Candyfloss

"...did you hate it so much?"

He was laughing at me, and in the end I had to laugh too, even though I had, truly, hated it; I was blushing hard at the same time; caught by the usual trap Jason had me in - simultaneously ashamed of how I was with him, and excited by it.

"Yes - yes, I did hate it! You were so busy talking to all sorts of people I don't know, and ... and your uncle - or whoever he is -kept talking to me, and smiling at me, only he wasn't really talking to me - he was just ... just ... looking at me.!"

I giggled again, hating myself for being so pathetically weak, girly; feeling stupid, foolish, the blush rising to my cheeks as so often when I was around Jason, wondering for the millionth time why I couldn't keep away from him.

"Looking at you? Oh! You mean looking at your tits, looking at your legs - as if he was thinking about fucking you?"

I blushed again - but that was exactly how it had been - the lecherous old goat, he had been blatantly undressing me with his eyes, and utterly unabashed when I caught his eye - he had smiled a little, hard and cool, eyes mocking me, shameless - insulting, even.

Of course, I was wearing the tiny minidress that Jason had insisted on, with the low-cut front, so that I could hardly be surprised I was being ogled - since getting together with Jason, since he had begun to be so clear about what clothes he liked me to wear when I was with him, I had developed a complicated relationship with dressing to look sexy - which I had realised was just what Jason wanted - he wanted me to feel sexy, but not in a 'girl-power' kind of way - quite the opposite.

On the one hand, I was amazed and excited; happy in a way I had never expected to be, to feel sexually attractive in such a straightforward way. Matters of appearance and sexuality had always seemed frightening and complex to me, and my confidence was low, so that I had tended to dress conservatively - pretty, stylish, perhaps, when I put myself to it, but sexy - never.

Jason had changed all that. On the one hand by telling me I was lovely, and sexy, that he liked my tits, that I had great legs, a sexy mouth, he had shocked me, but also made a small warm glow inside me - an alpha male type like him, with a string of other girls - he thought I was sexy, sexually attractive! And on the other hand, by being pretty damning of clothes he didn't think contributed to that sexiness. Once he realised the extent of my lack of confidence in what would work, he took over completely, taking me shopping, choosing things for me, having me do little parades in his flat, ruthlessly making me return or throw away things that he didn't like, getting me to buy smaller sizes for a tighter fit. Anything I decided that he would like, he would reject - even if what he selected in the end was almost the same.

My choice in clothing was increasingly governed by what he liked, and I needed his approval, while my own confidence shrank - I liked the warm glow, knew that when he dressed me I got looks and attention (even if his praise was always in such crudely sexual terminology; 'great tits to get your hands on', ' those thighs make me think about spreading them', 'your lips are a public incitement to thinking about blowjobs' - how could he be so rude and get away with it?), and felt more and more dependent on his help in choosing. He actually had great taste and although I was more and more dressed to excite sexual interest, it was never boringly tarty - there was always style and subtlety - so my dependence on him grew again.

The downside, of course, was that I had never had the practice other girls had of coping with being looked at as a sex object. Don't get me wrong - I liked it; in complicated ways, I liked it a great deal - but I couldn't take it for granted.

It always, always had a great effect on me - I would feel that warm glow, I would feel my heart rate increase, I would become very self-conscious, I would feel as if I was almost naked - that the man could see my breasts, see between my legs, see my buttocks. I was never sure whether to flaunt myself more, or shrink away from the attention. I felt I should do the latter, yet I often did the former; pretending not to notice the man, I would nevertheless move so that my cleavage, or thighs, or arse would be presented more obviously, my heart pattering, skin tingling, until my nerve failed (which it was usually pretty quickly) and I made a swift exit.

All these things made me squirm with embarrassment. Was I a tart, or just enjoying feeling beautiful? How could feeling so much better about myself be bad? But how could objectifying myself, encouraging men in their tendency to look only at the outsides of women in terms of sexual attractiveness, how could this be good?

It was a good job I had Jason, really - when I was with him, he would tell me what he wanted, more often than not. And when I wasn't with him - which was most of the time, I could revert to the staid, sensible college-girl grown-up style that went with my old self, even if I was less and less happy with that self.

