Hotel Califuckya
“You all — most of you … I … I don’t know …”
“You all fucked me last night, didn’t you?”
This is perhaps an understatement. They had gang-fucked her, each of them using her repeatedly, selfishly, manhandling her like a sex-dolly, not caring when they hurt her, laughing and joking with each other as they waited their turn, taking every opportunity to slap, pinch and demean her as the night progressed.
Her voice is sexily husky — her throat is raw from repeated forced penetrations, as are her sex and asshole.
“Yeah. Yeah we did, plus some other guys who split. What of it?”
“Well … well I woke up in a … a really nice room, and a girl brought me breakfast, and helped me … clean up. But … but there were no clothes — only this, and … and I don’t understand. “
“What’s to understand? You got fucked. If you stay, you’ll get fucked some more, I guess. If you don’t wanna get fucked, then leave.”
“Only you’re gonna need to leave soon, in that case, cos my dick’s getting hard right now, and I didn’t get a turn at that sweet little ass last night.”
Laughter.
She fakes a smile, but her body flinches a little, delightfully. Her chances of getting out without another episode are diminishing rapidly, and she knows it; but there’s something she needs to know.
“If … if I stay … do … do I get to keep that room?”
No-one bothers to answer, as a strong hand in her hair from behind drags her firmly sideways, bending her over the low back of an easy chair, kicking her feet wide apart. Her hands are up, grasping the hand, trying to minimise the pain at her scalp, and she’s squeaking and panting, but there’s no serious resistance, and a cheer goes up as a cock is slowly, relentlessly forced into her tight back passage, wrenching sad moans from her sore throat.
Soon, she’s jouncing and moaning steadily as the rhythm increases, breasts swaying wildly.
The hand in her hair lifts her head, and the guy who was doing all the talking is there, looking deeply into her soft, tear-filled eyes.
“It works like this, pretty. As long as you stay, people get to do stuff to you. Fuck you, hurt you, slap you … hell, tattoo you if’n they want to. If anyone says you should go, complains about you, and I hear about it, you have to prove to me you’re worth keeping — otherwise you’re out with the garbage — or in the dog-pen, if that’s your choice. As long as you stay, you get a pretty room, spending money, drugs, pretty sex outfits, nice shoes, class food and drink — all that shit. Your room is yours — no-one comes in without an invite — although of course girls who never invite anyone in get complaints real soon. You can leave whenever you want; just walk out the door — if you can walk, that is; can be hard to do with a dick in your ass!”
These Episodes
These episodes — when he wanted her to be his lover again, as if nothing had changed — when it was almost sweet; lazy mornings, when he allowed her to show him how prettily eager she was to make him happy, to show him how deeply she was his — without any hint of cruelty or threats, or humiliations…
These episodes, she had come to realise, were all part of the programme.
Because later that day, or the next morning, he would say something like;
“The way you took it right into your throat, the way you stayed there, your arms loose behind you, angled your neck, leaned into me, so that I could feel the jerking in your throat — your body wanting to force me out, so you could breathe, but you forcing yourself to live with that, for my pleasure — you know? You did that to yourself — you remember?”
And she would nod, blushing, unable to meet his eyes. But he would lift her chin, smile.
“Well, that’s the new minimum standard, pussy. That’s how you do every guy from now on… And I mean every guy. No excuses. I know you can do it, so you do it. You’re not my lover, you’re a skank slut; what you can do for me, you’re to do for any guy that is kind enough to stick his cock into you.”
And the tears would come, and she’d tremble, biting her lip, and he’d laugh, or slap her, or get her to do it again — underline that he meant what he said.
But somehow this knowledge, knowledge of just how coldly he was manipulating her, manoeuvring her, this knowledge that was so bitter, so cruel, that her whole being rebelled against, viscerally protested at 4 o’clock on a cold, dark morning, chained in the hallway, naked… this knowledge seemed to mean nothing at all, since it changed her behaviour not a jot.
Meant nothing at all, so that when next he smiled at her, brought her coffee and rolls, kissed her soft and sweet, took her shopping, out to eat, then home, massaged her shoulders, shared her bath, lay back in his easy chair and patted his knee; she happily, foolishly, melted, laughing softly, urgently eager to show him, to offer him her willingness, her neediness, the all-consuming intensity of her desire to have him experience, through her physical devotion, his ownership of her soul.
Or so she thought.
