Yachtie Totty
When she thought about it, sometimes, awake in the middle of the night, wrists cuffed behind her, neck chained to the wall, she thought they must be drugging her.
She hadn’t been like this before, had she?
Never so keen to strip for fat old men, to display herself so provocatively, to look at them directly, offering herself, hoping - really eager to find herself wanted, penetrated in one hole or another; sometimes 2 holes, even sometimes 3, often slapped around, hard, sometimes thrashed with a belt.
This wasn’t how she’d been brought up, was it?
And yet. And yet just the thought of men wanting her, mauling her, their fat nicotine stained fingers grabbing at her pussy, grasping at her breasts, semi-hard cocks pushing into her mouth, demanding to be made hard - thoughts like these would get her uncomfortably hot.
So much better in the day, on deck, with so many men that there were enough for the five of them, all competing to avoid being the loser of the day, whipped at sunset.
At night, though, she would lie awake for what seemed like hours, tormented by the need at her sex, flexing her hips urgently, unable to do anything to relieve the tension.
Sometimes someone watching the CCTV would notice and come in and fuck her, or wake one of the other girls and have them do each other with a double ended dildo while they sucked his cock. Or sometimes she would just be whipped across the pussy, her yelps and sobs laughed at.
They must be drugging her, surely?
Maybe they would up the dose if she could manage to be the MFS - the ‘most fucked slut’ - every day, for a month.
Maybe Master would get her bigger tits, then, too, or have her tits and clit pierced.
And next day she would be extra sweet, extra eager, extra grateful for their viagra persistent hardness, and volunteer for the crew duty, too.
She hadn’t always been like this, had she?
Silly Girl
“But I feel silly!”
“Well you look silly. A grown woman, with a well paid, high-stress job, stripped naked, posing on her knees in her boyfriend’s flat, just waiting for him. How long have you been here, anyway?”
“Since .. since about mid-day. Where .. where were you?”
“None of your business!”
She’s about to snap something back at him when she remembers, and bites it back. He laughs at her.
“You should feel silly. You’re a silly twat, that’s what you are. A sex-addict. Letting a man treat you like this.”
She goes pink, looks away, but she doesn’t move, doesn’t speak.
“How much did those tits cost?”
“Si .. six thousand.”
“And how much was your bonus last year?”
“Three.”
“So, you spent double your bonus on new tits for my Christmas present, and now everyone knows you’re a slut. No wonder you feel silly. Why are you waiting here anyway?”
There are tears in her eyes now, but at the same time he can see that she is breathing heavily. He’s not unaffected either. God, but she looks fuckable. It’s hard to believe he controls her as he does.
“You .. you asked me.”
“Did I? I don’t remember. I’m sure I didn’t, in fact.”
“Last .. last weekend. You .. you said that, um , anytime .. anytime I had nothing I really needed to do, I should be here, on my knees, ready .. ready to be fucked.”
“So I did - so I did! Good girl. Good little slut! But then I don’t understand something else. Why were you not here on Wednesday night? I know you got back from Dublin on Tuesday, and that you didn’t go to Manchester until Thursday afternoon.”
“I .. I couldn’t. I .. I was meeting an old girlfriend from school. We arranged it ages ago.”
“I’m sorry, I still don’t understand. What was it that you really needed to do on Wednesday night that meant you couldn’t be here, ready for fucking?”
“I ..I told you, my .. my..”
“Exactly. Nothing. No reason at all. Unless you were going to bring your friend over here to see if I felt like fucking her, there was no excuse. I’m afraid you know what that means.”
She breaks pose, turns and looks at him; in an anguished voice with a harder, urgent tone, she says;
“No! No Peter, not .. Not today - I mean not ever. Not again! I won’t .. I don’t want .. I .. please?”
He is still, watching her. She’s been spanked quite a few times, as part of sex play, but only properly punished four times so far.
He can see the thought processes in her eyes; that this is going to go one of two ways - he’s done the strong silent approach before now - gone to sit and watch sport until she comes to him on her knees to apologise and offer her lovely butt for his belt, and he’s been down the forceful route a couple of times - grabbing her by the hair and wrestling her into submission.
Both have worked, she knows - each time she’s ended up taking her thrashing, and getting wildly fucked afterwards, too - which has been incredible for her, he knows - she had never moaned her orgasms out loud before then.
