A Gift for Simone

If a mere week ago, Simone had read the filthy things Jake pictured in his mind she would have been outraged, deeply offended. The things he'd described would have been unthinkable. But, somehow, coming from him the idea actually had some appeal. It was all very sordid, despicable in fact, yet not without dark, licentious attraction.

The question was -- if Jake was serious -- could she do it? Simone assumed, the whole scene described in Jake's email was pure fantasy -- it had to be fantasy, he couldn't really expect her to do it ... But what if he did?

Simone couldn't supress the images. In her mind she saw herself doing everything Jake described -- All of it. Every last nasty, depraved detail.

When she sat at her desk, her personal laptop alive, she had taken a good, long look at the closed door, the single barrier between her and the filthy-minded man beyond. She wanted to go to him, was so fucking desperate Simone felt she could take Jake Morris in the boardroom with the entire board sitting there. All of them, females included, slack-jawed and looking on.

Hell, she could take every fucking one of them on, including the women. She would have Jake in her cunt while she sucked cock or licked pussy. It wouldn't matter whose dick she had in her mouth or whose cunt was pressed to her face, she would slurp and slobber and moan, licking man-meat and cunt until, one-by-one, the men came on her. Just like Jake described.

By an immense effort of will, not quite believing herself capable of resisting the powerful urge to charge into her boss's office, Simone staggered to the unisex and locked herself in a cubicle.

She then rubbed her pussy, fingering herself to a quick, intense orgasm; all the while imagining scenes of multiple men, faceless, anonymous bastards who used her body -- every hole available -- for their own ends.

Simone came with a palm wedged against her teeth to smother her cries as she pictured herself spattered with semen, Jake's ejaculate sliding from her cunt.

Minutes later, when she'd calmed enough to think again, Simone repaired the damage wrought to her hair and make-up. She stood in front of the sink and regarded her reflection, wondering if she actually knew the mind of the woman she saw in the mirror.

Another thought occurred to her. What if it wasn't just a fantasy? What if, on Thursday evening, Jake Morris actually expected her to fuck strange men?

Nine

Jake was away from the office from Monday afternoon. Meetings in Plymouth and Southampton meant he would be gone for the rest of the week, with a diary entry for a quick stop at the headquarters building scheduled for Friday.

Simone sent an email to TheMainMan shortly after Jake's departure. In it she described how incredibly turned on she'd been by the suggestion she allow herself to be used by Jake and several other men. She told of her underlying disgust, but then went on to say the depravity only served to heighten her ardour, ending that section of the communique with a question about Jake's seriousness. Did he mean it or was it merely fantasy?

She then asked about details for Thursday -- which hotel, timings, practicalities -- before ending.

The reply she received was succinct; dismissive, even hostile in tone:

8 July. 17:10 From: <TheMainMan@savernet.com>

To: <CommandoGrrl@savernet.com>

Subject: Re. Did you mean it?

Does it matter? I'm paying you so you'll do whatever I want -- Yes? If you won't do it I can easily find myself another whore who will. There are hundreds and thousands of pretty women out there who'd do what I ask.

Be ready -- dressed as discussed. On Thursday evening you can expect a call on your mobile somewhere around seven-thirty. Be in character.

Your gift is due to arrive tomorrow. Inform me when it arrives and I'll send instructions on what to do.

Simone read the message twice, staggered at the audacity, the domineering attitude. She sank back in the soft embrace of her chair, jaw hanging slack.

No way, there was no way she was taking that shit from him. Not a chance. Who did he think he was? A little role-play was one thing, but to dismiss her like that ... and calling her a whore into the bargain. It was too much, way too much, Mister Big-fucking-Ego Morris.

"You say there are women out there who'd act out your nasty little scenario, you pervy bastard? Good, you can fucking well find one and fucking well pay her."

Simone's anger fed on itself, flaring when she read the opening line of the email yet again.

"Your gift is due to arrive tomorrow," she parodied in the style of a South Park character. "Inform me when it arrives and I'll send instructions on what to do ... You cunt. As if," Simone scoffed.

For the rest of the day she went about her business, the occasional mutter moving her lips. Even at home, into the evening, Simone maintained her indignation. She wound herself up, knowing the best thing to do would be to simply dismiss Jake Morris, TheMainMan, and CommandoGrrl, completely, but she couldn't manage to do it.

