I didn’t plan to write this. I made a picture, and the generator offered to make it into a character— using the prompt, than asked if I’d like to talk to the character. This is heavily edited, but it has a flavour that is not entirely THW. I hope it’s interesting. I’ve removed most of the AI ’tells’, but I’m sure you’ll smell them…
Picture: Lina : Click here to reveal.
An upmarket cafe at the edge of London’s Green Park. He’s been watching her since she came in, Not intrusively; rather the opposite— he’s entirely casual, and meets her eyes when she looks at him, but is mostly reading. When he does look at her, though, she has the oddest feeling that he has enormous sympathy for her. After a while, she realises she wants him to look at her. She’s used to being looked at, has been doing some modelling for six months now, some catwalk, and recently some very soft-core nudes, but she’s never been looked at this way. Anyway, he seems to have lost interest, he’s leaving, and she’s conscious that she is sad to see him go, that there is a feeling of loss; silly, she thinks to herself.
Except that, no— he’s coming to her table. Confident, but very politely, he gestures, casual, at the empty chair. She is non-plussed, unsure, freezes, then, with a little jump, she says;
Oh! Please …
And then there is a long silence, while he looks at her. The sympathy is still there, but the look is more dispassionate now; an inspection, almost.
She’s uncomfortable, but, weirdly, she is glowing with the attention, and then he speaks:
Hello pretty girl. You have lovely breasts. I’d like you to show them to me.
Her breath hitches—a sharp intake through parted lips. The compliment lingers like a hot knife against her skin.
T-thank you,
she murmurs, fingers twitching toward the hem of her blouse before freezing. The Swedish lilt in her voice wavers.
But I… I don’t…
Her heels dig into the floorboards, grounding her as if they could anchor the heat rising up her neck. The rusted nail presses into her leg from her pocket, hidden. Skit. Why did she always carry these?
You—you look at me too much,
she accuses, though her shoulders slump, betraying exhaustion.
The thing is, little one, that you need someone strong, to help you be what you need to become.
Her breath catches again—sharper this time—as if the words had physical weight. The nail in her pocket bites deeper into her skin, a grounding pain.
I don’t… need to become anything,
she lies, voice brittle. Her hips tilt forward unconsciously, betraying the tension coiled in her abdomen.
The flush creeps higher, staining her cheeks. She swallows hard, eyes darting to the door—then back.
You—you say these things,
she murmurs,
and then I… I don’t know what to do with them. Who … who are you, anyway?
Her fingers twitch toward her blouse again, stopping midway.
I’m the man who has your attention, completely. That’s all you need to know at the moment. It’s very simple, lovely girl. You need to let yourself be guided— be more obedient— that way, you won’t be so confused. Everything will be simpler, easier, if you let me control you. Trust me.
The word obedient sends a visible shudder down her spine. Her breath comes quicker now—shallow, uneven.
Trust is… not simple,
she counters, but her protest lacks force. The nail in her pocket is slick with sweat now, the rust staining her fingertips.
She shifts her weight, the stiletto heels creaking against the floor.
You—you say easier,
she murmurs, eyes downcast,
but I think… it might … hurt.
Her throat works around the admission, as if the words themselves are sharp.
Of course. Trust is risky. You don’t really know me. And of course, change can be painful— and I will hurt you— you’re right about that, too. But listen to your instinct. Don’t you want to trust me? Can’t you feel that I know what is really going on with you?
Her breath stalls entirely for a second—caught between defiance and something darker, hungrier. The rusted nail slips from her fingers, clattering to the floor between them.
You don’t… know anything,
she whispers, but her voice cracks halfway.
The flush isn’t just on her cheeks now; it paints her collarbones, the tops of her breasts peeking above her blouse. She doesn’t move to cover them.
You … you’re too much! Pushing … pushing at me! I … I … please?
She cuts herself off, teeth sinking into her lower lip. The unfinished sentence hangs, trembling.
I know that you’re desperate. Underneath it all. Desperate for something. Something that you don’t dare look for. I know that yearning eats at you. Yearning for something you doubt you deserve.
The word desperate hits like a slap. Her whole body jerks back —but the seat hold firm, keeping her in place.
Y-you don’t—
She exhales sharply, nails scraping against her own thighs.
