The second question…
I have a request of you; I am entertaining a rather formidable couple from LA about a film deal. I would like you to be my date. If they are taken with you, I would like to know that I can offer you to them for the night, as a sweetener for the deal, and that you will do your best to please them, whatever they should desire.
She had sleuthed his office address and staked it out— a cool, stylish take on glass and steel modern— all elegant proportions and minimalist, stylish detailing, but muscular with it— then, driven by that crazy itch, she had several times made up reasons to enter the building, had hung around the lobby, until, on the third visit, an enormous, very well dressed man in a dark suit— Vadik— had, very politely, but very firmly asked her if she would like to explain her presence, and then, when she had become incoherent, had asked her, very politely again— but this time without really offering her the option of refusing— if she wouldn’t like a glass of water and a quiet place to sit for a minute, in peace.
The little salle d’attente had been very pleasant— a view onto an internal Japanese style courtyard; calming and serene, the expensive, low furniture generous and comfortable, Hokusai prints looking suspiciously like originals on the walls. She’d been left alone, treated with respect, but nevertheless, it had been obvious that she was— if not quite a prisoner— expected to stay where they had put her— presumably while they checked her out; she had been detained— if she tried to leave, there would be some trouble.
Weirdly, her emotional response to that realisation was not anger, although there was definitely a twinge of fear. She had made a dent in Karsh’ indifference. She had been noticed.
And that satisfaction had waxed; blossomed inside her when, after it had been politely suggested to her that she should visit the executive lounge for some tea, something to eat, even; she had meekly, but nervously followed, gone up a fair way in a fancy elevator whose floor numbers started at 20, then been ushered through large doors into a double height penthouse space with incredible views.
Her heart had really started thumping when she had seen Karsh on the far side of the room, at a large, round table in conversation with two women, suavely dressed with an air of authority about them, attended by two much younger women in office drone attire standing behind them— short grey pencil skirts, vertiginous heeled courts, starched cap sleeved blouses, tight across their bosoms, cleavage on show, glossy hair tightly pulled back into pony tails.
All four women were gorgeous, in striking contrast to Karsh’ homely, unapologetic ugliness, his careless, semi-casual dress— rougher fabrics than the slick office environment would suggest, creased, open neck shirt, sleeves unbuttoned and untidily pushed back. Each woman was full figured and immaculately turned out, all of them were fully focused on him; the older women looking at his face, the younger ones at his hands.
Lauren’s artist’s eye picked all of this up rapidly, knowing there was significance here, which might be understood later, but then rapidly, she, too, was fully focused on Karsh.
On the reality of him, which she had had so little of— really, it had been no more than ten minutes in the gallery, much of it feeling too flustered to properly pay attention to anything but her own wild emotional swings; that had been the sum total of the time she had spent with him— in comparison with the frankly stupid, embarrassing amount of time she had spent painting images of him in her mind’s eye— of trying to recreate just what it had been about him, in the gallery, which had made her feel so alive, which had stamped itself so deeply into her psyche that she had not been able to give up her increasingly weird quest to be with him again, to have him speak to her. To see whether, if she could, if he still wanted it, she could lift her skirt for him. Show him herself— there.
Show him her sex. So that he would fuck her.
So that he will fuck me.
She had made herself get used to saying this in her head— at first, as an attempt to make herself realise just what her crazy obsession was really about; hoping to snap herself out of it by being crude, shame herself into being sensible, and then, latterly, because she had found out just how much her body wanted that; wanted him to fuck her, wishing she had just done what he had asked her at the gallery, fantasising about how he would have fucked her in the toilet, in the corridor, in Esmée’s office…
She had dressed herself with great thought that morning, taken herself to a local beauty parlour for a makeover (the first time she had ever done such a thing apart from her two turns as bridesmaid), worn her summer party dress (the short one, not the long one), over the skimpy, fiddly lingerie a rather pathetic older boyfriend had given her as a valentine gift (shortly before she had discovered that he was married), which she not even tried on before. She was also wearing her only pair of heels— from one of the bridesmaid outfits.
