Yes
His face didn’t change; he just looked at me, impassive.
After a few seconds, an awful feeling rose in me; I had expected that my Yes, such a huge thing in my head— the unknown implications so large, so hard to even think about— I had expected something in return— something.
But he was just looking at me, as the feeling got more urgent in me. I was on my knees, I had said Yes, what … what did he want of me? What else coud I say? Wasn’t it clear enough?
I said it without thinking about it;
“Yes, please. Sir. I … I would be … ever … ever so grateful…”
He must be able to see me trembling. It was pathetic, I knew, to be so needy. But at the same time, I was that needy. I was making myself pathetic, and I knew it. I was ashamed, I had been shamed, and this man had seen what had been done to me, what I had permitted, and yet, still, having a chance to talk to Ms. M was what I needed.
Perhaps this was what he had been waiting for, because he almost smiled, for a second.
“OK, girly, here’s the deal. First, you’re going to be very nice to my cock, with your pretty lips and your tongue, and get me good and hard and wound up so I can fuck your throat real deep.”
“Then, if I think you did a good job, I’m going to do a little video of you begging, like you did just now, and then we’ll send it to Ms. M and find out if she’s interested in seeing you or not.”
I almost fainted. Looking back, it seems ridiculous, it was almost the obvious thing to come next— a test, to see whether I was prepared for more; more of the night before— but right then, it was like a punch in the stomach. My eyes filled with tears.
It was one thing thinking about being used as I had been last night; to accept, in the abstract, in the peace of the morning, looking into the mirror, that this was going to be part of my life; it was quite another to have this stranger tell me, so brutally, make it so clear, that these people were not going to do any pretending about what was really going on, what they wanted me for. I was going to be a whore for them, with no sugar coating at all.
But the need in me was strong, and I made myself smile— all I could manage, at least— though my mind was reeling and my heart was thudding as if it would burst.
There was no time, to deal with any of these feelings, though, for he had stepped right up to me, grinning now— not unfriendly, but not kindly, either; one hand firmly in my hair, controlling my head, the other at his fly, pulling out a half-stiff cock.
Feelings, I have learned, are for 3am, alone, hurting, cold; that’s when the feelings come for me, and I have to let them have me, let them wreck me, tear me apart; there is no way to suppress them, then, no way to resist them. What is left, after they have had their relentless, wrenching way with me, after a day when strangers have had their violent, greedy way with my body, what is left has to face the next day; weak, needy, stupidly eager to please, in the hope of something, some small comfort, some little caress or compliment, some tiny flash of attention; an abject, helpless, urgently needy whore, my smile so nervous, so full of hunger, that it makes me want to cry if I catch myself in a mirror.
So I made myself smile, while my belly flipped and lurched inside me. Was this really me? Was I now, in the cold light of day, going to let myself be made a whore?
Something welled up in me, then; nothing strong, but it was, it was, some sort of resistance, some sort of a weak, plaintive ‘no’. It wasn’t that I said anything, or even moved my lips, but it was enough to make him stop— he pulled back on my head, so that I had to look up, his cock just an inch from my lips.
He didn’t have to speak; he just looked at me, calm, with the faintest question in his eyes. Did I want it, or not? He was serious. He meant it; I felt it. Although he was more than ready to push his cock into my throat— his cock was actually twitching with his slow, heavy pulse, and I could feel heat radiating from it on the skin of my cheek, smell its musk— although he was keen to use me, he let me see, in that moment at least, that he saw me as a person, a girl; a girl who was making a big choice.
He did not want to rush me now. He was willing to give me that moment.
He was being decent, but it was the cruelest thing he could have done. I had been ready to be forced, to have the momentum of the situation carry me into it, to have him simply stuff himself into my mouth, the strange taste of him not my choice, his hand in my hair controlling me, making me take him.
But no, some decency in him made me make my decision, for myself, with him watching me, up close and personal.
