You will want to have read the first part of this story.
Then they were at the Dorchester, going into the tea room, and there were two men in dark suits, standing and smiling at Mark— one quite old, perhaps even sixty— much older than her own father; the other not much older than she, both quite similar in appearance— father and son, perhaps.
“Charles,” Mark greets the older one; “David”.
He does not introduce her, but moves his hand, indicating her; “This is the pretty I mentioned.”
They do indeed look at her as she was used to being looked at when she was modelling— when it was her profession to be looked at. She hates it now as she had grown to hate it then, wondering how it can be that she likes Mark looking at her in much the same way.
They sit around a low table, in low seats; the short skirts of the dress ride up, and her thighs feel very exposed, her knees are above her hips, and the skirts fall back; she does nothing to change the situation. She is there to be looked at.
She blushes and smiles, and shimmies, just as he had asked her to, even when the younger one says something about ‘tits’ to his father in an unpleasant, sneering tone, just quiet enough for him to pretend she was not meant to hear, loud enough to make it certain that she would.
It is hard not to think— much harder than it had been in the park— as the meeting wears on, as she offers herself, conscientiously, to their gaze. After a while, though; she hits on the trick of looking at Mark’s hands, and imagining them on her body, and things get easier.
The part of her that became Essy when she stopped modelling— when she rejected her given name, Hope— the part of her that is hard, and defensive, keeps trying to get her to think, to worry at the question of just why it is that Mark can behave with her as he does, and have her like it. Why it is that he is permitted to subject her to the stares and unpleasant smiles of these two slimeballs? Why is she prepared to move herself, present herself, just as he wishes her to? Why, after all these years of recovery from the modelling mindset, is she working to present herself to these unpleasant strangers as a sex-object, as ‘meat’?
The only way to suppress the thinking— which quickly becomes agony— is to double down on her promise to Mark, to act as ‘eye-candy’.
It takes a while, and there is a definite ‘hump’ of resistance; but once she overcomes that— makes herself spread her thighs a little— until her knees are just too far apart not to provoke a second glance— not until that point does her libido kick in, surprising her, as it had in the park, and she finds she wants to do more.
She is sent, at one point, to ask for a glass of water, when there is an untouched one (hers) on the low table— simply so they can watch her walk, she understands. She finds in herself a strong need to please Mark. Even though their eyes on her make her skin crawl, she makes herself bend from the hip to give the glass to the older one, Charles; leaning forward to offer her cleavage, holding herself there for longer than she needed to, letting him look, letting the others see, when she would dearly have liked to slap him.
“Quite a goer, this one, I’d imagine,” Charles says to Mark, who simply smiles, unruffled, unreadable, and the business talk resumes. But for Essy something has changed, the casual reference to her sexual appetites igniting something, and now, looking at Mark’s hands, a wave of lust pulses through her. He must fuck her, after she has done this for him. He must.
She sees, then, with a flash of insight, that he has presented this ordeal for her in order to convince her that she is not strong enough for him, so that he can prove to her that she isn’t what he is looking for.
But of course, it can go the other way; she can use it as an opportunity to prove something to him. The realisation changes things; she finds herself wanting to provoke the men, have them lusting for her, have them consumed with jealousy that she is Mark’s. Mark’s trophy.
As they get deeper into their conversation— some property dealing, as far as she can make out, but she doesn’t even try to understand, remembering Mark’s instructions, as first one, then another of them— Mark just as much as the others, takes the chance to appraise her body, to look at her like meat, as she studiously avoids their gaze, leaving their wandering eyes, their greedy thoughts unchallenged, as she carefully presents herself, indeed, so as to make such thoughts more likely, to provoke and encourage them, she finds herself caught up in the mood of it, and the certainty that she wants Mark to be pleased by her efforts. Thoughts of fucking Mark are where her mind chooses to go, and she is presenting herself for him, now— never mind what the others think.
She can’t do much— this is a business meeting in the public tea room of a posh hotel, but the need in her is strong, her belly coming alive with desire, and she lets her hips move, flexes her thighs, arches her back; all in double slow time, lazily, naturally, without looking up. And it works; she feels their eyes on her, and it feeds the building heat in her, until she is aware that she is flushed, that her hips are working of their own accord, and has to control herself.
