Delicious Whore Pt. 01

"Yeah?"

R opened the door and pushed my shoulder. I walked in, knees weak, chest heaving -- I could feel my breasts moving, knew that my stiff nipples would be obvious to whoever.

My God, to him! The biggest man I'd ever been close to -- huge -- maybe 6'8″, wide shoulders, body-builder muscles, rippling under a sea of tattoos, visible because he wore only a singlet and knee length shorts. Straggle hair, backwards cap, neatly stubbled beard. A caricature, but a real man, in front of me, now.

"You're R?"

His voice was as gravelly as the caricature suggested. I was blushing pink, feeling very small and delicate, like a little girl, next to this mountain of muscle and bone and masculinity.

"That's right." R sounded as calm as ever.

"This the filly?"

I had never been called a 'filly' before in my life. Another time it would have made me laugh, but now it almost made my cry. I was so scared, all of a sudden. A strange sort of fear, though -- hot, jittery, weakening. I suddenly recognised it, this fear. The serious, grown-up version of the fear that preceded a spanking. And with that recognition came the knowledge that I was wet between the legs. God, no -- this couldn't be real?

"She's the one."

"Huh. You c'n stand over there -- good view, but not in my way -- OK?"

"Just so."

The mountain turned to me again, eyes running over me slowly. He had no expression at all beyond a slight, habitual smile.

"Blouse off, skirt off. Panties too, if you're wearing any. On all fours on the bench, facing the mirror. Head down, ass up, legs spread. Quick now, you're late."

And he turned away, leaving me quivering. I'd been told what to do. I knew something was coming, and this was it. But could I? I wanted so much to look at R, but he was behind me, and somehow I knew that I mustn't -- that what he wanted was for me to obey. To my relief, he helped me.

"Do as he says, slut."

He'd been calling me 'slut', and 'wanton' more often recently -- and I'd got to like it. But he'd never used the words in public, let alone in front of another person, in front of a stranger. You'd never have guessed, though -- it sounded as if 'slut' was my name, and that he was bored with it, too. It was like a slap in the face -- shocking, painful. I was frozen for a few seconds, before a wave of sexual excitement hit me. He had told this stranger what I was; a slut. Of course; it was true, after all. I'd idly considered the thought before -- that being a slut for one man only made little sense -- the word implied a pervasive character -- a woman of lose sexual morals -- an easy fuck. That was what slut meant. And so here I was, stripping naked in front of a stranger.

I began to remove the blouse, fingers clumsy, pulse racing, knowing I was getting turned on by the idea of stripping for the big stranger; now the skirt, bending down, feeling my breasts swaying, wondering -- hoping he was looking at them, that he liked them, blushing. Straightening .. now the skimpy panties, breath fast, panting, nipples painfully stiff, sex moist, ashamed and trepidatious, jittery, turned-on..

But as I straightened, my eye caught on a picture on the wall, a young woman, sluttily dressed, 'tramp-stamp' tattoo on her buttock, visible above the G-String that was all she was wearing apart from the tiny cropped T-Shirt and high heels. It was so tacky! This wasn't me! I hate tattoos!

I stood, frozen, feeling so weak, so stupid, tears trembling in my eyes -- just knowing I wasn't able to do this.. I don't know how long it was, but eventually, as if at the other end of a cloth tunnel, I heard my voice, trembling, saying;

"I .. I can't do .. can't do this .. Not .. not a tattoo .. I .. I'm sorry -- I .. I just can't. Please -- please don't make me.."

Not daring to look up, desperately wishing I wasn't naked now, but too scared to do anything about retrieving my clothes. I just wanted to curl into a ball on the floor and hide.

Silence.

I was quivering, knees weak, feeling their eyes on me -- on my breasts, on my haunches, on my thighs, on my belly -- on my sex.. I wanted to hide my breasts, but I knew that this was not permitted me -- I suddenly realised how much training R had imbued in me -- the number of things I knew he expected, the number that were forbidden, and a shiver ran through me. He had trained me already, prepared me for this - and I hadn't even known it; I am filled with respect for him, for his mastery, grateful that he chose me...

The silence was almost loud now, so fearfully did I await the resolution of this disobedience.

