Delicious Whore Pt. 01

Please note I am republishing this story, lightly improved / edited, and extended, in parts - this original version covers the first two parts of the newer version

I was 26 when I met him -- R. I was working as a lawyer -- I was doing pretty well; I had always been smart, and having a pretty face, nice manners and a good figure never hurt anyone either. I was no dummy, swept off my feet by a charmer.

It was just that he was remarkable. Rich, handsome, easy manners; very casual but also very personal when he spoke to you. I met him at a party, where he made it clear he liked me, liked my looks -- in a very direct way, without any bullshit, but managed to be flattering and engaging. I was charmed, in spite of myself.

I liked him too, and liked his friends, and basically invited myself back to his flat, where he entertained me for a little while, and then, delightfully, uninhibitedly, masterfully, fucked my brains out. I had never been taken to such heights, or felt it so intensely. I thought I was in love.

I realised over the next weeks, though, that I wasn't in love. I was in lust.

His sexuality was totally direct, without being in the slightest crude. The impact on me, what it showed me was possible, was incredible, and infectious. Whenever I thought about him, I thought about the way he fucked me, the way he made my body feel. And I began to be addicted. I was losing interest at work -- still managing perfectly well, but no longer 100% there, fully fired up. Increasingly, I would be thinking about the next time I would see him. Specifically, about when, where and how he would fuck me next.

And those times were not as frequent as I liked. He had made it clear from the start that he had other girls, other cities, other phone numbers. There was no exclusivity, no pretence, no dishonesty, no false promise. But as he managed all this very smoothly and suavely, and as I wasn't in love, I didn't mind too much.

He was very frank, too, which helped. He talked with me about how what we had was all about the sex, but then showed me how that didn't need to be a limitation. He praised my body, my responses, my openness. He helped me become even more open, spending time caressing my naked body, opening me - my thighs, my arms, my lips, upper and lower, telling me how he liked me, making me practice, try things different ways, getting me used to, and increasingly keen on, the idea of myself as a sex-object; displaying myself for him, letting him see every flicker of my response as he fucked me, or teased me; hiding less and less of my intimate responses as time went on.

He had me look at porn on the internet, tell him which pictures I found exciting, showed me pictures he found exciting, got me to study them, to see what it was that made them sexy. Then he had me set up scenes for him, things that excited him, learn to understand what got him hot. He pushed me to look at more and more extreme images, constantly widening my boundaries, constantly making me accept my own desire and his, stoking it, feeding it.

And I was hooked on it.

I was doing everything I could to get him excited, so that he would want to fuck me -- although I wasn't jealous of the other girls in a normal way, I knew I was competing for his attention -- I wanted more, all the time -- more. I was buying, and wearing, increasingly sexually obvious clothes, working out, doing yoga, having frequent beauty sessions so that I would always be at my best for him, liking the knowledge of myself as someone who knew how to reach, and help others (well, him) reach heights of sexual intensity and pleasure which were extraordinary.

My life was becoming suffused with sex, and sex was what I thought about more and more. He began to talk about this with me, and I was honest with him, told him I thought I was becoming wanton, and it got him turned on (and me too, to be saying out loud how much I loved the feel of his cock deep in me, the way it dominated my whole consciousness like that...), and we would have more incredible sex, and so I told him more.

He told me that he wanted me to learn to be able to fully take his cock into my throat. It was not particularly long, but quite thick, from my limited experience, and I had never really tried this before, but I worked hard at it, got better, became eager to serve him like this, loving the involuntary grunts I could get from him when I took him deep and soft, and, more darkly, loving the sluttishness of it. He trained me never to use my hands, my arms as protection -- to leave them loose at my sides, to let him control me, and that lack of control became important to me, exciting, a key ingredient in reaching ever greater heights of sexual immolation.

I told him about my decision never to be out of high heels, never to wear pantyhose again, always suspenders and stockings. He suggested that I should start wearing corsets and I did; told me he liked to see girls in chokers, and bought me some, and I never showed myself to him without one, then started wearing one all the time -- even in bed -- simply because he said he liked the idea of me being used to wearing a collar, like a slave girl.