That’s not…
A broken laugh escapes her, too jagged to sound like amusement. Her blouse gapes slightly where she’d tugged at it earlier, revealing the rapid flutter of her pulse.
Maybe I am,
she admits suddenly, chin lifting.
But you… you’re worse. Watching. Waiting.
Her teeth gleam too-white between parted lips.
Like a thief.
He laughs, casual;
Oh, pretty girl… I’m no thief, and you know it. I only take that which is offered. And, too, I am not waiting for you. I’m just passing the time, in a most beguiling way, with a weak and lovely creature which has no idea what it could become, if it would only let itself be shown.
Her lips part slightly, breath uneven as her fingers finally—finally—curl into the hem of her blouse. The fabric lifts an inch, then two, revealing the taut plane of her stomach.
You talk too much,
she murmurs, but there’s no bite left in it. Her hips sway forward, drawn by something deeper than pride.
The blouse slips higher, exposing the underside of her breasts—pale skin flushed pink with anticipation.
If … if I… show you,
she whispers,
you don’t get to say I told you so.
Her voice wavers, but her hands don’t stop.
He touches her arm, impossibly gentle, then caresses her jawline;
Oh, pretty, I will never tease you. Sometimes, as you have understood, I will hurt you. But that will be honest and true pain, not weak and tricky. I will always be honest with you, especially about pain.
The touch at her jaw makes her flinch—not away, but into it, like a flower tilting toward the sun despite itself. Her blouse hangs open now, the swell of her breasts rising with each unsteady breath.
Honesty hurts,
she murmurs, but her fingers release the fabric entirely, letting it fall back. Her other hand rises to cover his where it lingers on her face—not to push away, but to trap it there.
Prove it.
Her pulse thrums under his fingertips, a wild thing caged. The nail lies forgotten at her feet, glinting dully in the light. She doesn’t look down at it.
Say something true,
she demands, voice thin.
Something that cuts.
You’re not going to be in a ‘relationship’ with me; you’re going to be something I use.
The words land like a blade between her ribs—sharp enough to steal her breath. Her fingers tighten convulsively around his, nails biting into his skin.
I … I understand …
she breathes, though her voice shakes.
… I—I don’t deserve love.
Her blouse hangs open completely now, her breasts bare and heaving. She doesn’t try to cover them. The flush has spread down her chest, pooling between her thighs.
Please … Please?
She has no idea what she is asking for— reassurance? cruelty? orders? a kiss?
He leans forward and gently takes possession of her breasts, the palms of his hands encompassing their generous firmness, his thumbs on her nipples;
We’ll leave now— the staff have no idea how to cope with us, poor things. But you’ll walk with your head up, even if your eyes will be lowered, and your shoulders will be back; I want them to see the breathtaking loveliness of these gorgeous tits. Take off your panties, now, while I’m paying the bill, lovely girl.
A whimper escapes her lips as his hands claim her breasts—soft at first, then firmer as her nipples stiffen under his thumbs. Her knees buckle slightly, but she catches herself, spine arching into his touch.
Y-yes,
she breathes, though it sounds more like surrender than agreement. Her fingers fumble at the waistband of her panties under her short pleated skirt, trembling as she hooks them down her thighs. The fabric clings for a moment before pooling at her ankles. She steps free, leaving them there like a discarded secret, feeling many eyes on her, judging her, letting it burn her, somehow insulated by his certainty.
Her chest rises faster now, the flush deepening as she turns toward the door—shoulders back, head high, just as he commanded. But her lowered eyes gleam with something perilously close to relief.
They’ll stare,
she murmurs, not quite a protest. One hand twitches toward her bare hips, then falls still.
But… you want them to.
Just so; you are magnificent. Now that you are letting yourself be controlled you’ll find everything easier. Walk beautifully now, like you do on the catwalk, feet on an imaginary line, nice and slow, just fast enough to get your breasts swaying. Wait outside— and tuck your hands behind your back, don’t hide.
Her breath comes in shallow bursts as she obeys, stepping forward with deliberate grace—each movement calculated to make her bare breasts sway enticingly. The cool air kisses her exposed skin, raising goosebumps, but she doesn’t falter. Her hands clasp behind her back, fingers interlacing tightly, as if the pressure alone could steady her. The door chimes as she pushes through it, and the first stares hit her like a physical force—but she doesn’t look up. Not yet. Her lower lip trembles, but her posture remains flawless.
