tagNonConsent/ReluctanceA Study in Scarlett Ch. 02

A Study in Scarlett Ch. 02


It was almost frightening how quickly Scarlett took my life from me. She kept me in bed for two days after I kicked Mandy out. We got up only to shower, use the bathroom, and order food--the last of which we ate in bed. Mandy phoned many times that next morning. Her voice pleaded at me to reconsider from the answering machine in the next room, telling me that she still loved me, that we had made a life together, and that we were supposed to get married. Eventually, Scarlett got up briefly from the bed to erase the bundle of messages my ex had left. She dallied only long enough to change the recording, a joint message Mandy and I had made together where we took turns saying our names in the beginning, before returning to me and taking me into her warm mouth.

Mandy called again while the stripper was blowing me, triggering the new message. It was a sinister piece, breathless and full of mocking laughter.

"Hi! You've reached Scarlett and William. I'm sorry, *giggle* we can't come to the phone right now, ohhh, because we're in bed. *giggle* Well, I shouldn't fib. I'm in bed. William is actually in my mouth, mmmmm, and he seems very, very happy about it. If this is Mandy, thank you for your concern, but William is just fine. We both wish you the very best of luck. Ooops! *moan* There I go fibbing again! *giggle* I'm so bad. And since we're being so honest, I lied about being sorry earlier, too. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have something...pressing to attend to. Tah-Tah!"

After the beep, there was a moment of silence on the line--where the only sound in the house was Scarlett happily slurping away at my cock--followed by a soft, strangled noise then the receiver being hung-up. So complete was my corruption, that the idea of my ex-fiancée heart-broken and disgusted by my betrayal only increased my arousal, and I came quickly after, releasing into Scarlett's mouth in a series of whimpers, before letting out a contented sigh. Mandy never called again.

When we did finally emerge from the bedroom, it was with purpose. Scarlett told me she was moving in. There was no request in her voice, no prolonged discussion or debate, just the stating of a fact, a courteous heads-up to let me know her plans. Her place--a small apartment on the other side of town, she said-- was apparently a dump and there was no sense in wasting all this (newly) available room. She initiated a rearranging of the house almost immediately, telling me what went where with the same implacable tone.

It started in the bedroom with the closet. Taking out all of Mandy's clothes, she sorted them into two piles, those she liked, and would keep, and those she didn't, and needed to be pitched. Scarlett, apparently fond of somewhat skanky clothing, found most of my ex's attire, what most would refer to as tasteful or even elegant, boring and without flair. Even with the items she kept (which were few), she made alterations, using scissors or just ripping with her hands to deepen necklines and shorten skirts and dresses. More outrageously, when she found an outfit she especially despised--such as Mandy's yellow-flowered sun dress, or cream pants-suit--she would put it on, parading about the room for me and speaking in a derogatory imitation of my ex-fiancée. This inevitably led to us fucking, during which, she would continue the parody, bitching at me in a shrill, belittling voice, all the while encouraging me to direct disparaging remarks at her, or rather, at whom she pretended to be. It was heartless, an unnecessary victory celebration from someone who had, by now, lapped the competition. Nonetheless, I went with it, a willing accomplice to her self-serving nastiness. I told her I didn't love her, that I had never loved her, that she was ugly, that I only wished I could have hurt her more, and that I was so, so very grateful to Scarlett for saving me from a life with her disgusting ass. My new roommate enjoyed this, and she had several orgasms as she insulted me in mocking tones.

When we were done, she would strip off the outfit and throw it on the pitch-pile, and after she'd had her fill of fun (and cum), she made me carry the entire mess, save the few things she had "personalized", out to the garbage.

Though her actions couldn't be called mature, I couldn't help but get the sense that she had aged, grown somehow. She definitely didn't look the same, with her black nails and long hair, but it was more than that, as if, in shedding the childish clothing she had also shed that personality. The air of confidence about her was off-putting, like she had blossomed into something that I could no longer control. A teenager: that's what she reminded me of, aggressive and demanding, with an undirected anger brimming beneath the surface. It troubled me, this command she seemed to have gained over herself, and even more so, the commanded she had over me.

The pictures were next to go. Smashing out the glass, she took a sharpie and drew grotesque things over photos of Mandy and me. A dick shooting into Mandy's mouth, a mustached on me, and words like, "slut", and, "dumb bitch", she showed them to me and laughed--as if it were the cleverest thing anyone had ever done.

