too; from people with better reputations, better equipment, higher standards. The scenarios became more elaborate, too - often darker in implication, as well - although she wasn’t asked to do anything she was unhappy with; weird as the scenes were, they were still technically ‘soft-core’.
These photographers, these art directors had assistants. Assistants who seemed completely uninterested sexually, but at the same time very concerned to get it right - forever tweaking costumes, hair, pose, and she trusted them - they were just doing their job - as was she.
But for her - naked, sex parts emphasised, opened, displayed, vulnerable, this constant manipulation by others, this constant scrutiny by others, began to have an effect. She began to get a little dreamy during the more extreme shoots - posing carefully, but ‘going away’ in her mind; accepting ever more direct and specific manipulations, and smiling away apologies for really intrusive fiddlings and tuggings with surprise, almost. She was there to look the way the photographer wanted, wasn’t she?
And now this shoot. The incredible leather corset - so intimate, so powerful - the lovely velvet cape, the restrictive collar and cuffs - nothing she hasn’t seen before, but to such a gorgeous standard.
The photographer had brought over an older man to her, when it was nearly over - while she was still chained and cuffed; they had grown used to her acceptance, took it for granted - and indeed she made no move to close her legs as the man coolly looked her over, his gaze lingering at her sex, at her breasts - the nipples rouged and pinched for stiffness.
“This a collector. He likes the pictures I make of you. He will pay us a day’s fee for another hour’s work - but you’ll need to allow another model to whip your breasts. He .. he wants it to be real; it will hurt. Really hurt.”
She feels her pulse racing, and her voice sounds soft, breathy as she tries to make a joke of it, holding out her cuffed hands; “It rather looks as if I don’t have any choice, does it? I mean - you could do anything with me, trussed up like this. I .. I guess I trust you.”
There is a silence. Somehow they all know that this is a significant moment - that her permissiveness can be extended now - that they are pushing at a newly opened door. She blushes, but she holds herself still, although a voice inside her is screaming that she must get up, Now!, and leave - right Now!
Instead, she lowers her head, in the submissive way she has used for a thousand photos - knowing that this time it’s for real.
And now she is alone, waiting, knowing somehow that the whip will make her even more beautiful, somehow welcoming the idea of the pain - the humiliation, as artistic input, while the other end of the studio is all bustle as the other model is prepared, and the collector lounges, watching her.
The photographer is shooting rapidly. In this mode, she’s more beautiful, more desirable than ever before, and these photographs he can sell.
Why can’t I come with you?
“But why can’t I come with you?”
They’re in her bare little attic room, and he’s trying to leave. He’d only come to say goodbye, but they’re arguing.
They’ve been over this before; he’s exasperated, stressed, conflicted.
“Because I’ve told you what will happen! Are you crazy?”
“Yes, you’ve told me. And I’m grateful; you’re a kind boy. But, it .. it might not be as bad as all that. I mean, he can’t be a complete monster - he’s your dad, after all..”
“My STEP-father!”, he almost screams; “.. and he’s worse!”
She blinks, breathes a little, eyes closed; he can see a pulse fluttering in her throat;
“You see .. I .. I think I love you ..” he says.
She’s suddenly animated again;
“Love! What good is that? Your love isn’t enough to .. to get me out of this crummy flat, my shitty job, the endless drudgery. Is it? Is it?”
“Well, well .. I .. I’m going to ask for a bigger allowance ..”
She laughs, derisive. They both know he has asked before, without result.
“The only way you’re going to get money from him - you’ve told me - is by bringing ME to him!”
“Yes, but .. but I can’t” he’s almost weeping.
“So. I get no choice. I have to stay behind, stay here stuck in my shitty, grim little life, while he shouts at you for failing to give me to him - probably he’ll send you somewhere else, to find a girl you don’t think you’re in love with. You’re not really in love with me anyway, otherwise you’d find something positive to do, not just snivel.”
She takes a deep breath, pulls her slip down, exposing her creamy breasts.
“Look. Look - silly boy! Your stepfather wants me - wants these breasts, wants my .. wants to fuck me. I understand. He’s cruel, you tell me; I believe you. He’ll hurt me, you say. Maybe he will. But he’s rich. He has rich friends. And .. and I’m a little bit pretty, perhaps. This way, he’ll give you money, and maybe I will find a chance, chance for something.”
She is blushing, trembling. They both know that she is not at all as brave or as tarty as she is making herself out to be, but she is staring him out, and his resolve snaps, all at once;
“Right you are, you fucking little slut, you’re just like the rest of them, a whore!”