Looking at herself in her mirror, she was half horrified, half delighted, by how girly she looked, how … well … sexy. She had never known how to dress sexy when she had been younger, and her arty friends had all been into grunge, anyway, so she’d just stuck with jeans and t-shirts, mostly, but this … this was … she didn’t know what to think, but an unacknowledged part of her was feeling quite gooey about it.
All-in-all, she felt most unlike herself— highly self conscious, continually being reminded of how strange this whole thing was by the wriggly, fiddly sensation at her groin brought on by the skimpy, lace edged panties.
Better Picture: Lolly, in her dress, waiting
Picture: Lolly, in her dress, waiting
Vadik had stopped, then, and so had she; somehow deference to Karsh’ desires came naturally, it seemed. Vadik would wait until noticed, until it was clear what Karsh wanted, and so would she; it was just the way it was, around him, she had discovered; everyone deferred to him, everyone put their own impulses on hold, and waited; waited to be impelled by him. She was vaguely aware that she ought to mind, but, really, she had come this far, made herself this vulnerable, for a man whom she already understood to be utterly self-centred, interested only in his own pleasure. What would be the point of getting snippy now?
Thus it was that she and Vadik stood, silent, waiting, for what seemed a long, long time. It was humiliating, simply waiting, and there were well dressed men and women at other tables, too, and attentive staff, immaculately turned out young women in skimpy waitress outfits, who must all be aware of her, stuck; simply waiting; mute, patient, empty of agency; waiting on Karsh’ pleasure; waiting until he should choose to notice her. She could not risk meeting eyes with any of them, and so she, too, chose to maintain her focus on Karsh, the de-facto centre of the room. Tellingly, shamingly, but implacably true, she found it impossible to look at his face, unable to handle even the idea that he might look up, look directly into her eyes, having discovered her staring at him; and so she, like the young office drones, looked at Karsh’ hands.
Some signal must have been given, but Lauren had not noticed it; Vadik, though, touching her shoulder gently, indicated that she should move toward Karsh’ table.
It was a walk like none before it. She had simply set out, moving her feet as normal, but when Karsh lifted his head and looked at her, she was seized by an urgent need to make herself attractive to him— to show him whatever it was that had so interested him the first time they had met.
But since she had no idea what that was, it was hard to know what to attempt; also, there was the fact that she was not entirely confident in the high heels. By the time she arrived at his table, she was feeling flustered, feeling her cheeks hot, her nerves jangling; was she, really, going to lift her skirt for him? She must be crazy! She should make some excuse and leave, as fast as possible, or— and this was an alternate fantasy she had rehearsed quite a few times, in her confusion; as revenge for having imposed such turmoil upon her, she would shout something marvellous and defiant at him; expose him for the arrogant male chauvinist pig that he undoubtedly was— shame him, then flounce off, leaving him deflated.
Only … only now that she was actually with him, in the swanky lounge, with serious, well dressed executive types, even the thought of challenging him appalled her.
Even if she had had one tenth of the nerve that would take, she couldn’t physically have even bugun — she was utterly tongue-tied, incapable, her whole body one giant stutter.
Karsh didn’t speak either, had just looked at her, so that there was a long and increasingly uncomfortable silence— uncomfortable for Lauren, at least; Karsh gave no sign of discomfort— a hint of a smile on his ugly face— and in his eyes, too; that helped, a little.
And then at last, mercifully, he had spoken — and she had felt herself almost swoon at the relief of it, pathetically woozy with girlish pleasure - just because he deigned to speak to her - it was ridiculous - but it was undeniable, too, irresistible, she felt happiness break free inside her;
“Well, well— the enchanting Lolly; the inconnu of the Gallery Graham! I am flattered by your persistence; also just a little mystified. I discover that I am still curious, though - which is encouraging, I hope. But you— what can we do for you here at the Karsh Tower?”