But this old guy at the party! He was so cool, so brazen, so ... impersonal. He didn't grin like a younger man, or smile like a practised flirt, or look embarrassed like a male version of my old self would. He just looked me over, calm, happy, enjoying himself, a faint smile his only expression. I had become twitchy at first, then as I tried and failed to get any righteous anger going (a common occurrence when in humiliating situations initiated by Jason), I began to feel somehow frightened - even though he never moved toward me, and it was such a genteel evening affair...

"Yes - he ... he was!"

"And don't you like him?"

"Well - I suppose ... no - no, I didn't! And anyway he's ..."

"Old enough to be your father?"

He laughed again, and I blushed again. That was another thing - for someone as articulate as I was supposed to be, I became ridiculously tongue-tied around Jason, talking in cliches, stumbling over my words. Too busy thinking about whether he liked the way my breasts look in this top, whether I walked better in the high heels today, after all that practice in my room last weekend. Too busy wondering if he would fuck me in the mouth again this afternoon (would we ever have normal sex again?), or whether he would just stand up when he had finished his coffee, and say goodbye, without so much as a peck on the cheek.

Why did I put myself through this? Why couldn't I tell him I was finished with his games? He has told me often enough he's easy to get rid of - 'Easy! Say no to me when I ask you to do something; you won't get any argument - I'll just go - there are plenty of others begging for it - you know that'. Just getting close to the point where he might say that to me, though, has me apologising to him, looking for something I can do to show him how eager I am - opening my blouse, lifting my skirt, going to my knees...

"He's not really my uncle, by the way - more an old family friend. He does like pretty young girls with long legs and good tits. He likes you - your body, at least. He likes to hear about what I do to you - how easy you are."

I look up, shocked; horrified, really;

"Jason! What? No! No!! You don't!? You haven't...?"

He smiles at me, flicks my cheek, teasing me;

"Yes, of course I have, silly. You're a conquest, not a lover - I've told you before. With several other friends and family members, too; one or two of whom might even be old enough to be your grandfather. Told them exactly what I do to you - in specific and graphic detail. Shown them the pictures, told them how much you like it, how helpless and obvious your responses are, how easy it is to get you to go beyond your limits - what a wanton you are. They're interested in you - well, interested in fucking you, at least. Ramming their viagra stiffened, wrinkly old cocks into all your wet little holes. Do you have a problem with that?"

He grins, enjoying himself.

I can't speak. I'm hot and cold at the same time, skin prickling tinily. 'A problem' would be a wild understatement. A cataclysm is more like it - a nightmare. 'What I do to you' covers some deeply intimate and - to me - intensely degrading things - things which I have been letting Jason do to me as the price of being with him - and to which I have also, just as he says, shamefully responded, to my shock and - frighteningly - with increasing fascination. The realisation that that dirty old man knew exactly what I am willing to do for Jason all the while he had been appraising me...

I stared at Jason, my cheeks hot, heart pounding, stomach churning - I knew I was being ridiculous - he would do as he wanted, of course - he always did, and I knew it - he had been brutally honest from the start - what I wanted didn't really matter to him, except as a bargaining chip - if I wanted to be with him, it would always be on his terms. But this was beyond shocking. I was shaking with distress, but him - he was entertained, enjoying this: of course. I dropped my gaze, blinking back tears of helpless anger;

"Yes. Yes I do. Have a problem";

but my voice was quiet, had no force in it.

He grinned without the slightest sympathy, then lifted my chin with a finger, spoke clearly and slowly, enjoying himself, watching my eyes;

"Then you'll probably have a problem with this, too: I've said he can have you next weekend - to do just as he likes with. He has a lush little redhead bitch that I want to fuck and he wants you in exchange - which seems only fair, don't you think?"

I stare at him, icy pressure around my my heart - the trembling gets worse. My whole body feels strange - transported; otherworldly. But I say nothing - no angry words - not even a look. I forget to breathe for what seems like forever. This is impossible - I think - a joke, but Jason's face tells me he is completely serious (although he is smiling lightly, as if he has just said something amusing).