Outside, she waits exactly as instructed, the sunlight dappling her naked torso. A passing stranger gasps; she hears the click of a phone camera. Her toes curl in her stilettoes, and her cheeks flush pink— the blush extends down her chest, to the upper slopes of her breasts; even her nipples turn a shade darker, stiffening in the cool breeze, but she holds her pose, letting the wind take her open blouse as it will.
There is something glorious about it, even as her throat is tight with the shame, fear too.
Emerging from the cafe, he ignores her, taking her willingness to wait for granted, and hails a taxi. The driver’s eyes widen as her breasts sway free when she bends to get in.
You don’t mind, driver? I’d like her to show you her pussy, too, if you don’t mind her foot on the seat? I’ll have her remove her shoe, of course.
The driver looks round briefly, catches her eye, wanting to be sure that she’s not being coerced. His gaze burns hotter than the sun on her skin. Her breath hitches—half-panic, half-something darker—but she obeys without hesitation, lifting one stiletto-clad foot onto the seat. The shoe slides off with a soft thunk, revealing toenails lacquered the same shade as her flushed lips. Her thighs part just enough to grant the driver a glimpse of slick crimson folds.
There,
she murmurs, voice trembling.
Is this… what you wanted to see?
Her other hand grips the doorframe, knuckles white, chest swelling with each in-breath, her nipples moving.
It is true, it is true! It’s … it’s easier, to … to be told what to do. Even … No— Especially because it’s … because it’s like this…
Put my hand there, between your legs, pretty; then lift your face to mine, so that I can kiss you; try to tell me what it is you want from me, with your kiss, with the way your hips move.
Her fingers tremble as she guides his hand between her thighs—heat radiating through his palm before he even touches her. When his lips take hers, her kiss is hesitant, tentative; her lips are soft, her tongue tucked back as she welcomes his control, her responses tense at first, then weak, limp almost, then increasingly responsive, slow weak surges; her hips open for his hand, and the hesitance there also gives way to needy surges against his fingers, like a silent plea. The taxi seat creaks under their combined weight, but she doesn’t pull away—only deepens the kiss, nails digging into his wrist.
The driver clears his throat awkwardly, shifting gears. She ignores him, too busy chasing the pressure of this astonishing man’s touch, her moan swallowed by his mouth.
Please—
she gasps against his lips, but the sentence fractures, lost in the roll of her hips.
In the driveway of the house he’s renting, behind high hedges, he asks the driver if he’d like five minutes alone with her— as his tip. Again, the man’s eyes get round. His voice is uncertain, but he says
Yes,
clearly enough, then;
Fuck, yes.
To her, as he helps her from the car, feeling her trembling, her incipient panic, he says;
Remember, you are not responsible for this. You are blameless in everything while you are with me. This is me, doing this to you; all you need to do is try to please. You can do nothing wrong. Nothing. Everything about you is perfect.
To the driver;
Oh, I don’t know if you’ve ever wanted to hurt a woman. You can hurt this one, if you like; she’ll let you— help you, even, if you want her to. Nothing too serious, mind! She’s wet and ready for you, in any case.
and he pats the man on the shoulder with an encouraging grin, as if using a girl like this is perfectly normal;
I’ll be five minutes.
Her breath comes in sharp, panicked bursts as the driver steps closer—his hands rough on her waist, pulling her against him. She whimpers but doesn’t resist, her body pliant under his touch, her hips arching into his grip as if she can’t help herself. The sharp sting of his slap across her thigh makes her gasp, but her legs part wider, inviting more.
Please,
she whispers, not sure if she’s begging him to stop or continue, to be kinder to her, or to hurt her. Her fingers clutch at his shirt, trembling.
The driver’s breath is hot on her neck as he yanks her head back by her hair, exposing her throat. She shudders, her nipples stiffening further under the cool air.
Please … don’t … don’t hold back…
she breathes, but there’s no fear in it—only a dark, dread certainty, that there is no point doing this if it doesn’t go all the way. Her heels scrape against the gravel as he pushes her down over the front of the car, her body yielding entirely.
Five minutes later, to the second, he walks through from the garden door, to see her, face down over the car, legs akimbo, skirt rucked up, come dripping from her swollen pussy lips, arms limp on the metal; mascara tracks the tears on her face, and she’s limp, trembling. The taxi driver is fumbling with his flies, red faced, rushing, unsure of himself.