And then he was, actually, smiling at her, and she was lost— because he had, immediately, achieved with her what he had in the gallery— a feeling of complete intimate connection; important, alive, vital, commanding her full attention and engagement; it was almost magical, and yet it was earthy, direct, compelling; she was here, with him, and he was interested in her, and it had been worth it; all her doubts fell away, apart from the enormous one; how was she to do it? How was she to do what he required of her— lift her skirt for him, show him what was between her legs— how was she to do it? Because it couldn’t be … here … ?
Except, she had realised, that it must be; he had sat back, just a fraction, withdrawn just a little; he was expectant, watchful, interested; as he had been at the Graham; the truth had seized her; he was waiting for her answer; it would either be right there, right then, or not at all.
She was going to lift her skirt in this all but public space, in front of all these strangers; she was going to do it for him, immediately, or she was going to lose any chance she had of finding out what it might be like to be with him; the obsession that had driven her since she had fled from the gallery ten days before.
And so, given that it had to be, it simply was; she had no idea, afterwards, how she had done it, but somehow, her body had achieved, quite elegantly and simply, what her mind was in utter confusion over; her hands had been steady, and certain, and unhurried, and her eyes had been on him, her face open, her lips parted with the emotion of it, and she had caught the flirty hem of the skirts on the little dress, and smoothly, slowly, heart in her mouth, lifted. As she lifted, she had found herself rearranging her feet, shifting them apart, just a little, swaying back slightly, thrusting her pelvis forward, softly, but obviously, so that as her hands, unthinkably, touched in to her body, just below her breasts, she had revealed herself; her lower belly, her sexy little panties, her bare thighs, and presented herself as well she could.
It had been as if the world had stopped, then; since it was impossible that she had done such a thing, it made a weird sort of sense that the world would work differently once she had. Lauren stopped hearing anything, stopped moving; she had no notion of anything but Karsh, then.
It has later occurred to her that she has had no notion of anything but Karsh, at all, really, since that moment; that, in that simple act, that one choice, she had surrendered her future to him; thrown in her lot with him in one mad instant; become entirely dependent upon him; upon his attention, his interest, in order to cling on to any meaning in her life.
And, once she had had that thought, that insight, it had consolidated itself as the central fact of her existence; tragic, stupid, wonderful, utterly disempowering, heartbreaking in its implications, the undoing of her, the making of her, the transformation of her.
That single moment, when having done as he had asked of her, without needing to be reminded, having accepted that it was the price of his continued interest in her, standing there, her hands touching the undersides of her breasts, feeling the unaccustomed cool air between her legs, aware, deep in her subconscious, of the sudden silence in the room, of the reality that twenty or more strangers knew just what she was doing, could see it…
… that moment, when Karsh’ eyes met hers, his attention fully on her, and she had known, deep inside her, that she had given him something; something that was rare, even for a man like him; more, that he was hungry for it, that he appreciated her, at that moment, as something particular; at least in some small way special; more, that, even though his gaze was as clear, as piercing, as knowing, as all-seeing as it had been in the gallery, there was, then, a question in his eyes; the certainty, inside her, that it was possible for her to have some mystery for him.
Better Picture: Lolly, lifting her skirt
Picture: Lolly, lifting her skirt
He might have known how to choose her, how to recognise what she was— something she did not know about herself, which was clear to him— but he did not, could not, would not, ever quite understand why she was that way.
All that, in a look; a moment, a minute, an hour, until he had smiled at her, a lazy, satisfied, hungry grin, and the moment was gone; the feeling gone, the certainty gone. But not the memory of it, the glory of it, the intense pleasure, of affirmation, of warmth it had brought, the afterglow of which was all she had to help her through the reality of her situation— a young woman, having lifted her skirt, to flash her panties at a famous billionaire with a questionable reputation, in front of his staff, without having spoken even a single word, finding herself unable to move on, to have the slightest idea what to do, stuck, her knickers on show, her legs naked, her belly quivering, then, as the implications of what she had done, what she was still doing, set her on fire with shame, and fear, and uncertainty; clinging, desperately, to the already evaporating memory of what it had felt like to hold his attention like that; to have him really, fully, interested, fascinated, absorbed in nothing but the mystery of her.
