Candace, annexed. Pt 2

Read the first part of Candace, annexed.

I dithered about it quite a bit, but I was in no state to be much use, and in the end I decided to leave work as soon as I could get someone to cover for me. K. went off duty before I did, so I should get away with it.

My poor brain kept trying to to think of a way to escape from the trap Ms F. had snared me in, then flipping back to the trap K. had caught me with. As the minutes passed, everything about the morning seemed less and less real— both the bizarre conversation with Ms F., and the awful confrontation with K. Such things couldn’t really happen! Weren’t supposed to, at least. There was #MeToo, there were workplace harassment policies, there were …

Who was I trying to kid? There were domestic violence laws and women’s refuges, too, but that didn’t stop Brad taking his anger out on my ass whenever he got mad with me.

It wan’t that such things weren’t real (however bizarre, I was absolutely sure that I hadn’t imagined either incident, and certain, too, that they both meant exactly what I thought they did— that there was sexual abuse in my immediate future— from Brad, from Ms F., from at least two regular guests in the hotel, and— passively at least— from K., too), and it wasn’t that there weren’t laws and people that could help me avoid this abuse.

The problem was me. I wasn’t going to go to HR. I wasn’t going to leave Brad; I wasn’t going to go to the police and report Ms F. I just knew I was never going to do anything of the sort. I simply could not imagine myself trying to tell anyone about any of this. I would die first.

In reality, what that meant— and I made myself hear it— was that I would rather be sexually abused, then report the fact that I was being sexually abused.

And so the reality was that I was going to be sexually abused.

I could hardly even keep walking into my future. All the time, too, a little voice inside was nagging at me, sneering, telling me that I deserved it, too, for having found myself fascinated by Ms F., for finding it flattering, sometimes, when guests told me how sexy I was, for sometimes provoking Brad, so that he’d spank me, then fuck me.

That I deserved the abuse, because I was a dirty slut.

I argued back, argued with myself, of course— telling myself that I wasn’t the one being mean, being abusive— I was just the victim. OK, I was weak— too weak to complain, to fight back, or even to run away, but …

But there was that voice again, reminding me just what sort of weak I was— wet between the legs weak. Round and around it went in my brain as I travelled home (on the slow bus, of course, saving every penny so that I could keep Brad in beer and weed).

And all this made it even more unimaginable that I would ever tell anyone— because that would mean it was likely that someone would force me to admit my own part in all of it, my own half-needy weakness with people who wanted to sexually abuse me, the way I got weak and quivery, the feeling in the pit of my belly, the helpless fascination that took my mind.

I was getting closer and closer to the moment when I would have to speak to Brad, though; all this going around in circles of despair wouldn’t help one bit with that reality.

The idea of not telling him what she had said at all, just ignoring it, hoping it would all go away, was my favourite, of course; the weak way out— just say nothing and find out the hard way what might happen.

But then, the thought of what was very likely to happen— since Ms F. very definitely seemed like the kind of person who would follow through, and with a vengeance; the thought that she would wind Brad up to do something really awful to me became worse in my head than the idea of telling him— just about.

He was starting to drink earlier and earlier in the day, and he would spank me a lot harder when he was drunk, I knew, so however it played out, I was in for a hard time.

I had managed to come up with a sort of a plan, which I had little confidence in, but which I had to try; I had to try something to avoid being spanked every day, and harder, too; I was already unhealthily connecting spanking with sex; if he spanked me really hard then fucked me straight afterwards, every single day, I wasn’t sure what exactly would happen, but anything I could think of seemed very bad.

Plan or no plan, I was in a real mess by the time I got home. I really, really didn’t want to have to do this, but I couldn’t see a way out, and everything I thought of was worse than my plan, which was terrible already.

Letting myself into the house, I heard him shouting— gaming online with his friends back home; I looked round the door; he had his headphones on, nothing on but stained t-shirt and ratty old shorts, snack remains and beer cans all over the floor— he hadn’t been to work, clearly.

I had decided to try and get him to laugh it off— to tell him everything I had been instructed to say, but to try and say it so that he thought it sounded crazy and that Ms F. was crazy, too, so that when she rang he’d just laugh at her and annoy her.