She catches something, then; almost nothing, but definitely something, a questioning glance, a quick nod, between Mark and Charles, while David is speaking (they have mostly been letting the younger man speak, but smoothly ignoring him, as far as she can tell). There is something about her in this moment, she intuits it, although she doesn’t know quite …
It hits her then, like a blow to the solar plexus, so that she has a hard time retaining any mask of composure, shifts in her seat, tenses, has to control her breathing, stifle a gasp.
They notice, look up, eyebrows raising, all of them, and she has a choice to make; run, now— make an excuse, leave, get back to her life, if she can, take this as a terrible warning. This is what she should do— must do, she understands. She braces herself, attracting more attention. This is all going wrong; she is not supposed to disrupt Mark’s meeting. Ridiculous! He’s been playing some mind-trick fuckery on her all morning, and she needs to get free, now! Who cares about his meeting? She’s going!
Except… except that she cannot move. Desperate, she finds that she needs to look at Mark, even as she knows that to do so is dangerous, since it is his eyes, his gaze, his ability to make her feel seen, accepted, understood, encompassed, which has trapped her; but still, still, she needs to; she lifts her chin, and lets him see her, asking him the ugly, awful question she needs answering, asking him with her eyes.
That he understands; that he knows what she is asking, she is somehow certain, from the smiling but uncompromising affirmation she sees in his eyes; nevertheless, she demands confirmation; her eyes flicker, left, then right, referencing the two other men, then back to Mark’s, asking the question again, her cheeks flushed, breath coming deeply as she suppresses panic, desperate to remain in control of herself in this madness; astonished, appalled, yet weirdly reassured by the bland confidence with which his answer is conveyed— a deepening smile, a slow, almost imperceptible, but definitive nod. The same nod as he had given to Charles; casual, confident, disposing. Disposing of her; her body, she realises.
And it’s like a one-two follow-up to the gut punch; devastating.
Mark wanted to offer her to these two. To have them fuck her. The ugly thing was real, now, not just a ugly question in her mind. It was understood between Mark and her, now; out in the open; acknowledged. He proposed to whore her to these unlovely strangers, presumably in service of nailing down some deal or other. That’s what he wanted from her. And she was still here, still sitting, still trying to control herself, not to disrupt proceedings. Proceedings which, if not disrupted, would presumably end with her in some hotel room with the three of them, naked, their cocks inside her, their come inside her, their hands on her body, tongues in her mouth, treating her as meat, as a whore.
And she was still here.
And he, Mark, was sure of her. That had been in the nod to Charles, and the nod to her. Had she passed the test, then? Or had he never doubted her? Or was the test to come in that hotel room, when something gross was demanded of her?
Oh but this was too much!
The moment seems to have lasted hours; so many tumultuous, contradictory, urgent thoughts, demanding attention, action, safety.
And yet she was still here.
And then without any crisis, any moment of revelation, any identifiable decision point, it was over. She hadn’t been strong, hadn’t made a choice; rather, her weakness had made the choice for her; simply, at some point, it became unimaginable that she would have the strength to leave. She was Mark’s, now, somehow. As simple as that. He had her; she was at his disposal, she would manage herself on his behalf, in his service. It was just obvious, unquestionable, now.
Queasily, she let a feeling of immense relief, of satisfaction, of relaxation wash over her, at the same time, her heart was in her mouth, as it felt; the enormity of the implications of her inability to leave, of her warm, positive emotions in the face of that that enormity, all impossible to reconcile.
And yet, she was still here.
Her responsibilities to him, the conditions she had agreed to, presented themselves to her, with urgency, then, and it became necessary for her to actively proclaim her submission, her willingness; not only to Mark, but to the others, too; to make amends for the disturbance she had caused.
With a great effort, she forced herself into the required mode; acting— very obviously acting; the acting itself being an important part of the apology, of the reassurance that everything was going to go as Mark wished, that she could control herself even when it meant terrible things for her. She made herself soften up, made herself emit some approximation of a giggle and a wriggle, feeling the tears in her eyes, letting them see how weak she was, how conflicted, letting her cheeks burn, shaking her head a little, fluttering her eyelids, letting her distress show;
“Oh! I’m … Sorry! Stupid … stupid me. Just … “
She had no idea what she was saying. It didn’t matter. What mattered was that she was giving them a little show, inviting their eyes to her body, moving for them, very obviously offering them her body as a distraction from the awkward moment she had caused, making it easy, and hopefully interesting, for Mark to introduce the idea that they might like to have access to her, that she was desirable, would not resist them; letting her see how vulnerable she was, that she was prey; prey trapped by its own efforts…
The feelings that performing like this produced in her were intense, and distressing, and she found that further giggles and wiggles were necessary to dispel the physicality they demanded of her.