And as that absorption evaporated, so did the reality of her situation begin to impinge on her, in all its sordid detail; what she had done— what she was still doing, with her hands still holding her skirt hem up at the level of her breasts, her thighs still parted, her hips slightly forward— and she began to lose it; all the paradoxes and humiliations and uncertainties of the days since his first little question— which had had such enormous consequences— suddenly coming home to roost.
The tensions had come to a crescendo, as the room watched her— for how long she never knew, until, at last, unable to hold herself any longer, she had released a strangled shriek of mingled humiliation, despair, and panic, had turned on her heel and— as best she could in the terrible shoes— run, dropping her skirt hem as she ran, barging through the doors, knocking into two men who had been about to enter, making full body contact with one, as if she were giving him an intimate embrace, feeling his thigh beween hers, her breasts mashing against his raised hand— he had been reaching for the door— stumbling, half falling as he had cried out in shock, catching herself, running again, down the hall— she had no idea where to; just running, until some animal part of her decided on a door, which did in fact lead to escape— to the escape stairs, down which she hurtled, insanely careless, until, catching her heel, she had fallen, to end up in a heap at a cold concrete landing, sobbing brokenly.
She was too broken, then, too frightened, to move; lost; not the faintest idea what she could do about any of it, lost in the chill silence of the column of stairs, the echoey emptiness of it; as immaculately designed as the rest of the building, shiny stainless steel handrails, perfectly polished concrete; austere, slick detailing to the slit windows, everything hard and cool and sharp, apart from her; her too soft, too vulnerable body, her stupidity, her bruised and shamed mind, her tender, mangled self respect.
He had appeared, somehow, below her on the stair, shocking her— she must have been too self absorbed to notice his approach— appeared, silently, and sat down in silence too, a few steps below her, looking at her face, with that inscrutable but engaging expression of his, just looking; interested.
She had faced him for as long as she could, unseeing, blinded by her churning emotions, before dropping her eyes in confusion, too embarrassed, too weak to face him, only to find that that, too, was untenable, as she was possessed by a powerful need to know what he was thinking, what he was looking at, powerful enough to overcome her shame, so that she had been forced to look up, to meet his eyes again.
It was hard; so hard; the first time she had ever really done it— to simply look into his eyes, as he looked back at her; not speaking, not moving, no push in the exchange.
By lifting her skirt, she realised, she had reset the playing field; everything was new; he had made no new demand, and she was not resisting him; they were meeting again, on new terms.
But those terms now included— and accepted— his outrageous request, her humiliating, determined stalking of him, and her willing exposure to him, in front of many strangers. He was strong, had achieved his goal; she was weak, needy, and had given him what he wanted, even though it had been outrageous.
It was very hard, especially when his face was so hard to read, his gaze so direct, to know what that meant for her, for him; it was very hard indeed to meet his eyes at all. Her pulse was raising, her belly was roiling; she felt … something … strongly, between her legs. Her lips opened, as she was breathing heavily, and couldn’t control it.
Was he? Was he still interested in her? After her crazy flight? She couldn’t remember just what it was that she had seen in his eyes, before, but she couldn’t see anything now.
The silence became intense, and she was just about to say something pathetic, simply to have the torment end, when he spoke, saving her.
“You are as interesting as I’d hope you might be, Lolly. And your thighs, your little mound, are interesting, too.”
Lolly! he’d called her that again! Of all the ways her name had been used, she hated Lolly with a passion. A gang of mean schoolgirls had started calling her that when an ex-boyfriend had started a mean rumour about her oral sex technique when she was sixteen. She’d disliked it before that, but since then it had become one of the few things that could make her out-of-reason upset and angry.