It did occur to Simone to blow the whistle on Jake. She had his wife's email address on file, how simple it wold be to lump all the correspondence into a file and, with a single mouse-click, send it winging to Jake's spouse.

However, she considered after indulging herself in the delicious fantasy of Jake Morris brought low for a few minutes, those emails were a double-edged sword. If she sent them her role would also come to light. Simone would be out of a job, and she needed her salary just to keep afloat. She had a mortgage and credit cards maxed out, payments on the smart Mini she'd bought on impulse. No, she had too much to lose.

But the knowledge she could go nuclear was some comfort, went some way to assuaging her bruised feelings. Besides, maybe, depending on how things panned out, if she didn't manage to grab the main prize -- Jake and his assets -- there still might be some room for manoeuvre at the negotiating table. If she used her noggin, Simone could, at the very least, come out of this affair with a substantial monetary reward.

The thought was enough to convince Simone to continue with Jake's game. She could see it out until Thursday night. It might all just be pretend after all. Jake might be getting off on the thought of it, just as she had in the unisex. And if it turned out he was serious and expected her to fuck other men as well as him, well, she could just turn on one spiked heel and leave.

Simple.

Simone switched on the laptop.

"Okay, Jake. Let's crank this up. You want dirty...?"

8 July. 23:32 From: <CommandoGrrl@savernet.com>

To: <TheMainMan@savernet.com>

Subject: A whore.

Black hold-ups and heels. That's all I'm wearing under the dress. I want you -- and the others -- to sit and watch. I'll tease you all by slipping the bootlace straps of the dress over my shoulders. I know you boys are eager to see my tits, but you'll have to wait.

I'll turn my back to you and let the dress slip lower. You can see my back, the track of my spine right down to the crease of my arse. I'll hold the dress there for a few seconds to let you boys get a good eyeful of my back, waist and hips. Enjoy the curves, boys.

Does the sight of my bare skin excite you?

I'll let the dress drop lower so you can all see my bottom. Look at that arse. That's a beautiful sight if I say so myself. Keeping those cheeks so taut takes a lot of effort. I hope you all appreciate that. You're paying for all my hard work.

I'll drop the dress and stand there while you gasp at the sight of my legs -- the heels and stockings look good, eh? Are you hard? I bet you are; I bet you boys want to touch your dicks.

In fact, I want to watch you pull your cocks. Show me how fucking hard you are for me.

When I turn I can feel eyes lasering all over me. My pussy, which is almost pissing juice, is all smooth for you, and I can feel the heat of your stares on my tits.

See how stiff my nipples are?

I remember what you said about strutting around the room, so I do exactly that. I'll pose and let you boys stare at me a little bit longer, and then I'll tell you all to get your cocks out. I want to see you all yanking away.

I'll come to you and stare into your eyes, leaning over you as you sit there, my tits swinging. You and I will kiss -- just the two of us, no kissing for the others.

While we kiss you feel how wet I am, and I'll stroke your cock and make you moan.

I'll climb onto you and we'll fuck. Let the others watch while I ride that big dick.

In the end I want your semen in my cunt, as much as I want their cum all over me.

Do I fuck any of them? Do I let them use me? Shall I let them have my pussy, my mouth and my tight arsehole?

I'll be your whore. You tell me what I should do.

xxx

Simone sent the email and turned off the laptop. She went to bed, shredding clothes as she walked into her bedroom, the imagery involved in the writing process, imagining herself doing the things she'd described too much to bear. Her body clamoured for release, and yet again she fingered her sticky slot. Again Simone fantasised about multiple men, wondering what it would be like to give herself up completely and simply allow them to have her. She found she was actually curious to know how it would feel to accept more than a single man into her body simultaneously.

And how would she feel afterwards? In the days that followed -- would she feel like a whore then, knowing she'd been fucked and had sucked cock and taken their semen on her face and breasts?

"Jake's seed in my pussy," she mumbled. But would she really let the other ones come all over her?

Simone was beginning to think she just might.

Ten

The package arrived at quarter past eleven the following morning. Anticipation laced with ire churned inside Simone. There had been no response to her lewd email. But unable to sustain her indignation, she sent a brief message to announce the arrival of her gift.