So I tried to be as normal as possible, hoping he wouldn’t notice how in a state I was. This part of the plan would almost certainly work, because he hardly noticed me at all these days, unless he was wanting food or beer or money or a blowjob.

Eventually, though, he must have crashed out of the game (his friends all laughed at him as being such a bad loser— ‘RQ’ they called him; ‘rage-quitter’, laughing at him. He wasn’t even good at video games, despite all those thousands of wasted hours)— and stomped through the hallway muttering, until he saw me;

“Why are you here?”

He really didn’t love me any more, did he? If he ever really had: for the hundredth time I told myself I must find a way to leave him.

If only I wasn’t so frightened of him. If only I didn’t need him to fuck me so much. I mustered all my courage, and smiled the biggest smile I could manage;

“Hey babe! I snuck out early so I could cook for you. I figured you deserved it.”

He isn’t smart, but he isn’t completely stupid either, and he looked at me, off, knowing this didn’t ring true, but willing to accept it thus far.

Already, I knew I was failing, but there was nothing for it but to plough on;

“Can I get you a beer? I have to tell you about something real crazy that happened today.”

“Beer is good.”

He’d drunk all we had, of course, but I had stopped at the shop so my ‘cooking’ story would have some evidence, and grabbed a four-pack just in case, so that was a small positive. He slurped a full half the can before giving off an enormous belch, but at least he remembered I was talking to him— too often these days, he would just head straight back to his ‘den’ mid-conversation.

“So, what’s this crazy thing, Candy?”

This was it; I tried my best to act as if it was genuinely a funny story;

“Well, we had a guest this morning— actually a friend of my boss— I don’t know if she even had a room— anyway, she asked me a load of personal questions and then … and then …”

And then I lost my last shred of nerve— I just didn’t dare try and make out that Ms F. was crazy; she would find out, and … and I didn’t know what, but I was frightened of that, too.

How can it be that my life is like this?

Tears came to my eyes; I couldn’t do it— I couldn’t!

Brad did for me then; taking it into his head for the first time in weeks to act sympathetic;

“Hey, babe, are … are you OK? What happened? Come on, tell old Brad-dawg all about it and he’ll look after you.”

It was pathetic how easily that worked on me; even a bit of zero-effort fake kindness was better than nothing, nothing but cruelty and domineering humiliation, from hotel guests, from Ms F., from Miss K, from Bradley, from my dad, stuck in this country where I had no real friends— stuck, stuck …

… and so, hating myself, I let him hug me, and let myself feel small in his bulk— although his muscles are soft these days, he is still quite the hunk of man flesh.

And so it was that, far from spinning my version of Ms F.’s message, I blurted it out through tears only just held in check.

“Oh, Brad! She … she made me tell her about … about you spanking me, and … and our sex life, and … and … Brad, she was really bossy with me, and I couldn’t stop her because— well because she’s a customer, and a friend of my boss, and … and because I’m weak and … and…”

“What? You told some stranger our private business?”

My heart flipped— he sounded angry;

“Oh please, please, Brad, just … just … Hear me out, I’ll be quick and then … and then … well, you’ll see, maybe …”

“She … she told me some … some things to tell you Brad, and … and then she made me give her your number, and … and she’s going to call you and talk to you herself, and … and so I have to tell you first or …”

“You gave her my number? Are you crazy, bitch? If this is some feminist ball-breaker going to come telling me what I can and can’t do with my own wife in my own home …”

I was, really, very frightened at that moment— it was rare that Brad could be bothered to be this righteously angry these days. But the ridiculous difference between his hot-take and reality— that Ms F. was going to berate him for spanking me because she was a feminist, versus her wanting him to beat me harder, every single day— combined with my stifled tears to turn into a pathetic little giggling fit, during which I managed to get some words out;

“Oh Brad, that’s … it’s … it’s just the other way around! She … she wants you to spank me more, and … and harder … and … and every day and … and … and only ever fuck me after spanking me.”

And there it was, out loud, done.

Brad grabbed my shoulders and pushed me away, so he could see my face, look into my eyes;

“Candy, you are going to have to spell this out now; this makes no sense at all.”