She would have to tell him; but it was not the time. How did he know her name, in any case? Oh. She had given it to Vadik; of course. The security man would have run searches on her; probably this Karsh now knew everything he wanted to about her.
Her mind was running on with this nonsense, she realised, in order to distract itself from the real situation.
Which was that Karsh was going to fuck her. Sooner or later, that was now inevitable. He wanted to, and she? Well, it almost didn’t matter. She wouldn’t stop him; that was what mattered. He could do her now, on this cold staircase, and she wouldn’t be able to resist; she knew it in her bones. She was his to fuck, now. And he knew it too. It was a weird feeling, as if she had become a whore or something; he would fuck her, when he chose; she knew it, he knew it; just a question of when he chose to do it. And how. Somehow, it was settled.
And it was good, she realised. All the usual will he, won’t he? How will I be? Do I need to be coy? Will he think me a slut? all gone. He would choose when, where, how.
And she? Well, she would be fucked, whatever way he chose, and that was it.
It was good. And then she knew that it was more than good, had to accept it; that it was wonderful; needful, important— glorious, to her to know that he had that freedom with her, that she have that certainty of him— that he would fuck her whenever, however, he wished, and she looked at him then, eyes wide with surprise at the realisation, and he saw— she knew he had seen, that he had understood, and he had smiled at her, and that was it, decided, between them, she knew it, and she had been overcome by emotion; pleasure, shy embarrassment, sexual desire, and she had dropped her eyes, feeling her body shift, her cheeks grow hot, knowing how obvious she must be; loving being obvious, horribly, horribly shy about being so obvious, desperately hoping that he was seeing, that he really understood how it was, now, between him and her; because she could not, not in a million years, say anything out loud about any of it; and yet she needed it to be true, need him to make it so.
“Very good,” he had said then, and she felt, rather than saw his smile, and she knew that it was going to be OK, only for him, immediately, to ruin it;
“Now; I have a busy schedule today, which you have rather delightfully made more complex.”
“I have a request of you though; I am entertaining a rather formidable couple from LA about a film deal. I would like you to be my date. If they are taken with you, I would like to know that I can offer you to them for the night, as a sweetener for the deal, and that you will do your best to please them, whatever they should desire.”
Somewhere, in the back of her mind, had lurked the thought that, if he had shocked her once, he would, very likely do so again; but for it to be so soon, and for it to be…
For it to be so very … impossibly … shocking…
It takes the breath from her, hits her almost as a physical blow.
It hurts, too, she finds, hurts her physically, as her gut twists and her heart seems to stop. Her throat has dried up, somehow, her mouth clamped shut, breath like a saw through her sinuses, so harsh has her breathing become; all this has been almost instant, as the words tear into her comfortable little thoughts about being fucked by Karsh, about having something that could be called a “relationship”— however weird it might be— as the implications assault her, as he smiles at her, very obviously interested to see what he has done to her.
There are tears in her eyes, then; hot, instant; she blinks them back, in desperation.
It can’t … He’s joki…
Her body wants to run, so great is the shock, the instant fear.
She feels so powerless. Stupid, stupid girl! Wasn’t this obvious?
She’s quivering, a deer in headlights. Only seconds have passed. She’s preternaturally aware of every nerve in her body— almost an out-of-body experience, looking at Lauren, a young struggling artist, a woman with a rather precarious existence, who has, somehow, become connected with this whirlwind of a billionaire, has been strangely attracted by him, by his oddness, by the shocking nature of his intital request of her, who has foolishly tracked him down, prepared herself for him, entered his lair, and blatantly offered herself to him; Lauren, still half lying, half sitting on the escape stair, having been asked to whore herself to an unknown couple for him, stunned, helpless, lost. A stupid, stupid girl, who is about to become a tragic failure. Who is going to be ruined.