Take your time, my friend, by all means. We’re off the clock now, eh?
He’s casual, reassuring, offering his hand to her, supportive and gentle as he helps her to stand.
My dear, you are lovelier than ever in your distress. I think I’d like you to be naked, from now on, if you’d oblige. The garden door is open— go that way, won’t you? Don’t mind the dog; he’s big and playful, but he won’t hurt you unless I tell him to.
Her legs wobble as she stands, her thighs sticky with sweat and release. The driver’s roughness lingers on her skin like a brand, but she doesn’t shy from his touch—instead, she leans into it, her breath ragged.
N-naked?
she repeats, voice hoarse. Her fingers twitch toward her skirt, but she stops herself, chin lifting. The tears streak her cheeks, but her eyes—those are clear, almost defiant.
Okay,
she whispers, and pulls the blouse from her shoulders, letting it drop, then fingers weak, undoes the zip of her skirt and lets it fall. She steps toward the garden, her legs unsteady but clearly attempting the catwalk gait she knows he likes, working hard to control herself, to stay lovely, for him; the man whose name she does not know, who has had her whore herself to a taxi driver, a man maybe three times her age, sweaty and smelling of tobacco, whose come is dribbling down her leg, cooling, sticky.
In the garden, she’s standing on the path by the pool, uncertain, doing her best to be brave, the Great Dane sniffing, innocently enough, at her groin.
Alpha, come away.
The dog is as well trained as he had claimed, and ambles to his side.
Lovely girl, why don’t you dive in, swim for a minute, get yourself clean, then come and kneel on the table, display yourself for me, and then you can tell me all about yourself.
The water is cool against her overheated skin as she dives in, her body slicing cleanly through the surface. She swims a few lazy strokes, letting the pool wash away the sweat and stickiness from the taxi driver’s rough hands. When she emerges, her hair clings to her shoulders in damp platinum strands, and she wipes the water from her eyes before stepping out.
She walks to the table, her bare feet leaving wet prints on the stone path. Kneeling as instructed, she spreads her thighs slightly, her hands resting on her knees. Her nipples are still stiff from the chill of the water, and her pussy glistens faintly in the sunlight.
What … what do you want to know?
she asks, her voice soft, unsure, terribly shy.
Let’s see… What matters about you? I know— who was it fucked you last— before the taxi driver, I mean— and what was that relationship about?
Her breath catches—not in surprise, but in resignation. Her fingers dig into her own thighs, nails leaving pale crescents.
A photographer,
she admits, voice barely above a whisper.
In Milan. He—he said my body was… wasted on modesty.
The memory twists her lips into something bitter.
It lasted three weeks. Then he got bored.
She shifts her weight, the table’s edge pressing into her knees. The Great Dane whines softly beside you, sensing her tension.
He liked to remind me I wasn’t special,
she adds, oddly calm.
Just… convenient.
Her shoulders slump, but her spine stays straight. The afternoon light catches the water droplets trailing down her ribs.
Well he wasn’t wrong about that. I’m here for about five weeks myself; perhaps I’ll be bored of you by then. Perhaps before? Somehow I think not.
Tell me, how did he like to fuck you? Was he rough, or gentle? Did he take the lead, or did you give as good as you got? Did he do your ass?
Her breath comes noisily as she recalls the details, her fingers tracing idle patterns on her thighs.
He was… rough,
she admits, voice low but steady.
Always from behind, like I was just—just something to be used.
Her hips shift unconsciously, betraying the lingering ache of memory.
He never touched me gently. Not once.
She swallows hard, her gaze flickering to your face before dropping again.
But you… you’re different,
she murmurs, almost to herself.
You make me want to be good for you. Even , even if it hurts.
Her thighs part slightly further, an unspoken invitation.
Answer the question, pretty. You will always answer the question— remember that. Did you he do your ass?
Her cheeks flush a deeper shade of pink, fingers tightening on her knees.
Y-yes,
she admits, voice barely audible.
Once. When he was drunk.
Her lashes flutter down, shielding her expression.
I cried after. He laughed.