His response was almost immediate.

9 July. 11:28 From: <TheMainMan@savernet.com>

To: <CommandoGrrl@savernet.com>

Subject: Re. It's arrived!

I'm pleased you like the gift. I'll get to what I want you do soon. In the meantime I thank you for the email you sent last night. The scene you described was very vivid. That's exactly what I'd love to see on Thursday night. I was especially ... moved by your question about what to let them do. My little whore, you'll take them everywhere. I especially look forward to seeing you drenched in semen.

So, to the gift...

Simone's mouth fell open when she read through the details of what Jake expected her to do.

"You dirty fucker," she breathed, appalled yet aroused to a fever pitch. "You filthy, fucking bastard."

Simone followed the instructions, and then, weak and shaky, relieved she hadn't been disturbed -- caught in the act -- sent the images Jake had demanded as an attachment to her next email.

Again, the response was almost immediate.

9 July. 12:19 From: <TheMainMan@savernet.com>

To: <CommandoGrrl@savernet.com>

Subject: Re. Pictures.

Oh my, you're a bad girl, aren't you?

Do I like the photos? Of course I do. They're perfect. I'm looking at them now.

Don't you look beautiful sitting at the desk with that dildo stuffed into your cunt! I can tell by looking at your face that you love every second of it. Did the fear of discovery make it better? Was your pleasure enhanced by the risk?

Amazing quality pictures from the tiny camera in your laptop, too.

How did it feel while you fucked yourself with that thing? How worried were you about someone seeing you? Would you have let someone watch? Does that get you hot, Simone?

I'm beginning to get a sense of your inner slut. The things you described in last night's email and the expression on your face in the pictures tell me the risk of being discovered only makes it more thrilling for you.

Tell me, if someone had walked in and caught you masturbating like you were, would you offer them your body as a bribe for silence? Would you fuck one of the directors if your job depended on it?

I wonder how far you'd go. I wonder how far I could push you!

We'll see on Thursday night. That's when we'll see how bad you can be.

Take the dildo home with you, it's yours to keep. There will be no more emails. The next time you hear will be by phone on Thursday.

Eleven

Wen Simone's alarm sounded on Thursday morning she was an emotional wreck. She hadn't needed the alarm at all, having tossed and turned for most of the dark hours, mind boiling.

She wasn't going to go through with it. No way. There was no power on the planet that could induce Simone to make a visit to some unknown hotel and strip off in front of a room full of men. Not a chance.

But, Simone considered, in all likelihood there wouldn't be anyone else there. It would just be Jake. Surely he wouldn't take such a risk himself? Not a man in his position. Not until he and Simone had established a proper relationship. I had to be a game.

"Think about it," Simone said to her reflection as she masked the ravages of sleepless nights with make-up. "I mean, really? Jake Morris and a group of his friends gang-banging the fuck out of me? That sort of thing just does not happen." She pulled a face and rolled her eyes. "Okay, yes, it happens. There are sluts who get gang-fucked, of course there are, but Jake Morris wouldn't actually be involved in stuff like that ... Not for real."

Simone completed the remainder of her morning routine, all the time convincing herself there would be no orgy. She wouldn't be plastered with spunk tonight. What was going to happen was she would play a role; she would go along with Jake's sordid game and, if she were honest with herself, would get a huge thrill out of playing the whore.

Simone could just let herself go and enjoy the game.

She had a plan: Jake as the complete package with her entrenching her position as the future Mrs Morris, or a financial reward.

When she left home Simone pulled a small carry-on suitcase behind her, all she needed to prepare and dress for her role.

As the day went on, Simone constantly vacillated. She constantly veered between going through with it and balking. Her mind was in turmoil, her guts alternately spiked in spasm or threatening a liquid loosening. Work was a joke -- how could she concentrate while she felt that way? She hadn't been this nervous since, of all things, her driving test.

By the time the workday ended, Simone was frazzled. She waited in her office for the building to clear, pacing and agonising, unable to sit still for more than a few moments as time moved slowly. Eventually, unable to wait a moment longer, she wheeled her case to the bathroom. Simone showered and took her time preparing, her stomach a constant gripe.

