Fantasy Whore

I pace the room, awkward in the unaccustomed shiny five inch heels. I can't help but catch glimpses of myself in those repeating hotel mirrors. I see my body, unfamiliarly clad in a short mini skirt, tight and lowcut black top. Whore-like large silver hoop earrings. My legs are on display, as is my cleavage. Glimpses of creamy white flesh. I pace and glance repeatedly at the reflected parts of my body, as I wait.

I feel like a whore, cheap, on display, obeying a client's instructions. I feel as I assume he would wish me to feel. Not that he would care how uncomfortable this makes me. I can even hear the mirthless laugh, the "So?" It is pointless wondering if I look nice, tarty, stupid. Is it how I'm supposed to look? Too much leg, heels too spindly, tottering, trying to remain poised. Failing.

My phone beeps. He is here. I renew my pacing, face flushed, arms wrapped around myself, plucking at my top, picking at my lip nervously, shocked at the pounding of my heart, the pulse in my forehead.

I have left the door ajar, and spin round to face it as I hear it being pushed open. He enters. I am struck by how tall he seems, not just in height, in manner. He nods and smiles as he eyes me from top to toe, and from toes to eyes, his gaze fixing on mine. He murmurs some approving words as his eyes lower deliberately to my chest, to my thighs, most of which are exposed. I am pinned by his gaze, apprehensive, needy, wishing I didn't feel this terrible need to be used by him.

He discards his jacket, walks straight to me, walks into me, grasping my arms and pushing them down to my sides. I am driven backwards, stumbling ungracefully, till I am pressed against the wall. My hands flatten reflexively, my nails gouging into the papered surface as his mouth lowers to my neck, bites me, hard. He scrapes his chin along my jawline, against my neck, sharp pricking stubble, sandpaper on my soft flesh. He instructs me to leave my arms by my sides, hands on the wall. And he runs his hands over my body, firmly, roughly even. Proprietorial mauling of my tits, my thighs, his hands lifting the edge of the skirt to grasp my nearly naked bum. A wisp of thong doing nothing to keep my flesh barred from his touch. He grips the flimsy fabric, pulls it aside. "Keep your cunt closed to me, slut, if you can." I am squirming to pull my legs together, to clench against him, furious that this....impersonal assault on me is so arousing, and he'll know.

A hand moves to my head, grasps a full handful of hair, wrenches my head back, exposing my neck. He bites me again, as his fingers drive relentlessly deeper into my cunt. I twist and stamp my foot to clench against him, keep him out. He laughs and says "You can't close yourself to me, whore. You want this, more than you want anything else right now. And I haven't even started. On your knees."

The hand on my head pushes me to the ground, shoes uncomfortably curled beneath me, cunt squelching. The pressure on my head is not released. He pulls my head back, forces me to look at him. "Remove my trousers, slut, slowly." I fumble with the unfamiliar belt, button, zip. Pull them gently over his hips and bum, feeling the solid flesh as I do so. Ah, and now I can smell him. He is fully aware of me inhaling his scent. Deliberately, my eyes closed. He chuckles. "Yes, learn that smell, girl, that scent, that intoxication that is me. You will crave that smell in time. Will crave just having your nose," He pulls my head roughly against his cock, still encased in underwear. I can feel the heat of him, "having your nose ground up against my body, just like this. And not allowed to do a damn thing." I whimper. He tells me to remove his trousers and underwear fully, slowly taking off shoes and socks in the process. His hand never releases my hair.

He pulls me up to stand again. My head is already aching from the constant pull on my hair. "Hands clasped behind your back, put your head on my shoulder, nose and mouth against my neck." I move to comply, leaning against the solid wall of him. "Breathe, Rachel. Breathe me in. You need to learn me." I can feel his hard cock against the soft heat of my belly.

My head is wrenched back and I am forced brutally to my knees again. His scent overpowering me now. My mouth is dry, but I want to kiss him, taste him, devour him. He rubs my face against his cock, his balls, telling me my lips must stay closed. I am whimpering. "Kiss it." I cover his cock in tiny little kisses, not daring to open my lips. "Now open your mouth, but do not lick me." He brushes his cock back and forth against my lips. I feel it catch on the moister flesh inside my lips. I want so desperately to taste him, to lose myself in the pleasure of pleasing him. He chuckles again, tells me to stick my tongue out. He beats his cock against it, and against my cheeks.

Suddenly, a hand lashes out and strikes my face, slapping me, hard. I am shocked after the gentle beating and teasing with his cock. "You will thank me for every blow, however delivered. Is that clear?"

"Yes, Sir."

His hand strikes me again. "Clearly that wasn't clear, slut."

My mind is reeling, realising my error. "Yes, Sir, sorry. Thank you Sir." My cheek is stinging following the two blows. He holds my head now in both his hands, moves his cock in and out of my mouth, fully controlling the movement. I am a toy, an orifice, a warm, wet hole, nothing more. I can hear him moan vaguely though his hands cover my ears. His thrusting becomes more determined. I am ashamed at how wet this makes me, ashamed that I am enjoying this careless use. He catches in my throat; I feel the pop as my throat swallows him, hear him moan at the additional sensation on the head of his cock. He is fucking my throat. I would collapse were it not for the hands on my head, holding me firmly still. I am gagging on him, and yet feeling my cunt slippery, pulsing.