As a story, the start of a movie, it could be a shocking, intriguing setup; as a reality for Lauren, it is like drowning, drowning in a pool she has dived into the centre of, looking for an exciting experience— which has somehow turned out to be too deep, to have a slow, irresistible undertow, inexorable, sucking her deeper…
No! No!, it’s madness, surely … It can’t, she mustn’t… he doesn’t mean …
And still she has hardly moved, can’t speak. She’s experiencing a tragedy, a destructive storm of emotions and confusion, while Karsh is simply smiling at her, pleasantly, his eyes looking into her as if she were made of glass, his focus clear, even as he relaxes backward, making himself comfortable, perfectly at ease with however it plays out; entertained.
She finds her voice at last, babbling;
“No … No. No! you …you can’t …” but dries up almost at once, feeling ridiculous, knowing just how stupid she sounds, how stupid she has been, her skin crawling at the idea of being casually offered to two strangers, over dinner, as a transactional arrangement to ease a business deal for Karsh.
She wants to leave, wants to run, again, only … only her shoe is broken, she’s twenty-some floors up in a strange building, and … and that’s not even the point, which is that, this time, there is … well … so … so much more to lose …
She wants him, she needs him, to fuck her; to take her.
At least once, but No, not once; forever; she wants him to know he can fuck her just as he likes, forever.
It’s that simple, and clear in her head, and, instead of running, she finds herself shifting her hips, her knees falling apart; just a little— but enough, very much enough, for him to see how it is with her, what she’s doing, and the corner of his mouth turns up, and then she’s parting her thighs, obvious; opening herself, offering herself, helplessly, needily, needing him to know; then, just as swiftly, overcome by embarrassment, her head twists away, and she all but sobs with the intensity of it, remembering the inescapable grip of her obsession with him after their first, brief encounter— equally shocking and outrageous in its way— how he had filled her thoughts, occupied her mind, become an addiction. After this morning, after what she had just experienced and thought she had communicated with him, how much more would that be so?
She rages at him in her head; how is it possible that he has done this to her, so quickly, so thoroughly?
It’s as if she has already been defeated, is already his victim, his whore, his possession, to be disposed of at will.
And all the time, he is there, calm, interested, intent, seeing all her emotions as they surge and ebb in her, reading her, she is sure, now, like a book.
Seeing, primarily, that she has not stood up, has not rejected him, has not taken charge of herself— more, that in fact she has opened herself to him, become limp, soft, disabled, utterly vulnerable…
“No … no— please?”
She makes herself look into his eyes, then, as she pleads, looking for mercy, for any sign that this is a cruel joke. He smiles back at her, an ordinary, unabashed smile, giving nothing, nothing at all, and she realises that she has already consented, with that weak plea; that he is sure of her, and her heart breaks, a little, at her own, treacherous, weakness.
He is standing up, still maintaining eye contact, his smile turning up at one corner as he says;
“I think you’ll do it. But of course, it will be your choice. They’ve used Claire before, and they can have her tonight, of course, if need be, but it would be excellent to offer them a novelty, an innocent; I honestly think they’ll be good for you; broaden your horizons.”
“In any case, Hannelore will come by in a few moments, and look after you; take you shopping, and for a make-over, too— pamper you; please— spend my money like water on anything she approves of.”
“If I don’t see you tonight, I will always be grateful for our conversation the other day, and for this morning; you’ve been highly enjoyable. But I shall expect you, later, with some confidence, I must say. They’ll love you, I’m sure, and you’ll be changed by the experience, too; opened up; made softer, more interesting, more adaptable.”
Her heartbeat has been steadily thumping, more and more insistently, as this little speech unfolded; those words; used, offer, innocent, pamper, changed, made softer, more interesting, more adaptable — all so instrumental, patronising, controlling … so many disturbing implications, so casually spoken, the words obviously not primarily intended to be insulting, but simply practical, accurate, explicit.
He did intend to offer her to be used; he did consider her an innocent whose horizons needed to be broadened— that she should be changed, so as to be more adaptable— so as to become more useful to him, presumably.
