She Asked for It... Pt. 03

This will make more sense if you have read the earlier parts of the story.

At last, after a period outside time, of impossible, unmeasurable duration, she experiences for the first time the paradoxical experience of an unbearable wait being replaced by gut-twisting apprehension at the certainty of impending shame as a strange man approaches, grinning cheerfully, leering almost; brazen as he looks her body over, certain of nothing other than that she is now going to be used and abused by this stranger for his own pleasure, without any consideration at as to her feelings or wellbeing, and that her choices consist of softly and sweetly subjecting herself to the service of that pleasure, or alternatively of resisting such service, then being cruelly treated until she begs for the chance to softly and sweetly service that pleasure after all, only with added tear-stains, humiliation and welts.

It is all she can do to maintain her position, her pose as he approaches, as she realises with dawning turmoil that he is not alone, this stranger, but that he has a young woman with him -- a girl -- not even twenty by the unbearable freshness of her skin; a remarkably lovely girl in a dress that is at the same time intimidatingly elegant and devastatingly sexy.

The fact that this girl's expression is off somehow -- closed, mulish, doesn't reduce the agonies of humiliation that suddenly boil inside her; the desperation to break her un-natural pose, to jump up, run to the loos, something -- anything -- to escape from the close inspection of another woman.

She has never even considered this possibility before, but of course she has been on the other end of the telescope -- when she, well dressed, on her boyfriend's arm, sat in a comfortable chair in an elegant room full of well-dressed and clearly wealthy patrons, served by attentive waitresses, to watch the destruction of the lovely blonde girl she had just been sitting at a dining table with.

She knows just how she judged the humbled and defeated beauty, how the words slut, whore, wanton, skank were in her mind -- so much more cutting from one woman to another than from a man's mouth; just how she sneeringly she had condemned the blonde, even before the worst of it. And so she knows -- is certain of -- the judgements that are being made by this young, elegant girl of her, her with her dress so obviously unbuttoned, her posture so clearly constrained, her tongue so suggestively extended, clearly inviting any man to imagine how it might be to put a cock into her.

She thinks she would like to die of this agony -- be saved anything further -- but of course there is no such easy escape.

Worse, she finds herself desperately widening the weak whore's smile to include the newcomers, turning to face them, welcoming, pathetic -- all the while without raising her eyes to their faces, another crushing humiliation that burns like fire.

But again, there is nothing that can be done but endure, now that all other options seem beyond consideration; this, too, must be borne.

The next minutes are terrible, as, offhandedly grabbing a chair from a nearby table, the stranger seats his girl, then ignores her to stand at her lover's side (must she start thinking of him as her Master?) to exchange pleasantries as if nothing unusual is happening -- ignoring both women completely for some minutes, until turning to face her, spending some seconds appraising her more closely now, which sets off the trembling again, uncontrollable, her cheeks burning, shaming her for her shame, the taste of ashes in her mouth again.

"So, this is the filly? eh? Good set of tits on it. Yes, quite a tasty morsel. I've seen her before, haven't I? No? I could have sworn -- ah I have it -- is she the one you showed us the video of -- the gang-fucking? That's it, yes, I remember. You had high hopes of her then. Seems you were well justified -- good work, man! "

"So she's all ready for me, you say -- submitted -- recorded, all that stuff? Excellent. All mine then. You sit back and enjoy the ride now -- you deserve it -- you've been working hard, it seems."

Then, as if suddenly remembering -- indicating the girl;

"Oh, yeah -- this is Alison. We were out -- I told her she needed to see this, but she's sulking -- aren't you girly? Pissed off she can't show me off to her little pals this evening."

Leaning over to the girl;

"You don't fool me, lovely -- you're fascinated, I know. Not many girls get to witness this sort of thing as it happens; you're lucky, you know?"

He laughs, warm, easy -- genuinely cheerful it seems.

She can't imagine herself ever feeling happy again, and, unlooked for, the cruel irony makes her laugh again, a little, although this speedily threatens to become a sob, and she has to stifle it, chest heaving with the effort, appalled at the way this sets her breasts moving, impossible to hide, impossible to accept, obvious, eye-catching.