He savagely draws his cock from my throat, releases my head. Hauls me to my feet, throws me on the bed, tells me to get on all fours. I am gasping, tears in my eyes from the attack on my mouth and throat, but I scramble into position, drunken in my arousal.

"Lift up your skirt. I want to look at that ass." I am shocked at the terse order, but pull my skirt up over my bum. Knowing my position thrusts my body up and out towards him. I hear what can only be a condom being opened. And then he has wrenched the thong aside, and immediately, harshly, and fully rammed his cock into me. I lose all semblance of reticence at how my body is responding to this constant manhandling. I find my fingers are clutching the thin bedspread, balling it into my fist as I fuck back at him savagely. He laughs at me, "Not been getting enough cock lately, Rachel? C'mon, you're not hungry enough for me. Show me what you want." I cry out and shove back against him, my body arching, rocking. His hands gripping my bum and hips, squeezing. I can almost feel the bruises forming. Exquisitely sharp and aching pain.

I am transformed. A Reticent yet willing victim no more. Whore. Wanton. Needy. And he knows. He chuckles, slaps my arse several times as he drives into me. Then gone.

I moan at the emptiness inside me, but he has grabbed my hair, dragged me round to face his body, and shoved his cock into my mouth again. Horrid taste of condom, and yet I don't care, don't hesitate. I can't; he's forcing the issue. "Lick my balls, you horny little slut," he growls as he pulls back slightly, takes his cock in his hand, wanks it above my face as I lower my body to do as he instructs. I am smiling now, lapping at his balls, savouring the texture of the looser skin, the strong scent of him, enjoying his murmured appreciation. He tells me to put my hands on his cock, but carry on licking his balls. He pulls me to the floor, puts his leg on the bed, pushes my face into his crotch, his balls, forces it further back till I am forced to lick his arse. "Lick it bitch. I know you want to please me, don't you Rachel? You don't care what it is, as long as you're serving." Low laughter. I am shocked again at myself. For I find I don't care. I just want to obey. I feel lowered, humiliated, base, animal, and I like it. I like that my will and sense of self, my feminine seductive powers, are completely obliterated, irrelevant. I am a whore to this man at this moment. And I simply don't care.

He fucks my mouth again, and throat, directs me viciously. My head aches from the constant hairpulling, and yet I find myself leaning away from him, to increase the pressure and pain. He drags me round the room, fucking my mouth and cunt alternately. Condoms donned, used, discarded as he simply takes and takes his pleasure from me. And yet I remain wet, dripping wet, ready for him, ready and willing to be used. I am not sated. Do not want him to stop. He senses this, and throws me to the bed. "Be still." I hear him rummaging. And he produces arm cuffs. Puts them on my arms, just above my elbows, clips them together. I am on all fours on the bed. "What's your name?" he asks me

"Ummm, Rachel, Sir," I reply, my voice muffled in the tangled pillows and covers, hair across my face and eyes, matted already. He laughs.

"No, it is not Rachel. Not here with me, like this, lying there, hair and clothes all over the place. Your arse in the air, just begging to be fucked, again. Your name is Dirty Shit Whore, isn't it?"

He has shocked me. I feel like a dirty shit whore, most especially because I know what is coming, but I cannot say it.

"No, Sir, my name is Rachel." I know I'm defying him, and I know he will not permit it. He reaches for something on the desk.

"No, " he begins, and I feel the belt slap against my thighs, and scream out. "No, your name is dirty.....shit....whore." Slowly the words come at me, punctuated each of them with a blow from his belt. "What is your name?"

"My name is Rachel, Sir." Anger now, rebellion. I am struggling against the restraint, but cannot really move, other than to collapse onto my side. The belt strikes me again, three times.

"We'll see about that, won't we, my dirty shit whore, hmm?" I hear another condom being opened, and then a bottle opening. He moans and murmurs, "Mmm, that feels so good" and I feel drips of liquid lubricant hit my feet and shoes...then my leg as he moves up my body. More lube now, dribbled directly onto my arse. Cool, smooth, sliding down the cleft, into my cunt, down my thighs even, onto the bed. I don't want this. I am scared of it, of him. He knows this, and he laughs. Wanks his cock slowly above me. I can feel his balls brushing against my raised ass.

I whimper, "Please, no, Sir. I'm not ready."

"Oh, not ready? Then I suggest you get ready." And instead of thrusting his cock into me as I was expecting, he moves to my head, shoves his condomed, lubed cock into my mouth, down my throat. I retch instantly at the invasion, at the sickly taste of the lube, at the hairs stuck to the slippery surface of him. I try to eject him with my tongue, try to move my head away. He pushes again into me.

I call out, "No Sir, please! Lube, hair, no..."as I retch and try to wipe my mouth on the bed, escape his pressure and cock.