It was devastating. I whined, out loud; heard myself suffering the shame of the choice I knew I was going to make; I couldn’t meet his eyes; my whole body shook as I suppressed the sobs that wanted to come;
“You sure you want to do this, girl? Nothing says you have to? That M has enough girls, and plenty of options.”
His kindness was like a knife! The tears came, unstoppable, as, knowing that if I delayed I would lose my nerve, would let this moment pass, would have to go back to a grey existence; that this was my chance at living.
Even if living would be harsh, tearing, extreme; it would be living; and I had to live, at whatever cost to my self-respect, to my freedom.
I hurt inside, hard, as I made myself nod, made myself open my lips, open my mouth, leaned forward, pulling the hand in my hair with me, a deep soft sadness that was both agony and sweetness filled me as I took his cock between my lips, and the need in me to be good for him shocked me; it felt like my first communion, almost, when I had thought about the wafer being the body of christ, tried to worship the feeling in my mouth, using my tongue on him, not letting myself stop moving in to him, wanting to make it as smooth for him as I could, even as the tears streamed down my face, feeling him at the back of my throat, the gag reflex pulsing, the instinct for self-preservation, for breath itself wanting him out, almost angry with myself as I suppressed, controlled, insisted that he find his entry into the tightness of my throat to be a welcoming one, smooth, in his service, dedicated to his pleasure; the only thing that mattered to me then as I resolutely ignored my body and pushed myself onto him, until my whole being felt like one long, slow, unstoppable convulsion, one that wanted to be fast and violent, to expel him, which I required of myself become slow and powerful and part of it for him, and then … then, I lost control…
Because his hand in my hair was joined by the other one and he was ramming himself into me, ramming me into his crotch, powerful, slow, unstoppable, back, forwards, out, in, deep, holding me tight, jerking himself, so deep inside me, playing with my own jerking, then pulling out— letting me do what I could with my lips and tongue, lost in him, lost in the sensation of being fucked, being used so thoroughly, needing to be lost in it because I could not bear what I had done to myself in that moment, only wanted to think about his cock, this man who deserved to have what he wanted of me, because he had offered me the chance to save myself, and instead I had let him see how weak I was, how needy I was, how slutty I was, so that he could fuck my throat forever, if he wanted, as hard and as long as it took to get him off.
The happiness inside me when I felt him jerking faster, when I knew he was going to come, when I knew I had pleased him, took me by surprise, made me intensify my efforts to be perfect, letting him control me completely, but doing everything I could within that control to make it better for him, my whole body following the jerks and thrusts of the cock that now seemed the centre of my existence, swallowing desperately as he shot his semen into me, his grunting healing my soul.
I was a whore, I was; no matter how much it hurt.
It seemed to take him a few moments to recover, which was good, because I was a mess myself; it was as if I had fallen in love with this stronger, because he had fucked my throat. There was something terribly wrong with me, and it was going to be exploited. Ms. M saw me, understood me; she was going to make sure I never found my way out; it was all swirling around in my head, and I knew I must find the strength to get up and leave, that there was no safety for me here— only a whirlpool of need and guilt and abuse and shame and humiliation and back around again; need and guilt and abuse and shame and…
… but there was nothing to leave for. Nothing. And his eyes, when he stood back, zipping himself up, when I, terribly, painfully shy, but at the same time urgently needing to see how he looked at me then— his eyes were cool, and distant again, and his words sealed my fate;
“Have to give it to her; the old battle-axe knows how to find dirty little sluts, that’s for sure.”
He was right, of course; I had been a fool, looking up at him, hoping to find again that spark of human warmth; of attention to me as a person. Whatever rights I might have had to that attention, I had just deleted, by offering him my throat to fuck, by encouraging him to be rough with me, to treat me like a masturbation toy, to use me like a rag-doll.
I had said Yes with more than words.
My voice, when I begged to see Ms. M for his ‘phone camera, was throaty and low, laced with despair, but it was urgently sincere. I wasn’t acting. More than before, I needed her, to make sense of all of this. Not my sense, of course; I was lost to sense. Her sense. Whatever it was that she wanted of me.