On to the kitchen then, she broke dishes and mocked the paisley towels. She went about the whole house like this, destroying what she didn't like. She made me toss out furniture, knick-knacks. Even my study--sacred ground to a writer--wasn't safe as she tore pages from books in my collection that she found "stupid" or "boring".

It was a power trip; she was pushing me to see how far I would bend, and I let her. She was a seductive squall, a whirlwind of curves and attitude, and I let her storm about my home changing it as she saw fit. I felt helpless, as if--in giving up my fiancée--I had cast my die, and no longer had any say in the matter. Something had been taken from me in that session with Mandy, a section of my spine, a solid piece that had held up my morals and supported my beliefs. Without it I could not object. Like a sparrow forcing out a martin, she came into the nest Mandy and I had built and made it her own, and I watched.

As soon as she had finished removing, she started adding.

She asked me for five thousand dollars. I balked at first, that being almost the entire amount I had left in savings after buying Mandy's ring. It only took two blowjobs before I was driving her to my bank. (Scarlett had no means of transportation, as she told me her own vehicle--a black mustang that normally sat outside Sparkles, which I had become quite familiar with over the course of our affair, even bending her over the hood of it on one occasion--had been repossessed after she had missed too many payments.)

Tits jiggling, she bounced up and down with exaggerated excitement at the bank counter--her arm interlaced with mine, head on my shoulder, like a high school kid during an especially tense part of a movie--as I withdrew the funds, cash, smiling broadly when I handed it over as the open-mouthed teller looked on.

Thereafter, she made me drive to a motel, called, unoriginally, The Crossroads Motel, a dingy place in an area of town much seedier that I usually frequented that advertised its HBO cable package on a sign as if it were something impressive. I protested when she tried to make me rent a room after telling me that she had a surprise planned for me and that I couldn't come with her or I would ruin it, but she took advantage of my weakness for her once more, stroking my dick in the parking lot until I agreed.

HBO was even less interesting than I had expected, and the night seemed to drag on unfairly. In the morning, I caught a "continental breakfast"--stale Frosted Flakes and black coffee--that made me wish I was on an island. To my dismay, Scarlett was nowhere to be found at the eleven o'clock checkout time and wouldn't answer my calls, so I was forced to pay for another day--although, thankfully, the rates were pathetically low--which entitled me to more boring cable and a "FREE LUNCH!!!" comprised of a badly bruised banana and a soggy peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

I spent much of the afternoon staring out of my window at the parking lot, which was full of weather-beaten cars, some of which looked like they hadn't moved in ages. A tall, skinny hooker plied her trade on the sidewalk nearby. In the span of four hours she lured two different men into an old, green van with a missing tire, for a short romp of some sort that shook the sides of the automobile. Neither encounter lasted longer than five minutes or so. Still, it brought me at least a modicum of entertainment. That is until she noticed me watching her through the blinds and started waving and walking her way toward my room. Even from a distance of about sixty feet, I could see that her arms were peppered with needle marks, and the smile she flashed me as she got within range was a bit maniacal and missing a tooth. I quit my peering and backed away from the blinds, settled onto the bed and ignored her knocking while King Kong played in the background.

I was really beginning to become concerned when evening rolled around and was on the brink of phoning a cab when my blue truck pulled into the lot.

Scarlett--now poured into a red velvet-dress (one of Mandy's, I thought, a former ball gown, now sleeveless, creatively slashed to suit the redhead's curvier body) so constraining that I thought her breasts might tumble out the top at any moment, and skimpy enough at the bottom that I knew her labia had to be touching the leather seat--sat behind the wheel with an I-know-something-you-don't-know expression on her face when I entered the vehicle. Without saying anything, she proceeded to blindfold me with a strip of fabric--red velvet, like the dress, so she must have been planning it since the day after Mandy left--and then started driving.

It was nerve-wracking, sitting sightlessly next to her while she drove me God-knew-where. She didn't even turn on the radio, knowing the silence would intensify my anxiety. We drove for some time. I couldn't say how long. There was a rush as a highway hummed beneath us, then a stretch where we stopped every few minutes, sometimes short quick things for signs, and others, longer for lights. I tried to keep track but it was beyond me. Finally, the car came to a smooth stop and I could hear her move the gearshift to PARK.