My breath comes back with a gasp, and I hear myself utter a little moan, that in its throatiness, its despairing weakness, makes everything clear, as clear as if he had his hands between my thighs to feel the instant pulse of heat that has flooded me. The thought goes through my head; Oh God - I am lost! Why, why can I not resist this?

Jason chuckles, knowingly.

After a long pause, I find I can sustain the stare no longer, and slowly close my eyes, lower my chin, lip quivering, tears pricking at my eyes. Why aren't I screaming at him? Slapping his face? Coldly walking out? Why are my knees so weak and trembling? J laughs a little, sneering, smug. We both know that, once again, I have been sucked a little deeper.

He leans over, murmurs in my ear;

"You've got that look again, girl. You're wet, aren't you? Just thinking about that old guy getting to use you like a fuck-puppet. I do love it when you're feeling like this; you are never more do-able."

He's right - my sex is pulsing with heat, my breath is short, my nipples are tightening. How does he do this to me? Why do I let him? Why don't I simply leave - it doesn't have to be dramatic, just so that I never speak to him, never see him again? There is no reason to put up with this. Why am I so ridiculously happy (and not just happy - turned-on, too) to hear that, in this state, he finds me 'do-able'?

No reason - there can be no reason for such crazy behaviour - it's just that somehow, sooner or later -usually sooner - I always give in. Give in to this ... obsession.

God, I wish he would - do me. Right here, I find myself thinking...

No, not obsession - I don't actually care that much about Jason, personally. No ... it's a weakness; a need; a vulnerability... to this terrible, glorious feeling of being dominated, of having my sexual life controlled in this manipulative way. Of being exposed as a slave to my own lust, my weakness in the face of coerced depravity, made to acknowledge it, made to show it - made to understand just how much I like it - have come to need it.

Sex. Sex with a man strong enough to overcome all my many inhibitions. With a man who pays no attention at all to what I say I want (which is so often what I think I ought to say, rather than what I actually desire), and just gets on with taking from me what he wants - which it turns out is mostly what I really want, or at least something that gets me off, gets me excited to a level I had never even dreamed of before being ravished by Jason.

And it keeps getting better - being ravished - the sexual experience of that. And not just the orgasms - the crashing, devastating, mind-melting, multiple orgasms - but all the anticipation as well; the dressing, the conversation, the little games he plays, and if I'm brutally honest, the humiliation, the way he brings me face-to-face with my own wanton-ness; all are as delicious as they are terrifying - as addictive as they are objectifying.

I have accepted it to myself. I'm addicted - and I'm always weak to being pushed a little further along the road, just as Jason says. Each invitation to meet him is an invitation to days and days of mingled anticipation and dread, of suffocating lust and trembling shame, all of which have been so mixed for so many months now that they are becoming linked in my mind, a dangerous tangle, so that increasingly, I doubt I can do without any of it.

If only it wasn't so - wonderful.

Because when it reached its pitch, that's what it was. Not every time, of course, but just often enough, so that as well as the feverish excitement at the prospect of thrilling sex, there was also the uncertainty - would I fail this time (he, of course, never failed - whatever happened, he was cool, slightly amused, in control; it was always me who ended in tears, or begging forgiveness, or consumed by guilt - always me)? Could I meet his demands, his standards? If I couldn't, would he drop me?

I feel faint, breathless, weak ... but at the same time there is a growing core of excitement inside me that will not be denied, will not permit itself to be denied, will not let me put up any more than token resistance.

"This coming weekend - a long weekend; at his club. You'll go to him on the Friday afternoon, and he'll send you home when he's had enough of you - Monday night at the latest. You'll need to arrange leave. While you're there, you will satisfy him, obey him - just as you would me - actually, probably more so - he's more demanding than I am: hard to please - done it all before, you see, with hundreds of gorgeous young sluts. He likes to choke girls - he has a really big cock, you know."

Jason is casually conversational - as if these are banal details of a meeting with a friend.

I make no response at all - hardly move - I simply cannot. He is watching me - he enjoys these moments - he's told me so - the moments when I am confronted directly with the depth of his cruel pleasure, and with my own inability to resist, to deny him.

