The view from the ski-lift was simply stunning. From a cold-blue cloudless sky, the December sun shone with crystalline brightness, giving the snow covered mountains a silently majestic grandeur. Fred McAllister seemed a really nice guy, Ingrid Benson thought. Since she had first met him two days ago at Heathrow, her impressions of him were changing. Her husband Michael had often described his boss as a ruthless beast, but it seemed the relaxing environment of the French Alps was showing more of Fred’s charm. The same went for Valerie, Fred’s girlfriend, who they had also just met. So, this seemed a great idea after all. Much better than Mike and she had thought, or even feared, when first considering Fred’s offer to go skiing together. Four people barely knowing each other going on holidays was not a low-risk formula after all.

“Oh, this is just so lovely, I can’t believe it,” Ingrid said to Fred. She stretched out relaxed, letting her skis dangle as the lift took them up the piste. Fred smiled from behind titanium Ferrari sun-glasses, that hid how closely his eyes were observing the curves of Ingrid’s ski-suit.

“It is, really, eh? We’ll make this a great day, even without them pro’s,” Fred replied with a confident grin. After two days of the four of them skiing together, they were now just the two of them today. Mike and Val were quite the superior skiers, and they had pressed on yesterday to go do a couple of very advanced down-hills. The stuff way beyond Ingrid and Fred. Ingrid nodded and smiled, seeing the end of the lift in front of her.

“I and Mike did good business this year, despite the heavy weather on the stock-market,” Fred continued. “And there’s a time to make money, and a time to spend it, not?” Ingrid smiled again, semi-courteously, noting he put himself in first place. Generous as this offer of Fred’s was, she also knew Mike had made this man quite enough money this year to be able to afford this little ski-trip for four.

“Yes, and there’s a time to talk about business, and a time to leave it behind,” Ingrid replied, not really wanting to talk about that now. She found their business boring, even when it made a lot of money. Money that she had gotten used to.

“Sorry, you’re right,” Fred said, smiling with mock apology in his voice. “Bad habit.”

“It’s okay. Let’s say I am familiar with it,” Ingrid replied with a chuckle. She understood.

“Well, time for the stumbling and sliding, again,” Fred announced, as the lift approached final destination. The two of them were the very nightmare of every ski instructor. Not even the well-paid patience of the best instructors had ever resulted in more than very basic skills. Even getting off a lift still presented problems now and then. But it had never stopped either of them; skiing was just too much fun to be bothered by incompetence. However, this was about the only field in which Fred allowed himself any incompetence. As the lift approached the revolving end, they took a deep breath, jumped off the way Val and Mike had told them to, on and again, and landed more or less safely. But a landing was not the same as a decent standstill. Ingrid squealed as she tried to come to a stop. Fred grabbed her in an attempt to reduce her speed. Their lack of skill showed in full bloom when their skis entangled. The plunge into the snow was not too painful, and they landed on top of each other. There was little left but to laugh at their own clumsiness, which was what they did indeed.

“Oh Jesus! Haha. Are you okay, Ingrid?”

“Haha! Oh God, I’m such a clumsy cow on these things!” Ingrid was Swedish-born, a city girl from the South, which explained part of her being such a bad skier. She was also every bit the classic Scandinavian beauty. White blonde, light blue eyes, slender and tall, great figure. And, in perfect accordance with all the school-boy fantasies about Swedish girls, Ingrid also possessed an impressive pair of breasts. They were well large enough to not go unnoticed during the accidental landing on top of each other. She felt his hands on them, as if by accident. Nothing new, it was the story of her life. Ingrid tried to roll over, noting his subtle insisting before he let her go.