“I’m so sorry … please, please … don’t mind me …”
“On the contrary, Miss,” it was the older one, all fake gallantry, his smile very lopsided, his eyes roving freely, but spending significant time at her groin, making her realise, with a lurch, that her movements had rucked the short skirts of the dress even higher on her thighs, that he might well have a view of her crotch (unthinkable, though, to twitch her skirts down); “a most welcome distraction from our tedious hagglings! Mark, this gives me an opportunity to compliment you on your companion; she is extraordinarily lovely. Not to mention highly desirable.”
Here it was, thought Essy, I’m going to be whored out, now. All those careful, urgent struggles during my modeling days, keeping out of the cutches of fat old rich guys and predatory C-listers, and here it is; just a sweetener to some grubby deal.
There was no resentment in her, though. In fact, looking up at Mark, she realised she was melting, smiling softly at him, even as her eyes were starred with tears. She wasn’t so much whoring herself, as giving herself to Mark, and that was … well, there was nothing to call that but … lovely. If he chose to whore her to these strangers, well, insofar as that was what he wanted her for, that must be lovely, too.
“Perhaps it might be appropriate,” said Charles, “to take this conversation to your suite, at this point? We could order some champagne, to celebrate the consummation of our agreement, and finalise the details tomorrow, after …”
And that was it, decided; she would accompany them to Mark’s suite, where she would be fucked by all of them, to seal the deal.
She had that sensation she had had earlier; fizzy, bubbling inside, light as air, conscious that she must work; work at herself constantly, now, so as not to let the panicky , overwhelming certainty that this was a horror unfolding for her— not to let that panic get the upper hand, and she deliberately, coldly, committed herself to ensuring that she would retain control.
She was tested almost immediately; as soon as the lift began to move upward, the younger one, David, had made some sort of gesture to Mark, who had nodded, waved his hand towards Essy, smiling smoothly, giving permission with regard to her body, and David had taken her head in his hands, pushed her into the mirrored corner of the lift, and forced his mouth onto hers, his teeth mashing her lips open, his tongue invading her, and she had made herself to do the opposite of what her body wanted— which was to tighten, clamp, fold in, resist, repel, refuse; instead, she made herself giggle again, kept her hands at her sides, moved her feet apart a little, kept her shoulders back and open, as Charles said something in an undertone to Mark, and when David’s hand pushed up under her skirt, she opened her thighs as if welcoming him, and then he was at her sex, making her moan— any noise other than the shriek she had had to strangle.
He kept at her for the whole ride in the lift, grabbing at her, mauling her, not gentle at all, only stepping back as it began to slow, leaving her, dress in disarray, one breast pulled from the sports bra, panties around her knees, lipstick mussed, mascara tracks on her cheeks, hair tangled, breathing hard, Mark and Charles watching the whole time, so many reflections in the mirrored interior.
It took all she had to maintain a model’s pose— stay soft, let them look, let them see her, let them think how easy it was going to be to fuck her, let them think what they liked about her, to just be a body for them.
She was dying inside, but all the time, her eyes were on Mark’s face, making no demands, but needy, needy all the same, needing his relaxed, calm smile, just the same as it had been when he had been listening to her deepest feelings, earlier; just as interested, just as cool.
He wanted more, though, she saw— wondering if she had more, until, without thinking, willingly, she gave it;
“Oh … oh my!” she said, in a girly, weak voice, tinged with shock but also with weakness and desire; “I … I guess … Mark?“— making it clear, if it had not been before, that it was up to him who kissed her, who mauled her pussy, who fucked her. That it was he who had the power to decide for her.
And Mark? Mark had grinned at her then— a strong, hard, twisted grin, almost a snarl, but it was the hint of something lost and distant in his eyes which made it OK; not just OK, but important to her, suddenly, urgently important, to let this happen; more than just let it— yes, more— she must offer herself into it— make it good for them, let them have her respond as they desired her to, to give herself over, as wholeheartedly as she could, into this— to make it as good as she could for them— for the sake of whatever it was that was lost at the back of Mark’s eyes.
Gods, but it was a rollercoaster; it wasn’t all acting; despite David’s uncaring clumsiness, it was undeniable; Essy was breathless now, at the idea of being stripped, being played with, of being fucked as a nameless body, at the idea that they would all be watching, all of them, all see her at her most vulnerable, all feel free with her.