Why is this agony so sweet, this shaming so liberating, this heartlessness so foolishly welcomed? How can this awful shame at the same time be a glory, the pain as sweet, as delicious, as delirious as it is searing? How can this be her?

And then the stranger is pulling a chair round closer to her, on the opposite side to her lover, leaning in. His breath reeks of drink, but he seems fully in control, his sneering patrician accent still sharp as he talks in a slightly lowered tone;

"You'll obey me perfectly now, slut, or regret it most bitterly. First thing, I need you to keep very still; this -- see it? -- is razor sharp. I'd love to cut you -- watch the despair in your eyes; but just this once I'm showing it to you without intending to draw blood."

In his palm, below the level of the table, there is in his hand a small, cruel looking knife; slim, elegant, beautifully worked -- and it's already moving under the hem of her dress.

Trembling, she holds herself as best she can as the cold steel touches her inner thigh; she's whimpering, almost inaudibly, caught between fear of what he might do to her with a sharp knife at her sex and the burning shame at the knowledge that the girl is seeing her submit to this so meekly, in public, letting herself be spoken to in such terms.

She so desperately wants to look up at her lover/master for some human reassurance, but dares not.

She hasn't really looked at the stranger's face (by contrast he has apparently seen video of her being roughly gang-banged: video she had no idea existed until a few minutes ago), but she is letting him put a knife to her sex, holding herself so that he can ...

Oh!

The flat of the blade is cold, right on her pussy, now; she feels the sharpness of its edge graze the tender folds at her clit hood. She freezes -- then relaxes a little as she understands at last, as her panties are pulled outward, then fall loose as the wicked blade parts the fabric with ease. Now the knife moves to the opposite hip, and the waistband there is cut. He pulls the panties with him as his hand retreats; she lifts her bottom for him, mute, shamefully compliant, feeling her weakness, her pathetic submission; completely captured by the intensity of the moment, with no thought as to anything but working with him, focused on divining as best she can what he expects from her and giving him exactly that.

He does it slowly, discreetly at least -- other diners likely have no idea what is happening -- but he lifts as he pulls, ensuring that the lace's texture drags at her tender pussy lips; she almost cannot repress a squeal of shocked despair at the feeling -- so horribly intimate, and in a crowded restaurant! It's as if the bottom has fallen from her self-image. She is not -- not any longer -- a girl who can expect any respect, it's clear; she is a girl who will co-operate in having her underwear taken from her in a restaurant, by a stranger, and whose belly will quiver with anticipation of a future fucking from the stranger as he does it.

She closes her eyes in anguish which is irretrievably intermixed with intense sexual arousal.

When the knife hand moves behind her back, she is compliant again -- not knowing what else to be, still helplessly concerned not to be disapproved of -- leans forward to make space for him, arches her back so that it's easy for him to slice the shoulder straps of her brassiere, then the main elastic. That wreckage too, is unobtrusively pulled from her; she feels her breasts jiggle free, the nipples stiff against the bodice of her dress, her breath catching. She wants to be fucked, would beg to have all this shame blanked out by some rough sex; hard, violent, non-negotiable, overpowering ... and she bites her lip, blushing -- how can these thoughts be hers? Is it possible that the watching girl, her lover/master have not seen the lust, the need, in her face, are not judging her?

Judging her correctly...

"That's it, lovely, let those tits sway free; you don't get to protect your treasures any more, princess: those juicy holes, those squishy mounds -- they're what make you useful, they are why you exist, what define you. Your job now is to offer them for use to anyone who might be interested, not guard them. So, no more panties for you pretty -- not ever; any bras you wear won't cover your nipples -- their job will be to push the tits out, make them obvious. Lift your bum again, now -- you are not permitted to sit on your skirts any more, either -- you're to feel your nakedness, experience your vulnerability at all times. Open your legs; wider!"

She's breathing heavily now; her nipples are stiff, and she knows they will be showing through the thin material of the dress -- perhaps even visible, since there are so few buttons still fastened; her sex is hot, now, too. This stranger is going to be fucking her, soon, she knows, and the darkness of that knowledge is sexually exciting, whatever else it is. She realises that her tongue is working overtime at her lips, as her rapid breathing dries them out. She knows what this must look like, how slutty she must seem, that she is damned forever in the eyes of the young girl who is watching all of this, lips jammed together in a disapproving straight line.

