This story was featured in Pix’n’Captions 6 back in 2021. Here it is again, with illustrations from the excellent 3DPerversion. 3DP has made a part 2 of this story, with some words from THW. you can get it from their site (NB: paywalled).
I’ve slightly expanded the story, but it’s essentially unchanged.
She had served the stranger as prettily as she could— doing all she could to predict and satisfy what he desired, what he demanded of her, because her lover had asked her to. It hadn’t been easy; although she had promised her lover, and meant it; although they had practised together— this time, I’ll just do what I feel like to you, demand that I get just what I want, and pay no attention at all to you or your pleasure; you, on the other hand, will be focused entirely on me, on getting me off. That’s what you’re agreeing to, what I want you to do for the man I whore you to.
Picture: After whoring herself
Towards the end, though, it came over her that she was responding powerfully to the experience— that the fact of having been so explicitly ‘whored out’ as her lover had described it, answered something in her, and she shuddered and sobbed as a powerful, undeniable orgasm ripped through her, suppressing desperately the outward signs of this as best she could, superficially trying to act with the same pragmatism at the end as she had at the beginning.
The idea that she could get so wildly turned-on through being used so casually, without the slightest tenderness or intimacy, was a shocking revelation to her; he had treated her so roughly, rudely ordering her around; Turn over; stick your ass up! Swallow it all, bitch; right in your fucking throat! — and she had found herself completely undone, responding with her whole body, opening herself— to all of it.
And when the stranger, fully dressed, had thanked her, still naked, his come running down her leg; Nice fuck, whore, she had felt shamed, yes; humiliated, yes, but even more so, she had felt all stupid and gooey and girlishly happy inside at his approval, so that her softly murmured thanks had been hesitant but sincere. It didn’t last long, but for the rest of that afternoon, she had felt a resurgence of that gratitude every time she looked at him, felt the memory of the way her body had responded to him, deep inside her. It was almost like falling in love, she found herself thinking, quickly followed by a fluttering in her belly at the implications of such a crazy thought; a fluttering that she had also to accept was pleasurable.
Picture: A whore is complimented
Later, when she had rejoined the two men after cleaning herself up, they were talking generally, and blatantly ignored her— treating her as her lover had told her they would— as ‘the whore’. Her mind could not leave it alone; the idea that she had discovered something about herself; that she had not just done something to please her lover, feed his fantasy, but that she had been changed by it. That she would never be the same.
Picture: I did it. I’m a whore, now
In this new role, as the whore, with such treatment being new to her, she could think of nothing to do but sit quietly and offer a willing, servile little smile when they looked at her; a smile that accepted the reality— that all three of them knew she was there to be fucked, and for no other reason— weak and stupid and ashamed though this made her feel.
Picture: The whore just sits, while the men talk
God help her, she liked this too; liked the feeling of being the whore; of acting the whore. She felt foolishly special, and also strangely comfortable. Nothing was required of her— she had given herself up for fucking, she had made efforts to present herself sexually, now all she had to do was look nice and wait until they wanted her to fuck again. And she did … (hard to admit, even in the privacy of her own mind) … she did hope that they would want to … want to fuck her again.
It came to her, sitting there, that, having done this for him once, she was going to be doing this often— that he would require it of her; and somehow, the idea was OK with her— even welcome, even though she knew it ought not to be. She reset her position, moving her bum forward on the seat, her back straightening, breasts swelling, shook her head a little. It just seemed right— to display herself more clearly as available— interested, willing. There had been something about coming like that, impersonally fucking a stranger— serving his pleasure— at her lover’s command, her lover watching on— something about that which was … intoxicating— addictive.
Picture: She gets into it
At this, her lover laughed out loud at her, and when she, blushing, feeling weak and vulnerable, asked why— her voice small and meek, without a hint of challenge— he said;
“Because it’s so ridiculous you sitting there dressed, when you’re a helpless slut who can’t stop thinking about being rutted. You made such efforts to hide how much you liked being used like that, it was hilarious.”
“Don’t worry, though. This is just the beginning for you.”
She knew she ought to protest at this, that such a thing should be said to her, and in front of a stranger too (he was grinning, looking right at her and smirking at her, enjoying the way her lover was so cruelly shaming her). But she couldn’t think of anything to say that would make any sense, and in the end, she just lowered her eyes (keeping her head up, though; not wanting her breasts to sag even the little that they would if she had let her head fall), looked at her lover’s feet and let the blushes come, letting them laugh at her, her mind filling with the idea of ‘being rutted’, unable to stop the slow heave of her chest as her heart began thumping. Using it, letting the way it made her breasts move become as obvious as she could make it.
Picture: A whore in her soul
Accepting their laughter, taking it as a compliment, making herself smile again, even as she could feel her belly fluttering in fear at what this might be ‘just the beginning’ of; knowing that, if her lover wanted more of her, she would be saying yes, perhaps even because it was frightening.
When they used her again, later that evening, her lover in her mouth, the other man taking her asshole, his hand at her sex, crude, she found herself unable to mask the wild delirium of her arousal, her avidity for more, even though they neither of them made any effort to bring her to orgasm, and she was panting with frustration when they pulled away from her, spent.
When she had whined and writhed, shamefully transmitting her neediness, her lover had laughed; “Do yourself, bitch, and make it entertaining.”
She had found it hard, very hard indeed, to begin. But once she, tentatively, blushing, trembling, got started, her body had quickly taken over and she had wanted to show them everything, spreading her thighs wide, throwing her head back until she had hoarsely, urgently gasped out her first orgasm from masturbating for an audience.