The images, scenes, he showed me were clearly tending in a certain direction -- he didn't attempt to hide it;

"Do you see how he is forcing her to take him deeper into her throat than she wants, pushing her down? He doesn't care if he makes her cry, if it hurts her, if it frightens her. "

"Making her masturbate with that dildo in front of his friends -- do you see the look in her eyes? She is humiliated and excited at the same time."

"She is liking the aggression, do you see? She is a slut, and she knows it. She can't help herself moving with him now, trying to kiss him, even though she is being violated in front of her friend, even though he is hurting her."

I knew that this was dark and dangerous stuff; but I was turned on too, and I wanted him so much. Besides, he never really hurt me or forced me beyond my real limits -- took advantage sometimes, yes -- but always I found I responded strongly when he did.

When I was at his apartment, now, I was often naked but for corset, stockings, heels and choker, and usually in some lewd pose or other, often with his fingers inside me. He would meet me at the door and have me strip as soon as I came in, then I would guide his fingers to my breasts, my sex, seducing him all the time, rubbing myself against him, holding my tits out for him, licking him softly, touching my pussy to show how ready I was; asking very meekly, very sincerely for his cock in me.

"Which hole, pretty?"

"Any hole you like, Sir -- I just need to be fucked ...", and I would smile, and giggle, but we both knew that it was true -- that if he told me he wouldn't fuck me that day, that I would beg, cajole, try to entice him, that my neediness could easily be exposed, that I was easily brought to a point of offering him licence to use me in ways that were transgressive.

He broke me into anal sex like that, and, as with the throat fucking, I grew to love it, to love being the vessel for his excitement, to be explicitly excluded from the pleasure, dependent on his choice as to whether my clit would be allowed stimulation or not.

I wasn't stupid, wasn't blind to what was happening, what he was doing to me, and sometimes I got scared about it. This was not the way my life was supposed to go, after all -- was this an insanity that had gripped me? An addiction? Had he brainwashed me? Drugged me? I knew that all these thoughts were paranoia really, but still...

There was no barrier to discussing this in our relationship, and I raised it one day as we lay, sweaty and sated.

"You're frightened..." he said; "Frightened of what?"

"Well, you know, this .. this incredible, wonderful -- really.. all consuming sexual thing... And ..and the way we .. keep moving .. going .. well .. deeper .."

I was blushing.

"You don't like it?"

"No!, No, it's not -- you know it's not that -- you know I .. I love it -- I ... need it... but that's just it -- I worry that ..I'm .. I'm becoming .. well, like, like an addict.."

He propped himself up on one arm and put his hand on my sex, still tender, then put three fingers straight into me.

I tensed automatically, but then opened myself for him, blushing a little, but still grateful for his little flicker of approval as I made it as easy as possible for him;

"Addicted to what? to pleasure?"

"Oooh ye-e-es, ah! Yes .. but ,, but not just ooooh.. pleasure , but , you know, it .. keeps getting .. more..."

He took his hand away, sat up, looked straight at me;

"Let's get this clear, you little wanton. The reason you are here is because I keep pushing you, or stepping forward when you make an opening. If not for that, we would have parted friends months ago."

He pulled his fingers from me and sat up, pulled me up so I was looking up at him. He was relaxed and cool, smiling a little, but I had no doubt that he was serious. He spoke slowly and without ambiguity;

"Let there not be any games between us. You are a slut; that's right -- I called you a slut. Are you not a slut? You like to be fucked; you liked to be fucked hard, and you like to be demeaned, exposed, shamed -- to have your wantonness made explicit. If you're frightened, it's because you are frightened of yourself. No, don't think you can cover this up with a giggle. This is serious. I'll make it clear to you. For the next two weeks, we will go backwards -- safer, less demanding. Then we'll see what you want."

I tried to work up some outrage at this direct and brutal laying out of his view of the situation, but it just didn't happen -- all I could manage were some little gasps and a slowly spreading blush. I looked down, feeling the power and truth of his words sinking in. Was I really a wanton, a slut? In truth, not just in our role-play fantasy? I wanted him to relent, make it a joke; at the same time I was terrifically excited by the knowledge that, at some level at least, what he had said was the deep truth.