Her lover is vastly entertained by this interplay -- unplanned, it is nevertheless a genius move to have the girl's capitulation witnessed by a younger woman who is so desperate to radiate her disgust -- albeit without raising the slightest objection, or leaving -- not even looking away.

Of course, he knows that his friend intends for this young lovely to be where his girl is sometime in the next year -- and indeed he's been promised an invite to her first bachelor party, when she'll be whored for the first time. He watches her face, idly wondering how her arrogant, selfish mouth will move when he takes her arse at full force, his belt around her throat, how it will be to thrash those taut, bouncy tits, push his cock down her throat, pull out, thrash her tits, push his cock down her throat... Once again, his dick is painfully hard.

Feeling all but naked now -- her breasts moving freely in the opened bodice, the velvet nap of the cowhide chair seat scratchy on the sensitive skin of her shockingly unclad buttocks, she abandons herself to the overwhelming sensations of it all. The rollercoaster is gathering speed, just as it did on the night of the gang-bang, the night with the old man; her body is responding in its own way to promise of sex -- of sexual abandon. Of sexual helplessness. She has to stop herself from panting out loud, remind herself that they are still in a restaurant.

It is both terrible and wonderful to be so lost, so far from safety, so helpless, so controlled, so certain of impending violation that she is powerless to prevent...

He's speaking again, the stranger; voice low but very firm; she feels herself attentive -- she wants to obey him. Wants to please him. Even as his girlfriend watches. Let her see what a slut I really am! -- wants to show him her willingness, feels stupidly sweet about it, the theatre of this -- the rising heat not obscuring the knowledge of her own vulnerability, the shamefulness of all this -- but instead all of these contradictions working together to render her unstable -- in need of direction, in need of motion, wanting to be tightly controlled -- lest the impossibility of what she is giving herself over to drive her mad.

"Listen; you are to lean over to your Master now; I want you to kiss him. Slow, soft, sexy -- offer yourself to him -- think about how much you'd prefer him to fuck you than to thrash you; try to seduce him. Your task is to get him so aroused that he'll throw you down and rape you, right here -- in front of all these people. That's your job."

She catches her breath; this is ... this is so dangerous. But she wants it now, wants to do this, wants everyone in the restaurant to see how sexy she is, how desirable, how fuckable, how willing, and she turns to face him, licking her lips again, leaning forward, as he makes no move to meet her halfway. Without thinking, she unlocks her hands from her elbows -- both for balance and wanting to hold him, but a large, dry hand grabs both her forearms tightly at her back -- clearly with the intention of hurting her as well as controlling her -- until she gets the message, and tightens her grip again, realising with a lurch that kissing in such a submissive posture, off-balance, is going to have a powerful effect on her, knowing at the same time that there's no stopping this, and leans in, letting the hand clamped onto her arms take her weight, accepting the pain.

She pulls herself back at the last minute, realising she had been about to mash her face into his, that this is not what has been asked of her, and tries again, offering herself to him instead -- just touching his lips with hers, hers pushed out to be full, soft, moist, slightly parted, moving against him without attempting to use her tongue -- begging him, in effect, to consent to kissing her.

The feelings this sets off in her chest are remarkable; tears are in her eyes. It's at the same time appalling to be so humbled, to advertise her weakness, her neediness, so openly -- with the stranger and his girl looking on, with other diners probably watching, with her breasts moving so freely, braless, the bodice of the dress so open -- and also utterly liberating. It isn't her choosing this -- she's just doing what she has been commanded to do, as the creature of these strong men. And then she's past caring, lost in the feeling of her lips, in crafting their offer, their pleading, their need, and when he rewards her, opening his own lips, lifting a hand to grasp her neck, powerful, dictating her position, invading her with his hot tongue, she knows that she is lost.

Why hasn't he kissed her like this before -- made her kiss him like this before? Vaguely, she understands that its all of a piece -- the stranger, his girl, her surrender, the other diners, the impending terror of enslavement, until she forgets it again, opening herself to his hard, demanding mouth, his invading tongue, as fully as she can, forever, forever...

