Delicious Whore Pt. 02

I've had this story recategorised as 'NonConsent/Reluctance' as it's darker than seems to be acceptable in the BDSM category here on Literotica.

It is a fantasy around the wholesale capitulation of a needy and weak submissive to a manipulative and cruel dominant. If you don't like the sound of this, please don't read it!

*

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 glorious, all at the same time, what he could do to me (but wasn't I doing this to myself?), and how simply.

When we had finally parked in a dingy industrial area, he walked me 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.

"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 loose 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, and --- undeniably --- 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 was filled with respect for him, for his mastery, grateful that he chose me, that he had been prepared to do so much work on 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 leant in and kissed a nipple, and suddenly, I knew that I had no choice. Silly girl --- testing him again! As if I could live without his approval.

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

I climbed onto the bench, facing the mirror as suggested. Was I a horse --- only needing a little gentle nonsense in my ear to get me to obey? Because I was obeying, against my wishes. This was a test, I knew that it was, and some ruthless animal part of me which was determined that I would pass had taken over.

I was blushing, tears on my cheeks, feeling terribly, terribly sad --- but in the softest possible way, without the slightest anger or resentment. In fact, I realised, it was quite the opposite; I felt foolishly, abjectly grateful to R. For what? I didn't really know --- for having coerced me into this? For having saved me from worse humiliation? For putting me in the situation where I was forced to display myself so lewdly to this man-mountain, this giant who would 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 was certainly real.

I positioned 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 you want"

"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 was, 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 could think about was how obvious the wetness at my sex must be. I was 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 was the most exciting fear I'd ever felt. My chest heaving, I was unbearably, gloriously conscious of the naked, spread condition of my sex, of my vulnerability.

"Sign, please."

A small clipboard was slapped onto the leather pad near my hand, and I almost giggled at the absurdity of this bureaucracy intruding on such intensity. But I dared not, and instead quickly scrawled something illegible with the pen; like an illiterate, the thought came to me, not a smart lawyer...

The clipboard was whisked away; my wrists were strapped, then my legs, just below the knees, and a cushioned frame was 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 struggled 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 gasped, but that was all. It was happening. I would have a tramp stamp --- would be marked, permanently, as a slut.

My nipples, stiff now, rubbed against the leather padding of the bench. I realised how turned on I was. The giant was going to fuck me --- with R watching. He would find me wet and ready for him, however desperately I wished that he would not.

He took me while I was still strapped --- that was the most notable part of the affair. For all his dick was big, he was no cocksman, used my pussy simply, in a businesslike fashion; then remarkably quickly he was jerking inside me.

And that was it --- I'd been tattooed and fucked by a complete stranger, strapped down, naked, without permission; he had come inside me without a condom, while my boyfriend watched, in a grungy tattoo parlour. I felt terribly dirty, and I was crying weakly as I was released from the bench, as the aftercare instructions were given --- still naked, still trying to stand attractively, feeling the giant's come running down my leg. No-one offered me a mirror --- I had no idea what my tattoo looked like.

I was dismissed to clean up. No, I was not to take my clothes with me, R said. I was passive, accepting, meekly obedient. Something had happened to me. Later I thought it was that some veil of pretence had been ripped from my eyes. The pretence being that R and I had a relationship other than my sexual service to him --- a hangover from before, but delusional even then. He liked to fuck me, I encouraged him to fuck me, just as he liked it --- that was it - that was how I liked it, too. Only now it was totally explicit.

There was a mirror in the small bathroom, and I looked at the tattoo; dark blue, a large, block-letter 'R', and the year, smaller. It was a property mark --- graphically rather beautiful, in its austerity --- but still, a property mark. R had had me marked as his property. I tried to get angry, but there was nothing there. I looked again. I knew that I liked it; that I was pleased --- flattered even. Did I belong to him? No --- not really --- silly idea! Although ... work aside, I might as well have belonged to him, I thought. It made me quiver. I wanted him to fuck me, right there and then. Fuck me as his marked property.

Re-entering the little studio was hard, because I was naked, and because I knew, now, that both men considered that I was, in some sense, property. It was exciting to me that R knew this --- something dangerous and sexy between us. But the giant --- the stranger who had fucked me while I was strapped to his bench --- he didn't deserve to see me naked.

There was no option, though --- I couldn't go to R in some pathetic cringe. And so I walked, as best I knew how, across the small room, to R's side. My chest was heaving, betraying my intense emotions. Neither of them paid the slightest attention. R turned me, pushing my shoulder, then had me bend down, so he could see the tattoo clearly, then confirmed his approval to the giant in a calm, businesslike tone.

Immediately, then, he roughly kicked my feet apart, and thrust, direct into my ass, without niceties; hurting me, my face pushed down into the bench. He reached under me --- and I understood I was to come for him, in front of the man mountain. I couldn't have resisted if I had tried, and in fact it was a glorious, rippling orgasm of lasting power, and I could not keep silent. I wasn't acting, but R could not have asked for more if I had been. I was demolished, panting my gratitude weakly, feeling simultaneously worthless and exalted.

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