He knows how powerfully affected I have been, after the times when he has choked me with his own (not small) cock, so that his come and my spittle bubble out of my nose, and I cough, weakly, degraded, but at the same time weirdly at peace, loving him more at those times than at any other, humbly opening myself to him in the most complete way, happy to thank him for such treatment, for having taken me to that place, smiling, ridiculously, genuinely grateful - despite my tear streaked face and croaking voice.

Now, he leans forward, stroking my cheek, while his right hand slides confidently and casually up the inside of my thigh, steadily approaching my crotch - he has trained me to keep my legs parted for him, and often feels me up in public. Usually I end up giggling, blushing, flushed, excited. Today, I'm too wound-up to giggle, gasping slightly, but I know that I am highly aroused, however shaming that is, by the thought of being traded - use of my body for the use of another girl's, and I know from Jason's grin widening that his fingers, close up to the gusset of my panties, feel this too, and I blush deeply, breathing heavily, biting my lip to keep hot tears of shame at bay.

My lips tremble - but I won't sob in front of him, won't risk letting my face crumple, risk looking ugly. At the same time, I am gazing at him, intensely, needing to see the casual certainty in his gaze - his confidence the confirmation of my own weakness. My chest heaves - my breasts move in the low cut bodice. I hate myself for hoping he notices, that he likes it. My hips surge - he feels it, and a wave of humiliation breaks over me.

I hear myself begging; "Jason ... please ... ... please, no ... not ... not this", and I raise my eyes to his, beseeching, utterly humiliated, feeling the eyes of others on me - we are in an expensive cafe in a small square in Mayfair, where rich middle aged women gather to discuss shopping and infidelity. But of course my voice lacks all conviction. As soon as I have said it we both know that this is only ritual resistance.

He smiles lazily at me;

"I do so love to see you bravely holding back tears, pussy. I'm quite sure he's right, you know - I am far too soft with you - I should have passed you on to him before. When I get back I promise I'll push you harder - indeed, I will - and what's more, you'll find you can't resist it - you're the sort who always comes back for more. In fact, I think you'll like it with him, in spite of yourself. What's that?"

for he had seen my eyes widen at the implication that he would be away;

"Oh, yes, I haven't told you - I'm going away for a few weeks - taking the redhead somewhere a bit warmer. Assuming I get a good report from Sir Oliver, I might look you up in three weeks or so."

He stands; "Of course, there is nothing in the world that says you have to do this. But I wish it."

By which he means, of course, that if I don't satisfy this 'Sir Oliver', then that will be the last I see of Jason. I bite my lip to stop a fresh wave of tears.

"Come on, let's go and buy you some pretty things. You're due at the beauty institute at 5, so we'll go straight to Madame Encine's - she always has something good."

He casually tossed a £50 note onto the table, and I, lacking the slightest ability to even think of anything else to do but follow, helplessly, pulled myself together, realising with a sick but intensely exciting feeling that he hasn't even bothered to address my plea for mercy - simply assumes that I will comply. My chest heaves as I wonder whether this is it - whether I can really not manage to refuse to go along with this appalling, casual assignment of me as a sexual trade with that horrid old man.

Meanwhile, he has simply walked off, and I tell myself I will stay here, not move, let him go. But even as I am forming the thought my body is hurriedly standing up, grabbing at my phone, and seconds later I scurry after him, stupidly relieved to lose myself in concentrating on walking elegantly in the extravagant heels he liked me in, feeling so vulnerable in the clinging, skimpy little dress, having almost to trot to keep up with him, knowing that my hips, my tits, my arse, all would be moving, eye-catching, inviting all who watched to assess me as a sex object, the assessment only confirmed when, as I caught up with him, his hand falls possessively, suggestively on my bum, reinforced by a playful, but still sharp, spank a second or two later. Of course, I giggled softly, like a bimbo, although the bitten back tears were also to be heard in the sound as I wiggled my bum for him shamelessly.

Then he takes out his 'phone, dials;

"Hello, Oliver - Sir; it's Jason."

My heart freezes; my God, he's going to talk to the old man about me, right now! I almost trip over, feel my face losing all colour.

"Yes, I've just told her. She's with me now - we're walking. You should see how her pretty tits are jiggling."