She's more his than ever before, at that moment -- gloriously his, lost in the sensation of offering herself to him so completely, of the knowledge that this kiss will be the last before she is degraded, enslaved, lost...

Her whole body seems composed of nothing more than light and heat; focused entirely on him -- the surroundings drop away, leaving just him, her Master (yes, her Master), this kiss, and a limitless offer of sweet submission to his will; years later, she will still recall the enormity, the surrender, the glory of this moment.

And then, abruptly, ungently, he pulls her back, lifts his head, grins at her, his eyes glinting, hard. She's gazing at him, still transfixed, heart thumping, chest heaving, feeling her breasts move, the heat at her sex, her cheeks so hot, her nipples painfully stiff, until she realises his grin is not friendly, not lover-like, but full of predatory amusement. At this moment, as open to him she is, this sears her, appals her, so that she shrinks from him.

His finger is under her chin, pushing -- actually painful, his thumb is in her mouth, and she whimpers a little, finds herself unable to move as the hand at her back holds firm.

"You're looking me in the face, pretty."

His voice is light, but the cruel amusement is there, too, and suddenly she realises what he means; the reality of her new situation clarified sharply -- her pleasure in kissing him so submissively, of feeling so aroused, so gloriously offering herself to him, of her own sexual response to the prospect of being ravished -- all this coming into shocking conjunction with the knowledge that he is just as entertained by the threat of cruelly punishing her transgression (over such a natural, harmless -- even delightful -- thing as a loving look, an acknowledgement of shared sexual excitement).

For him to clearly relish the idea of using this small, generous action as an excuse to cause her to suffer nearly overwhelms her; she can't help herself, blurts out a strangled whisper;

"No! No! No you can't, can't be going to ... to hurt ... hurt me for ..."

Her voice tails off as his grin broadens, and he looks up, clearly to exchange his amusement with that of the stranger. They are sharing the thought of inflicting pain on her! Enjoying it! Laughing at her!

"Now talking out of turn, too. Silly girl; I explained the rules to you just a few minutes ago, as well... You're going to scream for that."

Her head drops, tears brim; all joy is gone from her heart as the fear rises, the image of the lovely blonde uselessly howling her pain and terror as the whip bit into her nipples, again and again...

She shakes her head. This is it. This is her life. This is what she has asked for. That little high just now was part of it; she must accept that this cruelty is also part of it.

Then, too, the thought of the stranger's girl, the other diners, all hits her, and she blinks away the tears and tries to make a recovery -- straightening herself in her seat, normalising her posture as much as she can, trying doggedly, pathetically to smile. She knows she is going to sob, but makes it come out like a weak little giggle, without lifting her eyes from the table top, tries to calm her breathing.

"Better, better, pretty -- control yourself. You must present as a simple sex dolly, even if you are dying inside -- or suffer terribly. Now, can you hold yourself together?"

Through heart-rending effort, she manages a trembling nod;

"See that you continue to do so. Now, I want you to remember this number -- three. Can you remember it?"

Eyes down, too frightened to speak, not allowing herself to think about what this number might mean -- having all too clear an idea nevertheless -- she nods.

"Can you guess what that number represents, pretty?"

She can, of course she can, but cannot -- simply cannot accept that the idea of a whipping can apply to her -- to her soft body -- to the body which he has so gently caressed, has so richly enjoyed, that feels, right now, almost impossibly sensitive, vulnerable, exposed.

Her head shakes; even she knows this is unconvincing, wrong, stupid.

The word drops her into a pit. Stupid -- that's what she is -- to be allowing this, accepting this, to have invited this. Irredeemably stupid. Fatally stupid. Her mind goes blank in utter despair. Clearly, she is unworthy of freedom, of her own life, if she can be so easily tricked. Everything's gone. Lost...

A tremor, then, from her belly, and she realises that it isn't true -- that not quite everything is lost. She is still fuckable, still able to choose to present herself as fuckable, to offer herself, to be pretty, to be sexy, still has her own sexual responsiveness to offer, her willingness to be used, to serve their pleasure, even if the cost of this is -- as seems clear from the example of the blonde -- a one-way ticket to debasement. Nevertheless, this is like a stick of wood to a drowning man -- she fixates on it, desperately.