They made it back on their skis again, and started going down the gentle slope. Fred was moving ahead of her, and she thought about what just happened. And more. Ingrid was a realist, and not stupid. She had married Michael Benson, a young career guy with a stately mansion in Chelsea and enough money to have her have her own “little” Porsche. Mike was vaguely caring when not busy making money and - as far as she knew - faithful. Ingrid had first met him five years ago, at a posh party in Kensington. A friend of a friend had gotten her invited, probably in an attempt to be repaid with a free night together. It was the way things worked, but that guy had been unlucky. Ingrid got to chat with Mike Benson, and they had left together. A terribly expensive supper followed, as did their first night together. Mike was good in bed, and seemed to possess the amount of money she had been looking for. So, they married. She made him marry her, actually. Ingrid was well good enough to make a guy believe she was madly in love with him. And since then, he provided her with enough credit cards to be his trophy wife. To impress his colleagues with, she thought now and then. Ingrid was all too aware she would never have married this man if she had been an ugly girl with a flat chest. All men in this world of money had good looking wives or girlfriends, not one excluded. She hated that so called coincidence. But it was also the world she had become addicted to. She had even chosen to become part of. The money was so nice, life was so careless. But empty too, with things you had to just accept. Like Fred just touching her breasts. He was Mike’s boss, and he had shown her a moment ago how power really works. She followed him down the hill with the taste of disgust in her mouth.

The chalet was pleasantly crowded with rosy looking people. Ingrid looked out the window, enjoying the scenery. She smiled as Fred put down their coffees.

“Double cappuccino for madame,” he smiled.

“Thanks, that’s lovely,” Ingrid replied.

“I want to show you something, Ingrid.” She took a sip and watched fumble into a coat of his ski-suit. He came up with a small magazine, and folded it open. Ingrid’s heart beat over.

“Such a coincidence to come across this, don’t you think?” His look was almost cold; he was enjoying this moment. The bastard. It was leaving her speechless for a few seconds, but she was sharply aware of what was going on. She knew this world too well; nothing was a coincidence.

“Congratulations, Fred. You’re the first to find out. About this little indiscretion of a young woman in need of some money.” He looked at her, taking off his sun-glasses. A triumphant and arrogant grin spread across his face. ‘Mike was right after all,’ she thought. ‘He is a ruthless prick.’

“Is that what you’d call it, Ingrid? A little indiscretion? I’d call it full blooded pornography, you know.” Even when she hated it, his qualification was downright accurate. The picture session featuring in that compromising magazine had earned her five thousand Swedish Kronen. It was a lot of money for a nineteen year old without income. She had also done quite a few nasty things for it. He didn’t need to show her the pictures. They were all in her mind still.

“So, Fred, I assume you bringing this up over a coffee a deux means that you plan to open negotiations?” She played confident, but inside she was all nerves. This could wreck her whole perfect luxury life in a few hours time, after all. He lifted an eyebrow, not expecting her to see through this so fast. He had hoped to scare the guts out of her, making her more bendable, so to speak. He grinned at that thought.

“Your assumption would be correct, Misses Michael J. Benson from Chelsea.” He was showing the countenance of a bloodhound, rubbing in every detail that could wound. Ingrid played cool though, surprisingly so. She had had her fair share of assholes, and it had left her with a certain experience to deal with them. Not showing weakness was rule number one.

A noisy bunch of German guests left the chalet. Her eyes followed them out the door, stepping into the bright snowy landscape as she pondered her chances. They didn’t look good; Fred was holding the aces. But that didn’t mean she would not be giving him a hard time playing them out.

“Name your price,” she said without emotion.

“Price?,” he replied, smirking. He leaned over, looking straight into her eyes.

“I don’t need money, Misses Benson. I have enough of that.” Ingrid looked back, knowing where he was heading for. She didn’t grant him the pleasure of being the first to say the words.

“I know your sort, Fred McAllister. You want to fuck me, eh?”

He snickered, a bit disappointed at how fast she got the picture. He had been looking forward to more despair. Ever since he had set that private eye on digging up a few controversial events from her past, he had been looking forward to facing her with something. And this nice little porn-spot on her Chelsea reputation would do just perfect, he had anticipated. Not quite, alas. She looked at him, her eyes shooting defiance.

“Out with it. You want to fuck me?” Fred nodded slowly, enjoying every detail of that look in her eyes. They weren’t all defiance. He spotted traces of insecurity, of fear. Of not being quite sure how much he had found out about her past. He loved that.

Mrs. Ingrid Benson’s past was not immaculate. Far from, even. She had spent her earliest days in London working for an Escort-Bureau. A very expensive one, that had made her good money, but still; she had been a hooker. Not one out of despair, but out of choice. Ingrid wanted a rich guy, the wealthy life, and she was never going to get one in the outskirts of Lund, nor in the less prosperous parts of London. So, it had all been part of a scheme, one that had turned out to be really successful. And that scheme was now about to be shattered by the prick sitting opposite her.