But this time, she thinks, she’s ready. Determined. She’ll fight if she has to - really fight; and if he decides to test her resolve, she’ll call his bluff, and just leave.
It has been wonderful with him, incredible; sensational, and this crazy domination stuff is - honestly - the hottest thing she’s ever experienced - connecting like electricity right down to some deep need that she never even knew she could feel before him.
That’s why she’s here this afternoon, naked, waiting, her new tits - his tits, in a way - out and proud for him. But the beatings - they are too frightening. In a way it’s not the pain, or the humiliation she’s frightened of; it’s not these that she can’t stand. In a weird way, being beaten like that - being subjected to real suffering, taken past any normal limit, turned into some sort of animal, so intense, so physical is the experience - being beaten like that is as incredible as the wild sex she has with him.
What she can’t stand is the power that being beaten has over her dreams; not just her nightmares, either - ordinary dreams, day dreams, and last week, in a meeting, a powerful and frankly delirious waking dream, unbidden, deeply unwelcome in the context of her work, her responsibilities. But Gods, had it been intense.
This is what is frightening her. So far, she has been able to tell herself it’s just sex - wild, dangerous, taboo sex maybe, but still some variant of sex.
This punishment stuff, though, is taking her way beyond that, and it’s frightening. She’s good at her job, but she’s a woman in a man’s world, and there is always someone snapping at her heels, alive for the first sign of weakness, however momentary. She cannot afford to let this go any further.
So she had said no - used her ‘boss’ voice (although it had sounded hollow to her).
And that was it. She’d been clear. That was the end of it.
She smiled at him, tentatively, still wanting the sex - wanting it badly, after her long wait;
“I’m still here, though, tits out, legs open .. waiting for you.”
She blushed a little, to be so brazen, but it brought a wave of warmth to her groin, and she flexed her hips a little, wanting the sexy mood to build again.
Only he doesn’t react in any way she had predicted - no sexy grin, shrug of the shoulders, OK let’s fuck; no grabbing her, using force; and no walking out in silence, either; instead, he just sits down on the chair, smiling a little; calm, interested.
“So now I need to understand what’s going on here. Let’s just have a little trip down memory lane, shall we? When was it - the first time I used my belt on you? You remember, don’t you? We met after work, in that bar, and I was with Charlie and James. And you - that’s it, you refused to take off your panties, didn’t you? You tried to be cross with me for even asking in front of them, although you were all pink and giggly and I know you were hot and wet down there because I know the signs. And I told you - didn’t I - told you that it would mean a thrashing when we got home.”
She is pink, flushed now, in that same way - but not giggling; not at all. Instead she is staring fixedly in front of her, eyes down, lips very pale.
“You had forgotten, hadn’t you, by the time we got home - you’d been having lots of fun letting Charlie and James listen to stories of your sluttiness, even though you kept squealing and slapping at me, and you thought you were in for a nice rough bit of fucking and a shivery orgasm. Took you by surprise, didn’t I? Grabbed your hair and ripped the dress off you, ripped the panties off you, threw you down on the floor, foot on your face and thrashed your tight little arse for you while you writhed about like a landed fish, yelling blue murder. Until you stopped, and realised what you felt. That’s when I knew I really had you; right then, when you stopped thrashing about and took the last three, and then came like a steam train almost as soon as I started fucking you.”
She is breathing heavily now, tears in her eyes, still very pink, and her thighs are flexing a little, seemingly of their own accord. She looks very soft - all of the tenseness that had been in her before gone.
He waits a little, and then;
“The second time was different. You came in here and started bitching about something at work. I told you I wasn’t interested and you started shouting - remember?”
“And I stood and watched you until you ran out of steam, and then told you that you should ask me for a beating when you were ready. It took about an hour, I think, before you came in to me and asked for it; all quiet and ever so sorry, eyes filled with tears, asking me not to be too rough.”
“Only I really hurt you that time, didn’t I? Tied you up and went at you until you were sobbing your little heart out and begging me to stop, telling me how much you wanted me to fuck you, how nicely you’d suck my cock, how you’d let me do it without untying your hands, like I’d been suggesting. Remember? It took you a while to come after that, but I wouldn’t let you get away with it, kept at you with my tongue until you started jerking around as if you’d been electrocuted and you cried afterwards, and told me you loved me. Good fucking blowjob, too, without you trying to control me with your hands - we need to do more of that.”