At last, R stood and came to me; his voice was calm and relaxed, without any hint of anger or disappointment;

"You can be handcuffed and strapped down, or you can do it voluntarily. It will be more humiliating and probably more frightening to be strapped down. The choice is yours."

And he caressed my sex, quite gently. I dared not clamp my thighs together, as I fervently wished, and he laughed, softly, genuinely amused;

"My, but you're wet, pretty. Quite the little wanton! Let's hope he chooses to use your pussy -- for your sake. His cock is entirely in proportion, you know. Quickly now -- you have a few seconds only before the choice is lost to you."

He leans in and kisses a nipple, and suddenly, I know that I have no choice. Silly girl -- testing him again! As if I can live without his approval.

Trembling, I move toward the bench. R steps back, to take his seat again, calm, unruffled -- he had been totally confident.

I climb onto the bench, facing the mirror as suggested. Am I a horse -- only needing a little gentle nonsense in my ear to get me to obey? Because I am obeying, against my wishes. This is a test, I know it is, and some ruthless animal part of me which is determined that I will pass has taken over.

I am blushing, tears on my cheeks, feeling terribly, terribly sad -- but in the softest possible way, without the slightest anger or resentment. In fact, I realise, it is quite the opposite, I'm foolishly, abjectly grateful to R. For what? I don't really know -- for having coerced me into this? For having saved me from worse humiliation? For putting me in the situation where I am forced to display myself obscenely to this man-mountain, this giant who will apparently be having sex with me, using a hole of his choice in the near future? Perhaps for all of these things. But the gratitude is certainly real.

I position myself conscientiously on the low, padded bench, burning with shame at the lewd position, images from porn swimming into my head, telling me just how shamefully slutty I must look, but trying my best nevertheless, head down, ass up, thighs splayed, pussy thrust up and out.

I heard something and realised it was me, panting, a little whine on each intake of breath. I was quivering. Was I going to be fucked by the man-mountain like this -- fucked without any preamble at all?

"This the mark?"

"Yes, that one, the sans-serif."

Apparently not. I was going to be marked first.

I hate tattoos. I'd always said I'd be the last person on the planet to get one, and now here I am, naked, lewdly spreading my sex, buttocks perkily in the air, about to be tattooed with heaven knew what, without the slightest say in the matter. And all I can think about is how obvious the wetness at my sex must be. I am so focused on R at this moment. To have brought me to this -- to this incredible experience, an experience I could easily have never come within a million miles of. The fear is the most exciting fear I've ever felt. My chest heaves. I am unbearably, gloriously conscious of the naked, spread condition of my sex.

"Sign, please."

A small clipboard is slapped onto the leather pad near my hand, and I almost giggle at the absurdity of the this bureaucracy intruding on such intensity. But I daren't, and instead quickly squiggle something illegible with the pen, like an illiterate, the thought comes to me, not a smart lawyer... The clipboard is whisked away, and then my wrists are strapped, then my legs, just below the knees, and a cushioned frame is wedged beneath my belly, forcing my buttocks even further upward.

R had said I wouldn't be restrained! But now, here I was, restrained anyway, fixed in place, helpless. What use was outrage to me here? Who would listen? What good would it do? I swallowed it, even while understanding that I was constantly being pushed across boundaries. R would say what he wanted, tell me what he wanted, and do what he wanted -- he didn't much care whether that involved tricking me or betraying me. He took it for granted that I would accept it. And I, in turn, was so grateful that he understood what I needed.

He was right about it being frightening though -- it was terrifying not being able to move. Unable to stop myself, I tugged at the restraints, humiliating myself, blushing at their laughter.

"It really does frighten her, being restrained. It's cute to see. Funny thing is, it turns her on too. Her puss will be wetter than ever.."

No! he couldn't have said that, not here, not now, in front of this man I don't know! I struggle some more, blinking back tears.

"Scream all you want, pretty. Ain't but a little one."

Immediately a high-pitched buzzing started, followed by an intense, but actually quite manageable pain at the top of my right buttock. I gasp, but that's all. It is happening. I will have a tramp stamp -- will be marked as a slut.

My nipples, stiff now, rub against the leather padding of the bench. I realise how turned on I am. The giant is going to fuck me -- with R watching.