“I … I did tell you it was crazy.”

“No shit, Missy. Come on, say it again, steady this time— and stop crying!”

And so I clamped down on my fear and my shame and my despair, and plastered on a fake smile and let him hold me and went through it all again, one step at a time, so he really heard it.

And as I explained it to him, I could feel his dick getting big, getting harder; and he knew I could feel it too, and— shithead that he is— he started grinning at me, as if I would be thinking what he was— that this was some sexy fucking story, and that we should be thinking about getting it on, right there, on the kitchen table, any minute.

“That is some fucken’ shit, Candy babe; you … you sure it’s real? She ain’t no feminist, she’s some sort of dykey dominatrix type? And she’s hot, right? Like a real MILF? And … and she wants to come here— here? And watch me spank you and fuck you?”

“I don’t know ‘bout you Candy, but— well you can tell I’m kinda hot about this right now, and … well, shit! … if I get it right, I shouldn’t just fuck you now— through for sure I’m about ready to— I should spank you harder’n ever first, paddle you until you’re really messed up— crying and begging and shit— and then fuck you. That’s right, ain’t it babe?”

It was about as bad as it could be: I was trembling with fear and desperation;

“No … Brad, no, she’s just— she’s nothing to do with us— we … there’s no reason … … why … why should we do what she says? What right has she got to ask about our love life, what we do? Still less tell us!”

He was just grinning at me though, his arms tight around me, rubbing his cock against me in a casual way, enjoying himself; but again, he’s not all stupid;

“Yer right, of course, but what’s important here, right now, is that you had no right, either— to tell her our shit, and even less to give a stranger my name and number. No babe, it ain’t because of what she said; you got it coming, and I’m gonna give it to you, hard. And then, after that, I’m gonna give it to you, harder, if you get me.”

He was grinning like a drunken good ol’ boy at his lame joke, thrusting his crotch at me suggestively and, despite my babbled, urgent, high pitched pleading, he had me, twisted me around, his left hand in my hair, my wrists trapped in his big meaty right hand, and without any seeming effort at all, he bent me across the kitchen table.

Holding me down with my wrists at the small of my back, I could do nothing but kick and plead; weak and desperate, as he ripped my work skirt off me, my panties too (more money to find)— he’d not been this passionate for months, and it would be a lie to say that something of his feverishness was not working on me, picking up on the sexual tension which had been building all day, right from Ms F.’s first entrapping question. Part of me was already anticipating the fucking to come, wanting it, pleased to be stripped, pleased to have his hands on me, wanting me, even if it had to be like this, and all the fight went out of me as he swatted me, really hard, across the ass.

Dad had always trained me that I must be quiet as a mouse during a spanking; just another way to exercise power and discipline I guess (though he probably didn’t want Mom to get on his case about beating a near-grown girl either), so I strangled the yell of pain and fear into a desperate little whimper (fear at how hard it had been; fear that he was really going to keep going until I was a blubbering wreck suddenly a dead certainty), and I tried, as best I could, not to give him any reason to get madder.

“OK, that’s the end of your nonsense. You know once I’ve said it’s gonna happen, you know arguing just makes it worse. Behave, now; control yourself baby, you know the drill— shift yourself back now, a little bit, get that butt up nice and high for me. You hold for me now, like a good girl.”

A couple months back, Brad had decided he needed to ‘get more professional’ about spanking me— it wasn’t serious of course, just some bullshit video his friend had sent him (Bradley bragged about his ‘old school discipline’ to his gaming friends, which they also laughed at, but still, they were guys and I heard them being interested, too), about ’the proper way to spank your wife’.

And so I had a ‘position’, and ‘rules’, not just the shame and pain of being spanked.

I was to space my feet quite wide apart, tuck them right in to the table, and push my body back until I was on tiptoe (I was in trainers— my high-heel courts were in the locker at work), my ass as high as possible, tilted up; I was to support myself on my fore-arms, spread just wider than my shoulders, and slightly forwards, so that my breasts swung free, my hands twisted to be palm upward. My head was to hang down, to show my shame.