She looks at him, this time, her eyes full of fear, but very, very soft, her hands clasped now, behind her back; she’s opened her thighs very wide, and her hips are working slowly, needily.
He lets the silence build .. and build ..
.. until, after a long, long while, she starts speaking - a voice that is husky with tears, only a little more than a whisper, slow, thick with emotion;
“The .. the time I remember was .. was after you spent all night talking to Erica at that party and .. and I got so jealous I was ready to scream, and .. and I started in at you in the taxi, and you told me to stop, but I .. I couldn’t. And .. and you made the guy stop the car, and you got me out and walked me down a back alley behind some shops and told me to bend over a crate or something, and I was so frightened that I .. I did it, even though .. even though I knew you were going to hurt me.”
She stops, clearly in the grip of strong emotion, her hips writhing, breasts swaying, face screwed up, struggling with her emotions.
He is patient, stroking her cheek a little, until she manages to calm herself, and then she picks up;
“You .. you made it long and slow, with some bit of plastic strip you’d found, not really hard but just non-stop, all up my thighs and across my bum and down again; up and down, again and again until I felt like I was on fire and couldn’t stop moaning, and I didn’t know who I was any more and that’s .. that’s when you did me in the ass and .. and you destroyed me and that’s .. that’s why you .. you can’t .. not. Not any more.”
He waits again, holding her hand now, she gripping desperately.
“I .. I can’t. Not .. not .. I .. I just ..”
He waits with her, calm, relaxed, holding her, for as long as it takes, until at last she speaks, not looking at him, face pink, holding his hand so tightly that it hurts him, her voice clear now, full of emotion, but quite controlled;
“I .. I was wrong not to have come on Wednesday. I .. I should .. I should be punished. I .. I’m sorry I said no. That .. that was wrong. Only .. only please .. please don’t .. don’t be too hard on me? It’s .. you .. you don’t know what it does to .. to me.”
“On the contrary, pussy. I know exactly what it does to you. Which is why I do it to you - and why I will be doing it a great deal more often from now on. And you - you’ll be spending a lot more time thinking about exactly how you can please me, and how seriously important it is to you not to piss me off.”
He ties her, on her back, thighs spread obscenely wide, and uses a thin, dense, glass fibre rod. Not many strokes, but ruthlessly applied, an audible whistle as he slashes it through the air; not sparing her soft sex - she’s never imagined the possibility of being hurt there, and screams, full-throated, agonised, into the tight gag, body convulsing wildly. He does her in the ass afterwards, makes no effort at all to please her, and she cries herself to sleep, hands still tied.
But in the morning she is sweetness itself, even when he has her sit on the table, legs splayed, and show him the deep pink weals that are all puffy and tender around the shockingly deep grooves he has laid into her flesh, and when he calls Charlie (she kneeling at his feet, head lying on his thigh, nuzzling his cock to make it stiff, grinning in that way she has when she wants to suck him dry), and invites him over, telling him that she is now available to him whenever, she makes no fuss at all; takes him, soft, warm deep, into her mouth as soon as he unzips, pulls his hands to her breasts, then, slowly and purposefully, clasps her hands behind her back, making it obvious, moaning softly around his cock as he teases her nipples, stroking and twisting alternately.
Just once
Once.
Just once, for some stupid, drunken bet (and a really stupidly small amount of money), she’d agreed to this thing - a weekend at the cabin with her stupid guy and two of his shitty friends.
That she would be their sex slave.
It had all been a bit pathetic, in truth. They weren’t real dominants - or even real men, to be honest, and she wasn’t a submissive. Well not then, anyway.
So there had been a lot of her being naked, a lot of silly orders to jiggle her tits and cook things, quite a few blowjobs while they played video games or watched sports, one rather ineffective attempt at double fucking, front and back, a few more successful attempts at mouth and pussy - spit-roasting her, they called it.
And that had been it.
Except that it wasn’t. Gradually it got out; more and more people knew - her guy was boasting about it, making it seem more than it was. She split up with him, then the other two guys and some friends of theirs tried to rape her, in the carpark of a bar, but ran off when she screamed and started hitting at them, all her anger and grief and shame coming out of her, out of control.
That story, too, went around with their spin on it (that she’d offered to have them all, for money, in the back of a pickup, then changed her mind).
It was a fucking disaster; she lost quite a few friends, her father called her a whore and made her move out, so that she had to get an apartment, which she couldn’t really afford.