She knew she ought to be insulted, outraged, disgusted, but instead she felt breathless, weakened; her mouth was dry— his certainty, his unemphatic, calm assumption that things would proceed as he ordained made it hard to imagine any challenge; he was master of all he surveyed; why would he not master her, since she had offered herself to him so blatantly?
The idea that he might consider her useful, and improvable, is, she finds with a shock, not at all insulting or disgusting to her, but in fact something she realises she is willing to accept a great deal to achieve; even— and this astounds her even as the thought forms in her head— even the idea that he might offer her to strangers as a sexual sweetener.
The desire to become more interesting to Karsh has somehow been installed in her as an overriding, unquestionable need.
These thoughts do not calm her, not at all— they are disturbing and frightening, they disempower her physically, and at the same time, fill her with a desperate, trembling energy, which he meets, and makes a crazy, perfect sense of, by taking a step which brings him up a couple of stairs, then putting his hand directly between her legs, to encompass her sex.
He does this entirely without hurry, without force but equally without hesitation or finesse, with no body language which might have prepared her— as direct, as decisive, as concrete, as everything else about him— and the impact is immediate, as she responds— her body responds— with helpless abandon, her thighs not clamping, but opening for him, her head going back, her shoulders loosening, a soft, breathy noise of mingled pleasure and weakness.
He has her; he can take her. He needs no permission, and when he straddles her chest, his half-stiff cock hanging out of his trousers, and puts a hand in her hair, she hesitates for only the briefest of moments, before opening her lips for him, gives him her mouth, unquestioning, as if it is his right; lets him guide himself into her, making herself soft for him, feeling her nipples stiffening, her sex pulsing.
“I’m going to go deep, now. You’ll take it, I’m sure. Find a way.”
And he moves, smoothly enough, but relentlessly, making good his promise, and she, who has never ever allowed anything so invasive or degrading to be done to her, somehow does find a way; a soft sweet way, helplessly making swallowing motions until he is fully inside her, her arms limp, outstretched; letting her weakness provide an excuse for her shamelessness, her abject submission.
When panic rises as she can’t make a breath happen, she tries to let the panic just be a feeling, let the gagging convulsions just happen, too, not overreact, not let the feelings have her, telling herself, to roll with it, roll with the reality, of him working himself in and out of her.
He’s not rough with her, not at all, but still, he pushes on, with irresistible intent, deep into her throat, she telling herself she can breathe in a minute, that she can give a minute of herself to being what he wants of her, however tough it is.
She is rewarded by a calm, but welcome; “Good girl,” when, fully hard, he pulls out of her mouth, leaving her gasping and trembling, but still willing, and suddenly aware of her own body’s response to the imminence of being fucked, wanting it as she cannot remember having ever done, after days of fantasising, and she readily rolls her body, when he reaches over her and puts a hand under her buttock, pulling toward him, until she is on her hands and knees, on the concrete stairs, and he’s behind her and …
Picture: Lolly, face down, ass up
“o-o-OHaaarrrhhhhOHH!“
He enters her in a single, long, slow, unstoppable thrust, and immediately begins moving, in and out of her; long strokes, quite fast, but with no sense of hurry, and it’s wonderful and she’s quivering and lowering her face to the concrete, the better to push her buttocks back into him, to give him the best angle she can to push himself right into her and she’s making helpless, childish noises now, so blatantly weak, so patheticaly full of gratitude, soft noises, with every stroke, thrusting her hips in time with him to get the most sensation from his fucking of her, letting him gather her wrists, one after the other, as he puts them at the small of her back, leaves them there, his hand under her, on her clitoris now; not mauling, but just the warmth, the hard, unshakeable pressure of his hand, right there as he fucks into her, and it’s lovely; really, really, lovely and she could cry with the sweetness of it, until, without warning, he pulls out of her, leaving her gasping, needy; she hears her whole body issuing a soft, pleading moan as she bewails the loss of him, wanting him back, back inside her, her hips moving shamelessly, expressively, and then his hand covers