Nameless, because Mark had still not used her name. In point of fact, she realised, with a lurch deep in her belly, he had not spoken one word to her since they had entered the hotel; not one word— had controlled her, manoeuvred her into this betrayal of everything she had worked to become since she stopped modelling, all without doing anything more than smile at her. The realisation was as wonderful as it was appalling; she was awestruck, horrified; overwhelmed by the power he had attained over her, humbled by it, crushed by her own weakness, how easy she was, how fragile she had turned out to be - she who had thought herself so tough, so self-reliant. What a joke.
All that time, as a model, fending this sort of thing off, having to think about it— hearing other girls’ stories of forced gropings, of rapes, of all but prostitution for scrawny old billionaires on Viagra, and now here she was, juicing at the prospect.
She giggled again, in weakness, as Charles took her wrist in a vice grip, pulling her along the hallway, her breast still exposed, no option but to kick the panties off her ankles as she hobbled to match his pace, or be pulled over. The panic kept surging, and the only way to control it was to express the energy it pushed with to inflame them more, so that escape would be impossible; not knowing what or why she was doing what she did, she yanked back at the arm Charles held, slumped back against the wall, and pulled him to her, turning his annoyed exclamation into an arch laugh as she lifted her face to his, opened her legs, her arms flat against the wall, wrists dangling, offering herself.
He hurt her more than David, but was more skilful, too; he clamped and twisted at her clit, making her yelp and squeak, pathetic noises she strangled at birth since the idea of someone coming out of their room to check, finding her being used like this, was unbearable.
Then he pushed two fingers directly into her sex and found the spot which worked for her, deep in her sex, almost as if he knew her body better than she did, so that she spasmed with the sensation of it; he didn’t kiss her, for all her tongue flickered on her lower lip, but rather watched her, a thin, unpleasant smile on his lips, as he made her writhe and moan, until, with a short laugh, he took her wrist again and dragged her into the suite, where David was pouring whisky while Mark ordered champagne and caviar from room service. Charles dumped her, unceremoniously, to the floor in the centre of the room, before going to the mirror, to straighten his cuffs, check his tie.
David stepped toward her then; impatient, leering, eyes greedy, as she unsteadily got to her feet, only to be stopped by Mark’s harsh tone;
“She’s to be stripped, first, then tied, then beaten. You need to understand how free you can be with her, before you try her. No point using her unless you take everything you want from her, without restraint.”
He’s looking directly at her, and she is drowning in his eyes again, as her mind refuses to hear the meaning of the words. They are inescapable, though, eating into her like fire, as David, after an initial stunned pause, emits a breathy “Jesus…”, and stands back, leaving her, alone, in the middle of the room, her dress half torn from her, one shoe heel broken, hair mussed, face smudged with makeup at mouth and eyes, breathing hard, tears in her eyes, the exposed nipple stiff, visibly trembling, lips quivering, her struggle with panic and despair writ large on her face, all of them watching her, and she knows that Mark is right. There is no point, no point at all in going through with this, unless it really tests her, proves to him that she is the one he should choose. Or not.
She recalls a moment from the catwalk, when, in some especially gauzy, skimpy outfit, her breasts all but swinging free, hobbled by insanely high heels, an ugly man in a powder blue suit, far too tight for his massive, fat rippled frame, huge bald head, had by some trick managed to catch her eye, her attention.
He had looked directly into her eyes, grinning horribly, his big teeth showing between slug lips, flicked his tongue at her. That was the moment after which she had begun to use the word meat in reference to herself. She had nearly fallen, then, on the catwalk, so viscerally did the moment affect her, how dirty she had felt.
How she had cried backstage, too, as the moment had become a lens through which to look at everything that she was doing, that was being done to her, as photographers adjusted lighting to change the shadows under her tits, had her jumping and twisting through poses, taking hundreds of images per second, to choose that exact one which had her like a startled faun, the point of maximum vulnerability, innocence, yet wearing some dress so short that it was impossible not to think about how vulnerable her pussy was, how much of her breasts were on display in the skimpy, gauzy fabric, which the assistant had cut away at with the big scissors until there was almost nothing to it.
They had had to repair her makeup before the quick change into the next crazy outfit. The big guy had made a point of grinning at her again, letting her see his eyes assessing her body, that he saw her as something to fuck.
And now here she was, giving herself, willingly, to two of the same. Perhaps not as physically gross, but every bit as vulgar, as rapacious, as sneering, as uninterested in her as anything but a body, holes, squishy bits, sensitive bits, a body over which they had power.