I was also to be quiet— limit my response to ‘small lady-like sighs’ was what the stupid video said: he’d made me watch it with him, all serious like, and have a ‘sensible conversation’ about it. It was all I could do to keep a straight face, between his dumb seriousness with the claptrap and my anger at him for thinking he had any right at all to lecture me, but in the end it wasn’t me laughing at him or shouting which got me spanked, but me asking him. Feelings had built up in my crotch while watching the video which just got more as he talked at me and in the end I interrupted him, knowing my face was flushed;

“Brad, just shut up and spank me. If that’s the only way you can get it up anymore, that’s the way it has to be.”

I spoke calmly, but he knows me well enough to see that I was needy. He just stared at me though, processing the insult, until I made it even simpler for him by obviously and carefully tipping his bottle of beer over.

That was a short, violent spanking and a very vigorous fuck, and I let the little voice in my head warning me about a slippery slope carry on irregardless, ignoring it in favour of the rough waves of sensation from my pussy as he slammed into me, his giant hands owning my breasts, lost in the sensation of being utterly overtaken by his lust, which freed my own.

It may have been a bullshit video, but that pose was pretty sexy— I could feel my pussy lips peel apart as a spanking went on and I heated up, knowing that Brad could see it too; I knew that I could ’re-adjust’ in between swats, keeping my position, but also drawing his attention to my pussy, go up higher on tiptoes, roll my hips a little, set my breasts swinging, and I did it too; even if I hadn’t gotten so into this crazy thing of imagining the fucking during the spanking, anything which could get him hotter was likely to bring on the moment when he gave up on hurting me and sank his cock into me.

Even a small break from pain when he leaned onto me was worth it, rubbing his stiffy against my ass, grabbing my breasts and asking me if I was wanting to be a good girl for him again; any respite was a gift, and I could rub back against him, try and get him excited enough to switch over to fucking. Even as tears dripped from my eyes, my guts would be squirming at the thought of being fucked, and I would whimper as seductively as I could, beg him to fuck me, tell him how much I wanted it, and it was true, too.

Since then, it had all become one big hot mess.

This time, though, it went nuclear, as he ignored all my little moves and concentrated on getting me to scream; for some dumb reason I was equally determined not to break the spanking rules, and kept a tight rein on myself, nothing more than high-pitched girly whining and short soft cries, until at last a blow landed which touched a raw spot, and I could not contain a hoarse, moaning cry of misery and despair, and then the floodgates were opened.

Brad responded with harder faster swats, and very soon I was begging and pleading and babbling, telling him I would do anything, be the best fuck ever, suck his cock, take it deep (I’d always refused to let him even try to put it in my throat), let him do my ass (he’d only tried once, and I had screeched so loudly he lost his hardon), anything, and at last something got to him and he was in me, rutting like a dog, using my breasts as handles, pulling me onto him and I was putty in his hands, a limp, overwhelmed, helpless witness to the way my body was building to boiling point; so ashamed and so terribly needy at the same time, knowing that to come now was another step down the slippery slope, but wanting it so badly, and his climax triggered mine and I was babbling again my voice stupidly weak and shaky, thanking him (thanking him!) for being so good, so hard, so big, so strong— everything I knew he liked to hear, even as tears continued to pour from my eyes, even as I hated myself for my weakness and stupidity, even as Ms F’s knowing, sneering smile loomed up in my mind’s eye, and the only way not to go crazy with it all was to give up; give up on thinking and throw myself into the vortex of pure sensation, and to keep it going I did something Brad had long since given up asking me for, as I slipped from under him and onto my knees and took his cock in my mouth, as gentle and loving with him as I had ever been since our courting days, and carefully, slowly cleaned him with my tongue.

When it began to stiffen again, him letting out a deep breath of satisfaction, I doubled down, then pulled back and asked him;

“Brad … will … will you use your hands on me … make … make me take it deep, please? Just … just don’t let me stop until it’s how you want it.”

I don’t know why, but my babbling gratitude was still with me and I wanted— needed— to give him something to compensate for all the hours I’d spent thinking bad things about him. He was Brad, the guy I’d worked on until he married me. It was my fault, not his, and he’d just given me a shattering orgasm and now his cock was getting hard and he might just fuck me again and I wouldn’t have to think…