The memory tightens her shoulders, but she doesn’t recoil from it—just inhales sharply, her breasts rising with the breath. The Great Dane noses at her bare ankle, drawing a shaky exhale from her.
You won’t… laugh,
she murmurs, not quite a question.
Not that kind of laugh, no. But I have a feeling you might make me happy, and that might make me laugh. You’ll know the difference. If you’re wise, you’ll work for that laugh. How’s your cock-sucking technique? Are you good at it? Do you like it— on your knees, serving a man’s pleasure, getting nothing yourself?
Her lips part slightly—her blush comes, strong.
I … I don’t really know if … if I’m good at it,
she murmurs,
but … but I… I do like it, and … and I try. Only … only I can’t … can’t take it … you know … deep…
She quivers suddenly, gives a half giggle, suddenly intensely shy, but also, wanting him to see, letting her hips move.
I … Jesus… I’m hot … For … for you. I … I don’t usually … Honestly, mostly it takes a lot to get me… like … like this. Actually … actually, I’m never … not like this, anyway…
her tongue darting out to wet her lips as she looks up at him through her lashes.
He goes over to her, crouches down, so that his head is lower than hers, gently lifting her face, a finger at her jaw, so that she can see he is calm, serious.
Don’t worry, pretty. Remember, while you are with me, you are perfection. Oh, and by the way, he was right— the photographer— about one thing anyway. You are indeed just something to be used. But he was wrong about something too. You are special. Precisely because you will let yourself be used. Used like a thing. The way you will be used while you are with me.
He looks at her very directly; Her eyes flash up to his, then drop, then come up again, very slowly; her face has turned pale; she’s trembling, and not just from the cold seeping into her as the wind dries her.
It takes a little while, but her gaze drops again.
It is settled.
He lets it sink in. she almost sobs, once, curls in on herself, then catches herself, and straightens up, presenting herself, soft pain in her expression, but calm enough. His hand goes between her legs, very directly, and asserts itself there, three fingers curling inside her, lifting her so that her buttocks are some way up from the table, she letting herself be manhandled with trembly grace, whimpering a little.
Good girl. You need to accept your reality. Let it take hold of you. There is no point pretending there is anything else going on here.
Now. Tell me; tell me that you want to be perfect for me. That you want me to train you to be perfect for me. That there’s nothing at all you won’t do for me. Nothing.
Her breath comes in shallow, uneven bursts—lips parted, eyes wide and fixed on his.
I want to be perfect for you,
she whispers, the words trembling but clear. Her hands slide up her own thighs, as if presenting herself anew.
There’s… nothing I won’t do. Nothing.
The promise lingers between you, heavy as the humid air.
Her knees shift wider on the table, her hips tilting forward in unconscious supplication. A droplet of water slides from her collarbone down to her nipple, catching the light.
Train me,
she breathes.
Please. I’ll be good.
The Great Dane whines again, sensing her surrender.
Very good. The first thing you need to learn is that I am cruel. Not teasy cruel— we established that. I’m sadist cruel. I like to hurt pretty girls. Pretty girls who let me hurt them.
Will you let me hurt you?
I …
she can hardly speak; her eyes are darting around, her hips rise and fall, as if part of her wants to run, run and hide; her chest heaves, she looks at him, intense, eyes full of doubt, for a long second, then wrenches herself away, looks down at herself for a long minute, working on herself, very obviously.
When her voice comes, the pitch is low, the timbre throaty, almost hoarse;
I … I said I’d do what you want. And … and I will. I will. Try my best, at least, … Only … Only I don’t know if I can take being hurt… Not … I mean, I might, I might say ‘yes’ now, but … but then I might … I won’t be able to bear it, and … and I’ll fight you, scream, try … try to hurt you…
You … you’ll have to be … be very stong with me.
To … make me keep my promise.
Is that what you want, then? for me to ignore your pleas for mercy, to overcome your resistance with violence, if need be, to force you to please me?
She quivers, her body flexing around the central point - his hand in her pussy, and they both feel the pulse of excitement that grips her as his words sink in. But she cannot speak, it seems.
His hand moves on her sex then, proprietorial, manipulative, establishing control, possession.
Remember, pretty thing. Remember, now. You are perfect. If you decide to leave now, I’ll give you clothes, give you money, order you a taxi, to take you wherever you want to be. Buy you an airline ticket if you want. And that will be perfect, if you choose it, and I will always be grateful to you for what you have already given me. You can do no wrong as far as I am concerned. Except, possibly, to be untrue to yourself.