“I wanna hear you say it, Fred.”

“Fair enough,” he replied. “Yes, I was considering to fuck you. Maybe more than once, if you turn out to be as good as your old reputation.” Fuck, he found out about the Escort-Service, she thought, keeping a straight face.

“And what makes you so convinced I would let myself be fucked by you, Fred?” He smirked, scratching his cheek as he observed her.

“I was just thinking that you would find this bit of information a bit too compromising for your current luxury life?”

“And what if I’m not impressed? What if I’ve told Mike all about this already?” She was trying any sort of escape, but this asshole had done his homework.

“You haven’t dear, trust me that I have thoroughly checked the value of what I’m holding here. And you are impressed. Pretending not to be, maybe, you play it cool, Ingrid. But you are, just enough to let me get what I want. Your big tits. Your Scandinavian slut body. I bet your cunt is just as nice as those big tits of yours...”

Her eyes flamed with inner rage. This pompous prick was really playing hardball. And the bad thing was that there seemed no escape. Which meant she simply had to give him what he wanted. But not just like that. She had something in mind. “Come on then. We’ll go to the hotel. Val and Mike will be away for at least a few hours. You can fuck me there. Want me to rent an extra room, so your new floozy wont find out, Fred McAllister?” That was just a bit too much. He grabbed her hand and pulled her closer. “Listen, you cheap cunt. I can make and break you. You and your too well-paid husband. Keep that in mind before you offend me again.” “Offend you? Hah!,” she fired back. “Scum like you can’t even be offended anymore.” He grabbed her hand again, with an arrogant smirk on his face.

“Come here, now. I think I want to fuck my new whore,” he hissed. “Not in the hotel, but here, Ingrid. Upstairs, with a splendid view on the piste. I already made reservations, you know,” he replied, his grin malicious. My God, she thought. He has planned this whole thing to the smallest detail. It made her feel so used that she almost puked her coffee. But she swallowed it, like the big girl she was.

They stood up without looking at each other, leaving a number of guests wonder somewhat about the unusual conversation they had been unable not to overhear. The crystal sun cast an almost innocent light on the two people who came out the chalet and slipped up the stairs, surrounded by the laughter of fellow tourists. Ingrid knew there were no alternatives. Fred McAllister had made it all too clear that he was quite prepared to use his power. It would cost her her marriage, not so much the forever loving care of a husband maybe, but certainly the luxury life she had with him. It would break Mike’s career too, and she didn’t want to be responsible for ruining that. The bastard could have her, if that was what he wanted. But this was her error, so she would pay for it, no one else. Her life before Mike had not been entirely free of guys like McAllister, so she would deal with it. With him. In her own way.

Fred McAllister closed the door behind them. It was Room 4, she would not likely forget that. He looked at her, unzipping his ski-suit.

“Take your clothes off,” he ordered. Ingrid obeyed, but made sure her eyes kept him convinced of her loathing. She sat down, took off her ski boots first and then unzipped the suit.

“Enjoying yourself, Mister McAllister?,” she said with cynical voice.

“Take them off, whore,” he replied. Ingrid’s eyes shot fire. ‘You think you have guts, eh, fucking shit hole,” she thought. She stripped off her ski-suit, leaving her standing in rather unappealing thermic underwear. Ingrid could sense from his looking that he even enjoyed this slight embarrassment. She slipped out of that too, taking her panties down along, not wanting to grant him the pleasure of seeing her strip off her panties. Finally, she took off her bra, exposing her heavy tits. She didn’t blink an eye as she stood there naked, his cold eyes scanning her nudity.

“Like what you see, Mister McAllister? I don’t suppose you’d ever get to see them this big without your filthy practices, do you?,” she said with a bitter voice.

“Sit down on the table. Spread your hole for me,” he replied without a trace of emotion.

If there had been a knife available, she would have used it to cut off this pompous asshole’s balls, she felt sure. Her rage was boiling inside her as she obeyed, spreading her legs wide as ordered. Ingrid had been through a few less pleasant sexual experiences in her life. It came with working your way up, and getting what you wanted. Her morals had been flexible in that respect, sometimes a bit too much, maybe. But she had never felt this exposed before.

Fred McAllister smirked as he unzipped before her.

