A Detective Story Ch. 02

Is she kidding herself? Is she only telling herself that stuff to cope? The weeks keep slipping by, and nothing changes, or at least nothing improves. She never makes tangible progress. No decent ideas have taken shape in her head. They haven't so much as started to. Is she too plain chicken? Has she lost her courage forever? All she does is what they tell her, no matter how horrible it is. She never complains or argues.

No! It's all part of the act. But what if it's not? What if that's bullshit? What if the other thing is the act—the secret plotting she pretends to do inside? It's such a perfect excuse, after all, isn't it? Awfully convenient, at least. It lets her do absolutely anything, no matter how gross and perverted, without having to blame herself for it. Instead she wallows in the filthy experiences, in the sensations. In the sex.

She's pretty much stopped having regular sex with her husband. When she does let it occur, it's not satisfying. It's boring, in fact. She falls asleep before he gets done. Poor clueless schmuck.

Darryl and the other assholes, they always make her come. Screaming, every time. She never has to fake that part. Sometimes—well, lots of times—she used to try, when they were fucking her. She tried to fake an orgasm before they made her have another real one to feel guilty about. It never worked. When she started pretending, they always turned into the real thing. She faked it too good, maybe. Couldn't help herself. Got carried away every single stupid time. She gave up on that strategy. She doesn't waste any effort these days trying to hold back the climaxes.

They never let her wear any clothes at the meetings except her eyeglasses. That's a big part of it. The constant exposure around them—the humiliation, the helplessness of it, the crazed dread/anticipation, knowing what's coming and knowing what it will be like when it begins, but never knowing exactly when one or some or all of them will decide to grab her and start nailing her—this keeps her on the edge all the time. Feverishly horny, no denying the fact. The rule is, she has to strip soon as she steps through the door. They've put a special coatrack from an antique shop right there next to the entrance just for her to hang all her things on. One time she made the mistake of running to the bathroom first because she really had to go. Greengrasse kicked the door in and dragged her off the toilet by her hair the moment she was done pissing, not allowing her any time to wipe. He tore off the rest of her clothes, then had Bramford and Darryl hold her arms and bend her over the table so he could beat her ass with a yardstick.

"I'm sorry sir! So sorry! Ahhaahh! Never again! I swear! Guuaahhuuhh! Please! Forgive me!"

"What's the rule, bitch? What's the first rule?"

"I stay naked! I always stay naked! I'm not allowed to keep my clothes on in the clubhouse! It's my duty to stay naked and make the rest of you happy with my body! 'Cause I'm the bitch! I'm the one and only official clubhouse bitch! I'm sorry I broke the rule but I really had to go and I thought if I was real super quick you wouldn't care or at least you wouldn't catch me. Owee! Ahhuuhh God! Forgive me, boss! I'll make it up to you. I'll give you the best blowjob ever! I swear!"

"Damn right you will, little girl."

Terrible as it was, she found she still got incredibly aroused during the punishment, same as she did whatever else the men decided to do with her, and as soon as Greengrasse dropped the yardstick and unzipped himself and shoved his penis inside her, she gave up an orgasm for him.