So when her boss at work - her father’s age - had her into his office and quietly said that he had heard some things about her, she had expected to be fired.
When instead he offered her a silly amount of money to do effectively the same thing - go to a cabin somewhere, with three of his friends, where they would - use - her (that was the word he used), she pretended to think it over for a day before she said yes.
And then.
Then it had gotten weird.
She would be up there every other weekend, sometimes a week at a time. There were about ten different guys that would use her. And they used her hard. Two and three cocks at a time, rough, not caring about her pleasure.
Forced deep blowjobs.
Mock rapes, where she’d be knocked about.
Spankings and whippings, too, although they never really seriously hurt her.
It wan’t that she was a submissive - she didn’t want these things.
It was just that she did submit - and took the money. She did come, too, when they let her - or when they had her do herself for them while they watched - she couldn’t deny that; couldn’t deny that they were sometimes very, very good come-offs, either, no matter how ashamed she might feel afterwards.
Except that now, now they wanted to ‘buy’ her - have her permanently, as a slave. A five year indenture, anyway, that’s what they called it.
And they wanted to mark her; tattoos, piercings, branding; and really hurt her too - knife play, cigarette burns had been mentioned.
Take her name away - call her cunt, bitch, slut.
Shave her head.
Put her to dogs.
It wasn’t that she wanted any of these things - the idea of them filled her with fear and shame.
What was really frightening, though, was that she wanted to say yes.
So maybe she had been a submissive, all along.
I’m only 22, she says to herself; if I do this I’ll spend most of my twenties as an abused sex slave for a group of guys that have no reason at all to take care of me. God knows how fucked I’ll be after five years of that - what use will money be, then? This is my life they are taking.
She’s been trying to convince herself to tell them no - to do the sensible thing. To tell them to go fuck themselves, honestly. But somehow these thoughts have had the opposite effect, and now she canot sit still anymore. Not at all, not for thinking about it., and it’s gotten insane, so that she ca’t even sleep properly.
It gets unbearable, that morning, and when some really stupid whining customer complaint comes through, that has been escalated and that she is going to have to deal with, even though the guy is sweary and rude, she gives up. Simply gets up from her desk, and walks straight through the office, into his room, shuts the door behind her, and goes to her knees, her voice strained but harsh and clear;
“OK. Yes. Yes. Everything. I don’t care. Whatever .. whatever you all want. But .. but you’d better take me now, right now, because .. because I can’t bear this having a choice to make shit for one more second.”
An hour later, two men arrive, carrying a large black holdall that is clearly very heavy. No words are spoken. Three large drinking water barrels come out of the bag. When it is indicated that she should kneel, she complies, wordlessly, shaking, but meek. She opens her mouth when presented with the fat penis gag, accepts it and the tightening of its strap without resistance, although her chest is heaving and she is clearly in the grip of strong emotions. When they render her helpless, though, putting a black cloth sack over her head, then tying her hands and ankles with zip-lock straps, she struggles hard, but only for the shortest moment, before going limp.
Giving up, she is conscious of a deep and welcome relief - an enormous burden lifted from her soul. For the first time in two years, she bears no guilt.
Whatever depravities she is to be put to will be entirely their responsibility. She no longer has a choice; she no longer has to consent.
If she gets herself wet for them, if she sucks their cocks with eager servility, it will be because she has to, for fear of vicious punishment. If she parades herself naked in front of all-comers, encouraging them to fuck her, it will be because she has been commanded to. If she orgasms loudly, as she somehow knows she will, while being fucked by a dog for a jeering crowd, it will be because she is helpless to resist them.
It isn’t that she is happy - far from it; there is real fear, real sadness, a deep sense of the loss of any chance at ordinary happiness.
But to be free of guilt, now - that is something; something powerful - like a long drink of water after a dry hike in the desert. Inside her, surprising her, a feeling of deep, deep gratitude is building. She had been thinking that if they did take her, she was going to be an ornery bitch - make them know that she was no pushover. But she sees, now, that it will be quite the opposite - that she’s going to work very hard to please them. To be what they want her to be; to serve them well. To give them their due, for taking the burden from her.
Fastened into the holdall, she is carried away, an object, unremarked upon.
One thing is granted her as her understanding of herself as a person is ruthlessly degraded; she never again has a meaningful choice to make. And she repays them with helplessly eager service.
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