In fact, it has become impossible for her not to accept that, knowing just how he is gaslighting her with these sweet interludes, too, has deepened the effect they have on her — impossible for her to hide from the fact that, knowing just how instrumental this toying with her is, so directed towards her further degradation, not only generates no resistance in her, but wrenchingly, has led her to ‘lean in’ to the game he is playing. To work with him as he destroys her.
Far from holding back, far from trying not to let the smooth, warm sexiness of the experience cozen her into working even harder to serve his pleasure, she is finding herself looking into his eyes at the most critical moments, letting him see that she knows he is playing her, and then, deliberately, going even further that she could have imagined — pushing herself, opening herself, offering herself up to his greed, finding herself possessed by the need to lose herself in the act of giving her body to him, her self-respect to him, no matter how extreme, how degrading, how shaming.
Just deeper and deeper entrapment. Colluding with him as he does it to her. Stomach-churningly appalled and fascinated by being a part of it, of being responsible for her own erasure.
And today — today, she has told him this, as they cuddle, she naked, him fully dressed; told him that she understands that these lover-like episodes are designed to get her to whore herself ever more completely.
Told him in a soft, sweet voice, smiling, closing his lips with a tender finger when he tries to speak;
“It’s fine. It’s fine, John. It’s working. I … I like it. Knowing. Knowing that you … control me … so … so completely — that you plan so well; it’s … it’s … perfect. Don’t stop. Don’t ever stop. Take me … take me all the way. Right down. Don’t stop. There’s … there’s nothing else for me, now.”
Kissing His feet
He had never asked her to do this.
One day, she had been delivered back from the house of a particularly silly man who had no idea what he wanted from her, or how to use her; a weekend where all her attempts to please had ended in confused embarrassment, where she had spent each night in tears — not from some thrashing or other deliberate cruelty, but from her own confusion at what it meant, to be a slave girl around a man who could not command her, who was himself embarrassed by what he wanted from her.
He had ended, of course, by attempting to rid himself of his own distress through beating her harshly, but even in this he had failed, when, after a random stroke caught the very tip of her nipple in a snap of the whip end and she had made the loudest scream he had ever heard (even through the badly fitted gag), he had become frightened and began trying to ‘fix’ her, comfort her — even apologised. It was awful beyond bearing.
On this day, naked, on her knees, chain leash fitted to her collar, shortly after being brought in and left, chained, naked, cold, her nipple swollen and sore, she had been overwhelmed with gratitude for His easy mastery of her.
The couple whom he had arrived with (having been away himself) — strangers to her — seemed rather shocked by her condition, and had been even more shocked when, in a flood of relieved emotion at once again being safe in his effortlessly confident, controlling presence, she had impulsively kissed his foot, deliberately signalling her heartfelt emotion; needing in some way to convey to Him her gratitude for His management of her — management that she was now safely held by, that would make all clear, all easy, all sweet again.
She too had felt a little sick once she realised what she had done; realising that through this act she had descended further into helpless slavery. Because the abjectly submissive act had been to her a simple and heartfelt thing to do, felt entirely natural.
Since then, he sometimes paused, in a certain way, and she knew that he expected her to repeat the gesture — to kiss his feet. If he had a visitor with him, He might suggest to that man that he push the toes of his shoes, one after the other, into her wide-spread pussy, have her rub herself onto the shoe, thoroughly wetting the toecap, before she was expected to lick it clean, then polish it dry with her hair.
This usually made her cry — soft, helpless tears of weakness and humiliation — which often earned her a thrashing (she was not permitted to cry unless she had been intentionally hurt), which again usually inflamed the stranger’s desires, ending with him urgently thrusting himself one or more of her holes, right there on the floor, in the cold hallway, utterly degraded.
After such an introduction, guests rarely had any inhibitions about using and abusing her with abandon during their stay. To her consternation, she had begun to prefer guests who used her without any restraint at all — even the cruel ones, preferring even these sadists over guests who were inhibited, uncertain about using a human body as if it were an amusing but ultimately meaningless sex toy.
Sometimes, in the small hours, unable to sleep, usually chained somewhere, uncomfortable, usually suffering some combination of cold, hunger, pain, she would torment herself with thoughts about the direction this preference leads, the grimness of any imaginable destination for her; for her body, for her remaining shreds of self-respect.
She wondered whether he even noticed that on mornings after such vigils, she was even more than usually pathetic in her eagerness to please, her abject need for him to put his cock into her.
She has utterly ceased to think about freedom, and has begun to find clothes, on the odd occasion when she is made to wear them, increasingly unnatural.
Time to sell her, he is thinking.
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