Still saying nothing, she got out and moved around to open my door. After being helped out I went to remove my blindfold and got a sharp slap on my face and a hiss from my stripper turned seeing-eye-dog. She guided me, one hand at the small of my back the other reaching out to deal with obstacles.

"Steps," she said, talking for the first time, "two of them."

I negotiated them carefully. I heard a door open, letting out a ruckus of loud, thumping music, and had the distinct awareness of entering a building. I reached out to feel my way with my hands but they too were quickly slapped. I could feel heat and see shadows beneath my blindfold, as if the building were filled with tiny fires, and a smell like burning tobacco and musk filled my nostrils. There was a hostile quality here, foreboding, yet, something familiar as well. She pushed me, a blind rat, through a small maze before opening another door and nudging me inside.

This room, too, reverberated with music, and had the strong, smoky stench.

"Where are we? I don't like this." My words were utterly drowned by the music and I got no answer.

I was pushed onward, more roughly this time. She wove about with me, driving me like a cart. It seemed almost as if we were going in circles. Combined with the blindfold, the acrid air and blaring music robbed me of all but two of my senses. Scarlett's slapping hand had taken touch from me, leaving me with only taste, and it did me little good. I was absolutely lost, and beginning to get scared. I tried to take the blindfold off again, but my guide--though, she seemed more like a captor with every passing second--sternly prevented it by grabbing my wrist. With a growl, she propelled me up what felt like a little ramp onto a platform of some kind before spinning me about to face her. Grabbing my other wrist, she stepped quickly behind me and brought both my hands together at my back with a clicking noise. When she released, my hands still wouldn't completely separate and sharp edges dug into my wrists. It took me a second, standing there dumbfounded, to realized that I'd been handcuffed. As soon as I did, I panicked, flailing about desperately. What had she done? What was this? What had that evil woman done? My struggles proved useless, as I was held fast by something hard against my back, something slender and cold. It was a pole.

Oh my God, I thought, I'm at the club. The music, the smoke smell, it all made sense. She'd taken me to Sparkles. I was onstage, arms behind me, handcuffed to the fucking stripper pole.

"Scarlett! Scarlett! Let me go! This isn't fucking funny, Scarlett!"

That's when I felt hands fiddling with my jeans. I was still dressed in my clothes from yesterday--casual since I didn't go to work--sneakers, a t-shirt, and loose-fitting jeans with a brown belt. It dawned on me; she was going to strip me in front of everyone, the patrons, the other strippers, hell, big-breasted Lorraine was probably back there watching. I wouldn't allow it. I may have left my fiancée for her, but this was too much. I wasn't going to be humiliated.

I kicked out, but, me being blind and bound, she easily avoided my attacks. She undid my belt with a practiced motion and pulled it from my waist. With that out of the way, my pants and underwear were soon to follow. As quickly as that, I was naked on the stage, my bare ass, dick, and balls on display for anyone to see. I could feel my face, and who knew what else, flush bright with embarrassment.

"Please, Scarlett." I tried begging. "Please don't do this, baby. Let's just go home. Thank you for the surprise, but I'm done now. That's enough."

My only acknowledgement was a patronizing pat on the butt followed by a mortifying squeeze that grew into a jiggle. I thrashed in an attempted to break free but, held securely by the pole, succeeded only in painfully tweaking my right wrist.

She kissed me softly on the cheek, tender little pecks, before her tongue slithered across my lips. The game had begun, it seemed, and she was in no hurry to end it prematurely. Walking about me--I could only imagine her spinning about, playing to the crowd--she continued her teasing assault, licking and kissing, spanking and pinching. I raged against it, kicking, jerking, and even--at one point--biting in frustration, but I was helpless.

I'd never felt so impotent. The feeling settled over me like a killing frost, causing goose bumps to erupt across my exposed skin. Slowly, squeeze-by-squeeze, she milked me of my confidence for all who wanted to see. She was disrespectful and rough, unimpressed by my discomfort. Though she didn't speak--no matter how much I begged her to--it was clear in the way she touched me: she intended to humiliate me.

Her hands receded for a moment before reappearing, wet and slippery with some kind of oil. Starting with my ass, she rubbed it into my skin, making it feel heavy and slick. Leaving me no dignity, she went so far as to spread me open and work the greasy liquid over my crack. It felt cold and alien but surprisingly good on my sensitive skin and I shivered and puckered as she touched. I hung my head in shame as she caressed my spread bottom for the amusement of the entire club. Just as I had come to terms with this indignity, her assault intensified. Her middle finger began to slide up and down over my lubricated asshole, then--before I could protest--in one quick motion, slipped inside. I'd never even had a woman touch me there, much less finger me. The feeling was an excruciating mix of pressure and delight.