Later, I tried to seduce him as usual, but he was as good as his word -- for the rest of the afternoon, and for the next weeks, he acted as if we were a normal couple with a 'normal' sex life. He wasn't stupid or rude about it, smiled and laughed, had a sense of humour -- but he wouldn't put up with any nonsense. We went on dinner dates, he refused to fuck me except in bed, with the lights out, asked me to behave decently when I flashed my knickers at him, wouldn't let me watch porn -- french art-house films instead.

I broke before the two weeks were up, went down on my knees in front of him and begged him, told him I understood. He smiled;

"Well, I'm glad you understand yourself a little more. Let's have a game of scrabble. I'll see what I think about it all."

He wouldn't fuck me that night -- told me he was thinking our whole relationship over. I knelt and begged him to treat me any way he liked.

The next evening, I arrived at his house, dressed as provocatively as I dared to be, given that I had to get from the car the the door of his apartment. When I came in, I smiled, but he looked seriously at me, a hard expression in his eyes -- a little frightening -- he had never looked at me quite like that before;

"Is .. is there a problem?"

"No, but I need you to turn to face the wall. Now!"

My heart thumped, and I nearly cried; it was going to be alright -- we were back on track -- but now he was going to frighten me again.

Flushed, I turned to face the wall. He put some sort of restraint on my arms, above the elbow, quite tight, then slipped a leather hood over my head, zipped it closed at the back. There were breathing holes, but no eyeholes. He pushed me down onto the floor, face first, hoisted my ass up, pushed my knees forward, pulled my panties aside and pushed his stiff cock into my arse, hard, without lubrication. It probably hurt him more than it did me, and it bloody hurt me, and I cried; but my tears were those of relief....

After that, he was less friendly, more formal, and more exacting. And I responded to it, my gratitude getting me over the withdrawal from a level of tenderness and softness that had been a part of the relationship, but which was now receding.

Once I was accustomed to this, it got easier, actually, because I didn't have to worry -- I just had to do as he wanted. There was no relationship, really -- it was all about sex. We didn't go to dinner together. He would book me for later, coming to my flat after he had eaten with some-one else. I waited for him, semi-naked, on my knees -- he had keys. He spent less time pleasing me, now, and more time pleasing himself, or making me please him, and I liked that too -- somehow it seemed right. I had angered him, I had offered to allow him to do as he wished with me, and this was what he wished. I still got incredible sexual pleasure, but now there were evenings when he used only my mouth and my arse, and didn't permit me to come, and I still loved it, saving memories to masturbate to after he'd left. He almost never stayed the night any more. What cuddling and kissing we shared was to do with sex, now. Afterwards, he showered and dressed, hardly looking at or speaking to me -- although I was required to stay naked, on my knees, legs spread -- he liked me with my hands behind my head, lips parted, and I liked to pose for him.

He started spanking me, too, for little misdemeanours, and I found that exciting, too -- especially the way he fucked me afterward, his cock like an iron bar. I even began to be 'naughty', so that I would get spanked.

Alone sometimes, thinking about what was happening, I still got frightened -- more than ever in fact, but now I knew I needed him, needed whatever it was he did to me, and so I suppressed my doubts, and after a while we seemed to have reached another 'level', and I was happy enough, I thought.

Then one day, he asked me to take a day's leave, a Friday -- to be at a certain place by mid-day, to dress with care, that we were going out for lunch.

I was immediately breathlessly excited, and made myself unpopular at work by taking a day in the middle of an important project. I just did it; I hardly cared. I was worried underneath that my career was suffering, but there was no way I would pass up time with him, or do anything that might annoy or disappoint him.

Besides, there was something about the way he spoke to me that made me think he was going to push me further, and it made me realise that I had not been totally happy -- I had been growing bored; because I wanted this -- whatever it was.

Wanted it very much. He was right -- I wanted it to go further -- deeper. Darker. My breath caught in my throat at these thoughts -- I had no idea what they meant, and I was too scared to try to imagine, so I concentrated on getting ready.

I was determined to be as perfect as possible for him, to express my gratitude and hopefully deserve whatever it was he had in store for me. I didn't dare think what it might be in case of frightening myself. I spent a careful hour preparing myself, shaving, plucking, perfuming, make-up (he liked a very natural but actually rather labour intensive look -- I was to look immaculately natural, in waterproof long-lasting products, that would survive a session; hard to apply, expensive; I loved it).