He laughs, "And do you think I care? Suck it." And I do. Tears in my eyes at the indignity of my position, and at the constant deepthroating. And he's getting off on my discomfort. His cock rock hard now. He moves behind me again. And in one swift move has thrust himself into my ass.

I cry out, the pain unbearable. Pressure, sharp, ache. "Shut up and breathe, whore." I try desperately to calm myself. His weight pressing onto and into my body. My arms trapped. My face shoved hard into the bed. He rocks back and forth into me, pushing deeper. I am sweating, pleading. But then he senses that the pleading has changed. He laughs. "Now then, what is your name?" He thrusts again and again into me, and the pain is no longer bad pain. I am enjoying this; somewhere in my head is a voice telling me I should be screaming "no", should be doing everything I can to move away from this man, to stop him. But I don't. I want this, want the pain, and to be forced, to be taken.

"My name is Ra..," I start, a reflex. He jabs his cock into me. I scream. I collapse within myself, and as my body is rocked by his fucking, I sob out "My name is dirty...shit...whore, Sir."

"Better," he says, and pulls instantly from me, his victory over me achieved.

He pulls the condom from his cock, and shoves me to the floor. His cock is rock hard. I can tell the game is over for now, that he will cum, that he needs to cum. He directs me to lick his balls as he wanks over my face. Then tells me to sit back, and open my mouth.

Tears stain my cheeks, I am flushed, and I am ....grateful as I watch his face twist into an orgasmic grunt, and see and feel the cum shoot from his cock, hitting my tongue, my nose, my cheeks, my eyes, my hair. Feel it drip down my face, slip to my chest. He wipes his cock on my hair, tells me to lick him clean.

I am collapsed in on myself, arms still pinned behind me, one eye closed against the glob of cum dripping into it. He releases my arms, goes to the bathroom. I scoop cum out of my eye, into my mouth. Rub it into my tits, my neck, my hair, feel the tightness of it as it begins to dry.

He comes back into the room, marginally more relaxed than before, but I know that this is far from over. "On your back, on the bed, head hanging over the edge. Legs apart." I move to obey. I hear him reach in his bag, and hear the swish of a crop slice through the air. I freeze. "Oh yes, my little whore, you didn't think this was just about being fucked, did you? That body," he slaps the flat of the crop against my left nipple. I flinch. "belongs to me. My canvas. All that lovely smooth white skin. Spread your legs further."

He strikes my inner thighs sharply. I yelp at each blow, draw my legs together, try to escape. "Open your legs." I open them; he strikes me; I close them reflexively, the smarting pain too much in such sudden succession. I open them again. I am holding his legs, clutching at his body, burying my face against him. Crying out into his body. He is tapping me now, fast pitterpat of gentler strokes, sharp on the already red and tender flesh. I am whimpering non-stop against the onslaught. My body dissolving into each fresh wave of pain, unaware that he is striking my clit in between blows to my inner thighs. One long pulsing impact.

He's murmuring his approval at my body's response, wanking himself as he strikes me. "Lick my balls, slut." I struggle to comply in between yelps of pain and needing to turn my face away from him,into his body, to brace myself. My whole body is twisting, turning, writhing. Away from the pain, into the pain. I can't tell where the focal point will be next. All ache and sting and snap of the tab of the crop. I lose track of time and individual blows, sensations. And suddenly it stops. I allow my body to relax. But no, "On all fours, slut. I'm not finished with you yet."

My inner thighs are burning. This is becoming a lesson in endurance. I am sweating, wet, trembling, but determined not to give in. A cane now. "Arch your back, stick that ass out for me." I am dreading more pain, yet craving it too. Something to prove, that I can take more, that I actually want more. He builds up slowly, blow by blow, till the burning in my thighs is muted. And the thud of the thick cane repeats across my bum and upper thighs, again and again. I am becoming exhausted, I cannot win. He will beat me into a heap of shivering sated flesh. But this makes me smile. The blows are no longer as painful. Has he tempered his strength, or is my body shutting out the repeated pain, shutting down the pain response? I am drifty, absorbing, moving from the blows only to thrust my bum back to him, for more.

He stops. Turns me to face him, his cock is in my mouth again. This time it is up to me to make him cum. He is not fucking me. He is working me, my mouth, my tongue, my throat. I feel him grow harder and harder, and relish the thought of that release into me. That is not what he intends. He pulls from my mouth, wipes the drooling saliva all over my face, slaps my face, twice. Shoves his cock into me again, removes it, takes his cock in his hand, and after a second or two, again sprays my face and hair. A sighing grunt leaving him. He wipes his cock in my hair, the cum which has spilled onto his hand he wipes across my shoulder blade.

He leaves the bed. I collapse, rubbing cum into my skin again, covered in it. A used, fucked, taken, claimed whore. No affection, no gentleness, no relenting. And I am sated, and grateful, covered in dried and drying cum, my cunt and arse sore. My jaw aching. My throat raw.

Moments later, as I'm drifting in and out of my satisfaction, I hear him moving about, collecting things. I toy with moving, reacting, and yet stay still, eyes closed.

And then he is gone. The door clicks closed. I am alone. Dirty, abused, humiliated, degraded.

And smiling.