The same old questions kept turning in her mind: When would Jake call? Would there be a group of men waiting for her? If so, could she do it, could she fuck them?

Inevitably Simone was all dressed up with no place to go. What could she do to kill time? God, she wished she still smoked; she needed a cigarette like never before. She checked her phone constantly -- was the battery charged? Was it still switched on? Did she have a signal? Was the fucking thing working?

In a pub close to the office Simone ordered a double vodka and lemonade, taking it down in two swallows.

She stood at the bar, preferring to stand because sitting on the high stool would only cause the hem of her dress to ride up and reveal far more thigh than she felt confident showing. Simone felt so conspicuous, as though she had a sign around her neck, written in scarlet lipstick and whose lurid inscription read: I'M A WHORE. MAKE ME AN OFFER

She felt so self-conscious, ultra-aware of looks being cast her way. It would only be a matter of time before someone -- some sleazy bastard buoyed up by drink -- made a move.

The odd thing was, as awkward and uncomfortable as she felt, Simone also experienced an undercurrent of excitement swelling beneath her nervousness. She looked around the bar and saw people enjoying themselves, apparently without a care in the world. There were a couple of tourists soaking up the experience of being in a real English pub in London. A handful of office workers were, some in groups, some solitary, grabbing a quick pint before heading home to domestic bliss. The barman hovered, probably getting a cheap thrill from the expanse of décolletage and the crease of Simone's cleavage. Of course she was being eyed up by several men, in itself a turn-on -- their hungry stares prickled her skin and flooded her with heat between her legs.

Simone sipped her vodka and calmed, the large measure she'd already gulped down doing its work. She imagined the reaction from her fellow patrons if they knew there was a possibility that she was about to be used as a sexual plaything for a group of randy men. What would they say, how would they look if she told them that, in a few short hours, she might be lying on a hotel bed, every orifice stuffed with cock, her stockings ruined, make-up ruined, bare skin spattered with jizm?

"You're off your head," Simone muttered. "What the hell has happened to you?" She downed the remainder of her drink and signalled for a third.

The barman had just completed Simone's request when, even though she'd been anxiously expectant of just such an event, she gave a start and stared at her ringing phone sitting on the bar.

Simone looked at her mobile for several long seconds, not believing this could be it.

She reached for the instrument and checked the screen.

Number Withheld

Simone swallowed heavily and, with fingers numbed with shock--

It's happening ... Oh shit, it's happening!

--held the handset to her ear.

"Simone?" a male voice asked.

"I'm expecting a call," Simone snapped. "If you're selling something you can jog on. Don't bother calling again."

All she needed, a cold-caller!

"Jake's running late. He asked me to make the call. He wants to know if you're game?"

Simone hesitated, taken aback by a stranger calling on Jake's behalf. She sucked in a deep breath and vaguely wished for a cigarette. This was it. Make-your-mind-up-time.

The pause lengthened, myriad scenarios flowing through Simone's mind.

She dithered, unable to make a sound until, after a stuttered false start, the words bubbled out of her. "I'm game." Simone heard her voice, thick and clotted with emotion. She couldn't begin to analyse how she felt at that moment. It was as though someone else was talking on her behalf. "Where do I need to go?"

She heard a chuckle, and then: "Don't you want to name a price first, Simone?"

Simone closed her eyes. She gulped in reaction to her body's response.

"Oh, God ... I don't know. Ask Jake. Let him decide."

"Okay, we'll leave that for now. Just take a cab to the Charing Cross Hotel," the man gave a room number. "Come up and knock, Simone."

The cab ride passed in a blur. She was torn with indecision. There was going to be at least one other man there. It wouldn't just be Jake. Again, as had been the constant pattern throughout, Simone considered leaving well alone.

What was she getting into? Who had she become? And, if she went through with it, who would she be in the morning?

Finally, with no decision made, simply allowing herself to be pulled along by forces she herself had set in motion, when the taxi arrived outside the façade of the hotel, Simone paid the cabbie and alighted. She walked through the foyer and made her way to the room the man had indicated.

Feeling dazed, edgy and unable to concentrate, Simone's limbs trembled when, after another pause and a deep breath, she watched her fingers curl into a fist.