I chose the most provocative outfit I dared for a public date; really high heels with ankle straps and a little platform to the sole; a short, flared, high waisted skirt with an open fronted blouse in thin starched cotton over a strapless half-cup bustier that made my breasts very obvious, the nipples clearly standing out.

He'd told me he'd collect me from a corner near the park, but he was late. Alone, standing in such provocative clothes, I began to feel quite vulnerable. Men in builder's vans whistled at me, shouted about my breasts. Still he didn't come. I was getting chilly, nervous, but dared not leave. It was half an hour at least until he came. I was almost crying as I ran across the road to his car, but I dared not reproach him. I made myself smile -- and indeed, as soon as I saw him, I was happy again.

He was rather cool, through lunch, having seated me in a prominent position on the terrace of the park cafe, so that I was ogled a fair bit. There was something different about him, something strange -- just as calm and confident, just as captivating, but still ... different. All my nerves resurfaced, my belly fluttered inside, though he smiled at me and complimented me on my choice of clothes.

He talked about how it was with us - how it had been recently - almost entirely sex; asked me how I was feeling about this. And I - I answered, truthfully, blushing, that - that it was good, good for me - because, now that he didn't have to give me a whole evening, he was fucking me more often than he had been before.

"So you're pleased that I consider you as just a girl I can fuck whenever I need to come? That I feel very free to treat you like that - fuck you hard and fast if I want, just come in your mouth or ass, and leave?"

It was - harsh - to hear him say that, and in a public restaurant, too, where I was quivering at the idea that someone might be listening in; but when it came down to answering him, it was simple to be honest and sincere (though it made me blush to hear myself);

"Yes. Yes. I'm pleased to .. to be treated like that - that you feel free with me in that way."

He looked calmly but long and steadily into my eyes after that, and I blushed more, but held his gaze as long as I could, feeling my nipples harden and my sex heat up, until at last I couldn't cope any more and dropped my gaze.

At last I leaned forward and said, as quietly as I could while being heard;

"Please. Please will you take me somewhere now, right now, and fuck me - hard and fast, just like you said Spank me too, hard. Please."

he stayed impassive for a while longer, while I trembled and blushed, so needy, so exposed. And then he smiled at me, almost sweetly - a smile I hadn't seen for weeks, and reached out to caress my cheek;

"Sorry, pretty - we've an appointment, and if we do anything else, we'll be late. But thank you - that was exactly what I needed to hear. You are, as always, a remarkable creature."

He drove to a scruffy part of town -- not our normal sort of place The traffic was terrible, but no matter that we were sitting in a jam, he didn't speak, or look at me, and I didn't have anything to say to him, I realised. Instead, I hiked my skirt right up so that my panties almost showed, and undid almost all the buttons on my blouse, spread my legs and reached my hands behind the headrest and locked them there, making myself passively available for him, as he'd had me do on a long country drive once. He didn't touch me, or give any sign that he'd noticed, even. It was wonderful how this deliberate spurning affected me had my heart beating, my cheeks burning. it was terrible and wonderful, all at the same time, what he could do to me, and how simply.

When we had finally parked in a dingy industrial area, we walked to a nondescript steel door between shabby shopfronts, and after a wait we were buzzed in. Inside there was a corridor and stairs, and I faltered for a second as I took in the decor. Wild, elaborate, grungy tattoos -- hundreds of pictures, of all sorts of markings. Not only tattoos, but piercings.

R looked at me.

"No questions, no talking. It's time for you to be marked. Go up the stairs, second left. I'm behind you."

He was calm as ever, his voice wasn't harsh or stressed -- perhaps if it had been I would have failed him, then -- I was on a knife edge. But as it was, I controlled my panicky breathing and, after a few seconds, dropped my gaze and obediently started up the stairs. My heart was going 19 to the dozen -- I could feel a vein throbbing in my neck, and I had to consciously make myself breathe. But I made myself walk as elegantly as I knew how, and stopped looking at the the pictures. I was doing what he wanted. This was it -- the next thing. We were at the door. I stopped, unsure. R knocked.