“Nice tits. All natural?,” he grinned as he approached. His cock was fully erect, and she found it filthy. Ingrid threw her large breasts out with defiance.

“All courtesy of Mother Nature,” she fired back, not blinking an eye. “I see they leave you pitifully out of control of yourself, Fred McAllister. Look how a whore with big tits is making you hard. I sure thought you had a bit more style than that.” He slapped her face. Ingrid winced, but kept looking at him.

“Shut up, cunt.”

“I won’t,” she shot back at him, jolting when she felt him enter. His look was cold and condescending when he took her.

“You’re such a conceited asshole, Fred McAllister.” He grabbed hard into her tits.

“And you’re nothing but a cheap slut with big tits, who fucked her way up to Chelsea.” He stressed his point with a sudden hard thrust. It made her gasp, and he enjoyed that. His hands on her huge breasts felt good. Triumphant. Ever since he had first seen Mike Benson introduce his - then - girlfriend, Fred had made the decision that he would one day be grabbing his hands into these naked tits. Just as a challenge. He liked big tits. But even more, he liked this dirty game, of blackmailing people into what he wanted. And today was his moment of victory. His thrusts were hard, humiliating, possessive. His cock was merely the physical instrument of that; the whole atmosphere was humiliating. Inescapable. The prick had planned all this in advance! He had been working on this moment, made reservations with all this in mind. God, this felt so cheap. During her days at the Escort-Service she at least got paid for enduring this sort of treatment. But today, Ingrid was the one paying. Degraded to be a cheap whore, fucked by a ruthless asshole she had even thought was sympathetic. Mike had been so very right. And this felt so cheap, that she decided she was simply to good for this. Ex-hooker or not, she would never be made into a cheap whore. Not ever, and not by guys like Fred McAllister for sure.

He gasped when he felt her clench his cock, very hard. He was unable to hide a response, and Ingrid saw it. She grinned. Now seemed the time for her little plan.

“Am I hurting you, Mister McAllister? Do tell me when I’m too hard on it, will you?” He slapped her face again, thrusting deep into her. There was only a vague reflex in her pupils. Otherwise, she simply accommodated.

“You can fuck me, asshole, you can even beat me. But you can’t belittle me, I will not let you humiliate me, you prick.” Her flaming eyes glared at him, fluttering as he took her deep.

“Fuck your whore, Fred McAllister. I’ll be one for you. I will even pretend I like it, if that turns you on. But you will never gain my respect, never!” Ingrid bucked up against him, thrusting herself onto his cock. It was an outburst of rage made sexual. She became his whore, but with more dignity than the way he had made her one.

“Come on, asshole, fuck me then. That’s what you want, eh? Use my cunt, shove your prick into me, you dirty scumbag.” Fred growled in response. Never before in his life had he ever accepted to be addressed like this. And here this wife of an employee, blackmailed into this little pay-off was swearing at him, calling him names, insulting him. He felt her becoming wet, he felt her bucks, her thrusts. She was fucking him better than he had expected it to be. His thrill was in the humiliation, so a good fuck was not required for this little blackmail-session to be successful. But this woman was slipping out of his fingers. She wouldn’t let herself be controlled. He screwed deep into her, pushing her down to the table, spreading her legs wide. And she let him. Her revenge came with iron clenches, pressing so hard that she was almost impossible to penetrate. She let him inside her alright, but took care to leave him with the feeling he would simply be pushed out any moment she liked.

“You like your whore, McAllister?,” she smirked, starting to pant. Her hips bucked up, then she clenched again. As if it was her fucking him rather than the reverse. ‘Fuck, she’s enjoying herself. But it has nothing to do with me,’ he thought.

And Ingrid was. This was her devilish scheme. He wanted a whore, and it would be impossible to escape from that. So he was going to get one. But she had taken care to perform this with supreme dignity. He would have her naked, get his look at her tits, have his fuck, she didn’t care. It was inescapable. But not unmanageable. She’d show this filthy blackmailer just how tough a fuck she was.

“Hmm, I’m starting to like this. How about you, Fred?” His thrusts came with frustration now. It was Ingrid rather than Fred who was getting pleasure out of them. In anticipation he had been imagining he would maybe be able to fuck her so badly that she would start liking it. And now she did, but things were a bit different meanwhile. She was backfiring his humiliation.

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