A sharp breath exploded through my gritted teeth as she penetrated me. Giving me only a second to grow accustomed, she initiated my violation with vigor, exploring now, curling her finger inside my virgin ass, filling my delicate nerves with exhilaration and flecks of pain.

"No, no, no, no, no. Not that Scarlett. Stop! I don't do this." This, like all my previous attempts at communication, went unheeded.

Her free hand, still dressed in oil, slid up and down the inside of my thighs. Deprived of all my senses, the slick of her hand was molten on my flesh as it spread its belittling coating. I could feel the oil as it rolled down my legs, tiny tickles of humiliation claiming my skin, highlighting my dishonor. Her oily hand, warmed now by the friction of our contact, moved to my balls and she fondled without gentleness. After a prolonged period of groping, her hand retreated again only to re-emerge an instant later further soaked with lube, which she applied generously to my limp cock.

After it was thoroughly slicked, Scarlett proceeded to jerk my dick for the club's patrons. I pictured them, sitting in their chairs, smoking and drinking, laughing as my red-haired captor turned me out for their enjoyment. My degradation only increased when my sex hardened in answer to the stripper's manipulation, and deepened again when she plunged a second finger into my now readied ass, causing me to gasp and tremble as I was worked from both sides.

I was shocked to discover that I was moaning. Not being able to hear the sound, I knew it to be true only in the way that one knows that someone has been in their home even without supporting evidence. I must have been a sight, standing there, mouth agape, knees trembling, while this young girl played my body like a cheap guitar, aggressively and with no concern as to if it were damaged. My cock grew and I slumped slightly forward letting the handcuffs support some of my weight. I wanted it to be over. I wanted to be somewhere else.

I thought of Scarlett, of how she had tricked me with her little-girl smell and her cutesy pig-tails. When this ended, if it ended, I would kill her, that life-ruining little slut. I hated her. I hated her. I repeated it to myself. I repeated it so that I wouldn't have to think about my dick growing, wouldn't have to think about how I was now pushing my ass back against her fingers like some sort of wanton bitch. I hated her. I didn't want this. What kind of man would get off on being humiliated in front of a bunch of strangers? Not me, certainly not me. I almost had myself convinced when the third finger probed into my, by that point, fuck-loosened ass. After that, I was all ecstasy and openness, nodding and screaming into the loudness, as she defiled me in front of the whole room.

Her hands were lightning, one hammering my ass piston-like and without conscience, while the other must have been a blur on my rock-hard, oily dick. I was thankful now for the noise of the stereo, so that at least I, and the others, couldn't hear the rude, wet sounds my body was no doubt making. I almost fell from the force of it but, thanks to the handcuffs, barely kept my footing. The music beat through me and pounded me from existence, until I was afloat on its rhythm, solitary and separate from everything except for the burning agonizing euphoria of my sexual torture. Instead of coming in a rush, my orgasm squeezed from me, like heavy cream passing through mesh, for what felt like eons. I came, and came, and came. I felt tears brim my eyes, damp against the cloth of the blindfold. After I had emptied my balls into the darkness--I imagined it dropping in thick blobs on the stage--I collapsed onto the hardwood, my knees sliding in the mess of jizz and oil that had fallen beneath me, where Scarlett left me, disgraced and panting, for the better part of five minutes.

Even still, I hadn't yet caught my breath when I felt her grab me by the hair and pull me forward into the moistness of her pussy. Rather than waiting for me to lick, she just fucked my face, adjusting only slightly when I opened my mouth so that she could take full advantage of the contours of my tongue. I protested, forgetting briefly the uselessness of such action, but even if the room had been silent, my complaints would have been drowned in the juices of her bucking cunt. Finding it difficult to breathe, I pulled back to grab a sliver of air but she wouldn't allow it, instead holding me tightly against her soaked lips. Suffocating within her folds, I battled her grip, rampaging about as effectively as I could while so restrained. When I finally did earn a quick gasp, I was rewarded with a stinging full-handed slap to the face, so hard that it turned my head sharply to one side.

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