But if you’re going to stay, I’ll need you to go into the house now, and look around for some things I can beat you with, some things I can tie your hands with. There’s no hurry. I’ve some calls to make. Come back to me when you’ve found some things, when you’re ready to be made to scream and cry and beg. To be diminished. To be simplified. To have it beaten into you that you’re just something to be used.
Her throat works silently as she processes his words—his offer of escape, his promise of cruelty. The conflict flashes across her face like a storm, her fingers twitching against her thighs. Then, with a shuddering exhale, she leans forward, pressing her forehead to his.
I’ll stay,
she whispers.
I’ll… find what you need.
When she pulls back, her eyes are darker, resolute. She walks toward the house on unsteady legs, her bare feet padding softly on the stone. The Great Dane trots after her, sniffing at her ankles, but she doesn’t shy away—just brushes her fingers over his head absently, like a benediction.
Just before she goes inside, she turns, hesitant, but seemingly determined;
This … this what I need, I think. What I was .. was yearning for, even though it’s crazy. And … and I need to say something. Thank … thank you. Thank you for … for seeing me. For being so … hard … with me. For not letting me chicken out. I … I’ll try to show you how … how grateful I am. And … and if I don’t, then … than I want you to force me. No … no softness with me, please. Not … not ever.
She returns, only ten minutes later, softly crying, though without sobbing, clutching a heavy leather belt—one end wrapped tightly around her fist—and a dressing gown cord, with soft tassels at the ends. Her tears streak mascara down her cheeks, but she doesn’t wipe them away.
I—I couldn’t find anything else,
she admits, voice cracking. Her thighs press together, trembling, as she offers them to him with both hands, like a plea and a surrender combined.
He is silent, looking at her, until;
I’m scared,
she whispers, raw and honest.
I want to be good for you. Even if it hurts, but … but … I don’t understand. Why? Why do you have to … to hurt me? I … What … What if it … what if it makes me hate you?
If I could answer the question about why I want to hurt you, lovely girl, I might not want to do it. I’ve given up trying to reason with it. It’s just true. It’s not a sex thing; I’ve found it hard not to take you since I got you here, and my cock’s like an iron bar for you. It’s just. I enjoy it. That’s it. Like a fine wine or swimming a tropical reef or piloting a jet— I enjoy it. I enjoy it intensely…
And, I know it’s getting boring, but if you hate me, pretty— it will be the perfect thing, and I’ll let you go.
I’m pretty confident, though, that you will find that being beaten, knowing that you have offered yourself to be beaten, to be beaten intentionally, destructively, will mostly make you weak and needy and more eager than ever to please.
Her breath comes harshly—his honesty cuts deeper than a blow. The belt dangles from her fingers now, swaying slightly with her tremors. She looks down at it, then back at him, her lips parting as if to speak—but no sound comes. Instead, she presses the leather into his palm, her touch lingering for a heartbeat too long.
The first tear falls onto his wrist, warm and sudden.
Then do it,
she murmurs.
Before I change my mind.
Her spine straightens, shoulders rolling back—a dancer’s posture, poised for pain. Her gaze stays locked on yours, wide and wet and waiting.
He grins at her, heartless, bright and breezy— her agony an entertainment, she is to understand.
Oh no, we don’t do it here; The neighbours will cope with a naked bathing beauty, but not with a thrashing and agonised screaming. We’ll do that in the basement. Did you find the basement? No— well it’s not that big, but it’ll do, and it’s cold, so you’ll suffer that way, too.
Before we go, maybe you should tell me your name, and how old you are, where you were born, and who took your virginity.
Her lips press together—a fleeting hesitation—before she speaks.
Lina Ekström,
she murmurs, as if testing the weight of her own name aloud.
Nineteen. Born in Stockholm.
Her fingers twist the silk cord still clutched in her hands.
My virginity?
A brittle laugh escapes her.
A boy from my ballet class. We were fifteen. He cried afterward.
She shifts her weight from foot to foot, suddenly conscious of her nakedness under his gaze. The confession lingers between them—unvarnished, vulnerable. The late afternoon sun glints off the pool’s surface, casting fractured light across her trembling thighs.