her sex, again just holding, covering, pressing, and now she jerks in shock as she realises his cock is at her asshole and she squeaks in fear, too, never having done this, never wanted it, feeling the shock of the knowledge being shared between them, that she isn’t going to fight him, falling in love with the experience of his hand over her sex, just there, pressing hard, but still, just the pressure of it, a counter to the fearful, painful pressure at her asshole as she nevertheless opens herself to him as best she can, as he takes her— slowly but relentlessly inching deeper with every deliberate thrust, not rushing her, but also never letting her off the hook, his hand between her legs the centre of her existence for the longest time, all the moves of her hips, of his cock in her ass, translated into smaller, more intimate, more astonishingly sensation delivering moves of her clit on the hard heel of his hand, she humping herself more, and harder, feeling this making it easier for him to go deeper into her tight, tight, ass; not what she wants, and what she deeply, deeply wants, all at the same time, and deeper, right into her backside, so stuffed she feels it must break, mewing with the intensity of it, until his hand owning her cunt and his cock in her ass and his other hand, tight in her hair, hurting her, are all part of the same thing, the thing that is fucking her and she is part of it, too; the weak and needy thing that is being fucked, and her nipples on the cold concrete, and her wrists, obediently crossed on her back, and her hips, really working now, until at last she knows she is going to orgasm for him and she begins to wail, helplessly, crying out in the intensity of it— pleasure, pain, shame, delight, release, relief, she doesn’t know what— except that he is suddenly ramming into her backside, deep and hard and violent, and it’s impossible and she’s screaming and coming and welcoming the indescribably strange feeling of his spurting inside her guts and moaning with it and then he’s suddenly gone from her, leaving her jerking, uncontrollable, like an animal, on her hands and knees, dress rucked up, panties ripped aside at some point, tears streaming freely from her eyes, not sure what she feels at all, emptied out, distraught; heart still racing, feeling him lift her face, hand under her chin— he’s fully dressed, as ugly and powerfully present as ever, while she knows herself to have been wrecked, destroyed, ruined forever; looking into her, smiling a little; really looking, in that way of his, and she tries, she really does, to let him see whatever it is that he wants, even though she knows nothing, any more; nothing; an hour with him has called into question everything she thought she knew, that she thought she felt, that she thought she was.
Picture: Lolly, taking it in the ass
Picture: Lolly, lost in the fucking
When his eyes stray to her hanging, swinging breasts, it is as though that is what she is; those tits; all her thoughts there, the part of her he is interested in, unsure if he likes them or not, if the aftershocks twitching her thighs are making them move as he would like them too; it’s all him, all about him, and she feels so vulnerable, and so abandoned as he walks off, up the stairs, not looking back.
He’s not looking at her, and so she is nothing.
She had been Lauren, although that seemed long ago now - a lost reality, and then, just a minute or two ago she was the thing being fucked, and now? Now, she is just something that has been fucked.
Despair, shame, fear, horror grip her; she’s half naked, dripping come down her leg, makeup smeared, in an escape stair twenty stories up, in a strange building, and the only man who could help her has left her.
Physical terror grips her, then, as, her staring eyes suddenly realise what she is looking at; a security camera, up in the corner, pointed directly at her, its little light blinking, slowly, inexorably, and she curls in on herself, her heart breaking, knowing that she has lost her life; that, in a few hours, she will be given to a pair of strangers, to be used as a whore, and that she will, however impossible the thought of it is, she will somehow do her best to please them; not because she wants to, not because she is a slut, but because Lauren is gone, exposed as a hollow lie.
All that is left is Lolly - the thing that is either being fucked or will be needing to do whatever it takes to become interesting enough to Karsh so that he fucks it again.
There’s nothing else, and it’s a tragedy - a deep and appalling tragedy, which cuts her like an axe in her chest. But it is now her life, and she wants - she very desperately wants, to live, this new life. To be fucked by Karsh; when, where, how he wants, as often as he wants, on any terms at all.