He takes me while I am still strapped -- that's the most notable part of the affair. For all his dick is big, he's no cocksman, using my pussy in a businesslike fashion; remarkably quickly he is jerking inside me.

And that's it -- I've been tattooed and fucked by a complete stranger, strapped down, naked, without permission, who's come inside me without a condom, while my boyfriend watches, in a tattoo parlour. I feel dirty, and I'm crying weakly as I'm released from the bench, as the aftercare instructions are given -- I'm still naked, still trying to stand attractively, feeling the giant's come running down my leg. No-one offers me a mirror -- I have no idea what my tattoo looks like.

I am dismissed to clean up. No, I'm not to take my clothes with me. I am passive, accepting, meekly obedient. Something has happened to me. Later I think it is that some veil of pretence has been ripped from my eyes. The pretence being that R and I have a relationship other than my sexual service to him -- a hangover from before, but delusional even then. He likes to fuck me, I encourage him to fuck me just as he likes it -- that's it - that's how I like it, too. Only now it is totally explicit.

There's a mirror in the small bathroom, and I look at the tattoo; dark blue, a large, block-letter 'R', and the year, smaller. It's a property mark -- graphically rather beautiful, in its austerity -- but still, a property mark. R has had me marked as his property. I try to get angry, but there's nothing there. I look again. I know that I like it; that I'm pleased -- flattered even. Do I belong to him? No -- not really -- silly idea! Although ... work aside, I might as well belong to him, I think. It makes me quiver. I want him to fuck me now. Fuck me as his marked property.

Re-entering the little studio is hard, because I'm naked, and because I know, now, that both men consider that I am property, in some sense. That R knows this is exciting to me -- something dangerous and sexy between us. But the giant -- the stranger who has fucked me while I was strapped to his bench -- he doesn't deserve to see me naked.

There's no option, though -- I can't go to R in some pathetic cringe. And so I walk as best I know how across the small room, to R's side. My chest heaves, betraying my intense emotions. Neither of them pays the slightest attention. R turns me, pushing my shoulder, then has me bend down, so he can see the tattoo, confirms his approval to the giant in a calm, businesslike tone.

Then he roughly kicks my feet apart, and thrusts, direct, into my ass without niceties, hurting me, my face pushed down into the bench. He reaches under me -- and I understand I am to come for him, in front of the man mountain. I couldn't have resisted if I had tried, and in fact it is a glorious, rippling orgasm of lasting power, and I can't keep silent. I'm not acting, but R could not have asked for more if I had been. I am demolished, panting my gratitude weakly, feeling simultaneously worthless and exalted.

He has me clean his cock for him, too, on my knees, in front of the giant, and I find myself making it as clear as possible how servile I am, leaning in to take R all the way in in one smooth movement, hands behind my back, unsure whether I am crying or panting with desire. Both, probably.

I dress myself then in front of them, weeping a little, unable to look up.

Time to go it seems expected, so I say 'Thank you' to the tattooist, who leers at me, while I blush. Once we're in the street, I turn to R, who is looking at his watch;

"Thank you" I say. And I mean it.

The idea that he has marked me with his name is growing in significance with each passing minute, and I know that I will be fizzing about this for days. Being fucked by another man in front of him -- him using me in turn, in front of the stranger, that too, is new, and will fill my thoughts for weeks.

He grins at me -- a cold grin, almost bored.

"Indeed, you should be grateful. I don't mark many. Wasn't sure if you'd be worth it, a few weeks ago. I can't offer you a lift, I'm afraid. Taking someone to the theatre. There's a cab office up the street I think."

And he is walking away, without a backward glance.

I am desperate, of course, tears in my eyes at this deliberate callousness. But I'm impressed as well, in spite of myself. Impressed at his calm confidence in my subjection. Impressed that he has judged me so well -- that in fact I am going to meekly walk to the cab office in my extravagant heels, the tattoo beginning to burn on my buttock, go home and spend the evening alone, reviewing the many red lines I have been pushed across in the last two hours, and how far I have fallen, while he goes off to enjoy an evening with some other woman -- with whom no doubt he will be entertaining, witty, respectful, lover-like. That there is no will in me to protest. That I am more grateful than ever.

Crazy. Crazy hot...