Weeping, he grabs her hair, twists her over on the chair, kicks her legs apart, opens his flies and thrusts into her, hard, aggressive. She squeals, tenses up instinctively, but then, after a few seconds, he feels her slowly, deliberately relax herself; open her thighs, shift her body to give him a better angle for penetration, give herself to him, to his anger, to his desire to hurt her with his fucking.
Her head drops, and he senses, rather than sees her tears, which only spurs him to greater energy, grunting and snarling in his near hysteria.
When he’s finished (neither knowing nor caring what her experience was like), he pulls out and collapses into the chair, leaving her on her side on the floor, slip rucked up, breasts out, thighs apart.
He takes out his phone, takes a picture.
Calls a number;
“Hello, Dad! I’ve got her. Yeah, we’re at her place. She’s ready. I just .. I .. I just fucked her, actually .. and .. and I’ve already half broken her in, so .. so maybe this one is worth a bit more? Anyway, send Jenkins in the car. I’ll share a picture with the address - look out for it; it’s not far. We’ll be with you in a couple of hours.”
After that, there is long silence between them, then;
“I really liked you. I hope you’re happy now. He’ll be rough with you. He always is with blonde girls with good tits. Something to do with his first wife, I think - anyway; who the fuck even cares?”
“Anyway, good luck. Maybe he will marry you. On the other hand, maybe you’ll be like all the others, and think yourself lucky to end up as a live-in sex-dolly for one of his Russian associates.”
He rolls her onto her front and ties her wrists behind her, ties the wrist tie with a long electrical cable to the bed-frame. She’s still weeping, softly, and she doesn’t resist. He tucks the slip up and takes a few pictures of her ass - just to remember her by.
After a while longer, he gets hard again, grabs her by the hair, pulls her head up and presents her with his stiff cock. She shakes her head, violently, her shoulders wrench away; she wants to resist, fight back, complain, but then she catches his eye, his grin - savage, forced, obviously masking distress and pain - guilt that he wants to relieve by hurting her.
She looks back at him for a long moment, sees the question in his eyes. He would help her get away, now, if she asks him to, she sees. He is almost begging her to push him off her, to be strong, to tell him she wants him.
It is the hardest thing she has ever done, but she lowers her eyes, lowers her hands, lowers her head, to accept his jutting dick into her mouth, to hide her tears, to push herself further in to his body than she has ever managed before, seeking her own oblivion in physical excess, encouraging him, mutely, to be as rough as he likes with her, to see her as just another of his step-father’s whores, to hurt her.
After that, he stumbles into the bathroom, cleans himself up, and makes another call.
“Look - I have somewhere to be. I’m leaving her tied up, door unlocked. See you in the summer, I guess. Send the money.”
He collects his bag and leaves, without once speaking to her or looking at her.
That summer, he takes his pleasure with the other two girls in residence, but never her. But she knows that he always watches when someone is fucking her, or hurting her, and her adjustment to her new life falters, badly. Being used with him watching is like the first awful weeks all over again; gut-wrenching, soul-destroying shame, abject misery afterwards. For indeed her future, she has been told, does indeed involve a likely sale to a man from Russia who will be a visitor at the private island off Bermuda in the early Fall.
It takes a mini-breakdown and a mercilessly psychological two day cellar confinement to bring her back into her former pretty obedience.
Enjoying all of this, his step-father makes arrangements, so that the young man’s first sale negotiation is for the disposal of his former girlfriend, the one he had procured.
It is he who, in the sprawling villa, in the heady days of oppressive heat and high humidity that lead up to the hurricane season, is charged with demonstrating to the Russian prospective buyer her virtuosity, the depth of her submission, her willingness to be used. He performs with casual savagery and merciless exposure of her many vulnerabilities.
And she? She performs for him; beautifully. Not for the buyer, not for the step-father, but simply, in the hope that he will remember her, will not be totally disappointed in her. As the last personal choice she will make that means anything. The last thing she can do that might possibly make any difference at all, before she disappears from the world completely.
The price achieved is 10% higher than expected. The Russian knows he would have paid more, so taken with her helpless eagerness to please is he. The young man feels he has broken the last chain on his freedom to express himself with the girls his step-father collects; all compunction extinguished.
Everyone comes out feeling like a winner.
Except for the girl, of course.
He had been right to try and save her - but what the hell? She had demanded to be taken down.
She was over.