She does nothing to resist as David, all brash confidence again, gleefully makes a thing of ripping her dress from her. So pretty, so expensive, so new, destroyed, just for fun. She is frightened, now; her throat catches with every outbreath, making a repeated pattern of sighs, which do nothing but emphasise her vulnerability. Her bra is next, and then she’s naked, in a hotel suite with three wealthy, well-dressed strangers, shivering, unable to give herself the respite of cringing, curling in on herself, the idea of them not finding her sexually attractive too much to risk, holding herself as best she can as Mark approaches, unable to meet his gaze; humiliated, weak, but at the same time finding herself almost too eager to obey him as he appproaches, takes her hand, asks her to climb onto the double bed, which has four tall bedposts, elegantly turned.
He is deft, skilful, gentle with her as neither Charles nor David had been, and she in turn as elegant and open in her movement as she can achieve, as he helps her up, to stand in the centre of the mattress, the bedding thrown into a heap on the floor.
Using bath-robe belts, he ties her wrists to diagonally opposing posts, high up, pulling until her arms are taut, at full length. Then, to her confusion and dismay, he does the same with her ankles, but across the other diagonal of the bed, so that she is twisted at the waist, her upper half facing toward the window, lower half toward the door. It isn’t uncomfortable, really, but it feels horribly exposed; the enforced parting of her legs in particular.
Clearly Charles agrees, because he says, from behind her, his voice full of salacious scorn;
“If its all the same to you, Mark, I’d like to see the pretty’s ankles pulled further apart, stretch out that tight little pussy. If I’m not mistaken it will make it even harder for her to balance when she’s jerking around; increase the fear factor for her.”
A burst of anger inside her collapses almost immediately. She has asked for this, offered herself, encouraged it; anger is worse than useless here, it is evidence of stupidity, and she is certain that Mark is not interested in stupidity; his subtlety, appreciation of nuance, is increasingly evident, making it all the more important to her that she handle herself well, manage herself to perfection, even as she is beaten and fucked, so that this ordeal, this horror, gives Mark what he desires of her.
But now, as the anger is made pointless, as Mark sets her ankles even more widely, she must again divert the energy of it into something they want, and she moans, as she experiences exactly the sensation of her sex being split that Charles had expressed interest in, as the older man’s hand explores her openness from behind her, penetrating her with two, then three fingers, awful, shame eating her alive that this is being done to her with three men looking on, that she is sighing and moaning, helplessly now— not really in pleasure, although there is shame there, too, as she has lubricated considerably, her clit is noticeably engorged and ultra sensitive, the moans expressive of so much more, though; fear, anticipation, shame.
Charles is correct; held as she is, all three of them taking a turn with a doubled up belt to thrash at her, she several times loses her footing completely, suspended from her wrists, ankles flailing, and experiences exactly that amplification of fear he had suggested at the helplessness. Not that she can evade the strokes of the belt in any case, but even the illusion of some small control turns out to be precious, and she scrabbles and wriggles pathetically to retain her footing, making David laugh out loud, aiming between her legs, then, so that she squeals all the louder.
Mark calls a halt then, saying that he wants to really hurt her now, that she must be gagged, pushes her sopping panties into her mouth, tied around with the remains of her bra, and straightway commences to really thrash her buttocks, so that, determined to control herself or not, she must have screamed at the top of her voice without the gag. He does not neglect her breasts, hitting her hard there, several times, so that she cannot believe she has not been permanently damaged there, until a knock sounds at the door, and the beating is halted while room service is delivered.
With her head turned toward the window, she can see weak reflections only, but it is enough to see that two uniformed hotel employees are in the room, that they are openly gawking at her tied, naked body, that Mark is talking to them about her, offering them money, asking them if they think she is pretty, all in a fine, chatty style, as if this is perfectly normal. And indeed the staff make no effort to enquire after her well being, or express any other concerns, pocketing their tips after they have set out the little supper, and leaving, closing the door softly behind them.
The men busy themselves with champagne and caviar, then, lounging, commenting on her, until David, impatient, tells Mark;
“I’m gonna …”
And Mark says; “Have at her young ‘un. She’ll do anything you want; don’t ask her, though; force her; if she gives you any trouble, slap her across the face— not too hard— I don’t want her damaged— but hard enough. Any real trouble and we’ll put the belt between her legs— that’ll stop any nonsense.”
And so it had begun.
