The Didi Condition

Yes, it was for a mere second. Yet, given what he has seen, surely more than enough. My already virulent blush grows even darker and hotter as I contemplate the defeat of my modesty. I curse the hem of my dress, the seats of the bar, the unsympathetic bar girl, the uncooperative dress, my troublesome panties, the man who is taking such wicked advantage of my helplessness.

And, most of all, I curse my condition!

I tug at my dress yet again, making another pathetic attempt to control it, if only for a second or so, trying to gain blessed relief from knowing I am showing my suspenders, my stocking tops, my slip, to the man who is already in complete control of the situation.

And then, even this brief respite from shame is denied me. He looks up and meets my gaze, and, though his lips form no words, the command in his eyes is clear. Do not pull down your dress. Let it ride up as much as it likes. Let it show everything you have on underneath.

I hang my head in shame, a slave, helpless, my submission in full flow. I can no more defy him than I could sprout wings and fly, have as much chance of disobeying his command as I have the laws of gravity. He has ordered, and I have no choice but to obey. I am too weak, too helpless, too broken in will to do otherwise.

I sit, now and then sipping at my drink, not touching my dress. Now that it is not subject even to my pathetic attempts at control, it rides up with a vengeance. Soon, I am sure, not only the bands of my stockings but the pale flesh above them will be on show to his appreciative eye. Like a bird fascinated by a snake I sit helpless, unable to resist, completely subject to his domination.

He stares openly now, making no attempt at subtlety. I continue to look down at the table, my face burning with shame, biting my lip like a ridiculous overgrown schoolgirl. Sometimes, at such times, I cry at this point, though usually I can at least hold back that particular shame until later.

Without looking, I know he requires me to meet his gaze again. I am forced to obey. Again, his lips speak no words, yet his deep blue eyes tell me all I need to know.

Open your legs, they order, let me see your French knickers again.

My own eyes respond, pleading, Please, they say, not that. The legs of my panties, I try desperately to convey, have rucked up, and no longer cover my sex. I am, in a very real sense, naked under my dress. Please, I beg of you, don't insist on this. You've already seen everything I have on, know all my secrets, have reduced me to utter helplessness. Please, please, please... have mercy.

There is, his cold, hard, blue eyes say, no mercy to be had.

I have no choice. I uncross my legs, turn to face him, biting my lip again, my face I am sure a bright, burning scarlet. A cold rush of air invades my privacy, telling me that as I suspected (there was really very little room for doubt) the legs of my panties are, indeed, crumpled so badly that they cover nothing whatsoever. I do not shave that part of my person, and he can see that the hair is blonde, a little darker than the razor-teased mop on my head.

He has not finished yet.

It is not enough, the eyes say, simply to uncross my legs. No, I must open them completely, allow him to look right up my skirt, see absolutely everything, unsullied by shadow. At one time, at this point, I used to attempt to rebel, throw off the control the man had over me, say that this was the boundary beyond which I refused to go.

But this did me no good, and after many such failed attempts I ceased even to try. There is nothing I can do about it. He has me under total, inalienable control, can do with me whatever he wishes.

And what he wishes, after sitting for a few moments drinking his fill of what is under my dress, is stand, gaze contemptuously at me, drain the last of his drink, and signal with his eyes again that I must follow him, as he leaves the bar.

We do not walk far. He leaves the building, turns left, walks a few paces, and turns up a back alleyway. It is narrow, strewn with rubbish, the walls adorned with graffiti. The smell of feline urine assaults my nostrils. I follow, patting at my dress as I attempt desperately to smooth it, squirming at the discomfort of my still rucked up panties, dreading what is to come.

The alleyway makes a turn, at right angles, leading to a place behind the building a few plots along from the bar. Industrial bins line the walls, cars are parked haphazardly on the cracked asphalt. The walls are high, and, looking up, I see that there are no windows visible through which we might be overlooked. And for this, at least, I am grateful.

He leans against the wall, motioning for me to kneel. I do so, pleading, now openly, to be spared this shame.

"It's what you deserve," he growls, contemptuously, "for being what you are. Am I right, bitch?"

"Yes," I whisper, feeling my eyes prick with tears of shame. "Yes. I do."

"Yes what, bitch?"

"Yes Sir," I whimper, the tears beginning to roll down my cheek.

At this point, they do many things. Some force me to go onto all fours, a position even more humiliating than simply kneeling. Others make me lick their shoes. They might order me to remove my panties and hand them to them, forcing me to go home effectively naked under my dress. Or unzip my dress and let it fall, step out of it, and throw it over the wall, so that I am forced to go home in my slip. None of them has yet taken all my clothes, leaving me naked, but one day, I am sure, they will.

Sometimes they look me up and down, tell me that I am too pathetic even to fuck, and order me to turn and leave. And this is worst of all.

This one does none of these things. He grabs me by the arms, roughly, not caring about the pain this brings. Spins me around, so that my back crashes against the wall.

I whimper again, through my tears, knowing that it is hopeless to plead, as he works up my dress and slip, pressing against me, his erection hard. My make up runs down my cheeks, smudged and smeared, with the force of my tears. My dress and slip are rucked around my waist now, my stockings laddered and ruined, the knees having popped with the force as he pushed me against the wall.

He unzips himself, reaches inside, pulls out his manhood. Not especially large, yet rock hard, throbbing. There is a tiny ball of liquid already welling at the hole, a pearl, indicating his excitement. I stand, my hands down by my side, my voice a small, terrified squeak as he pushes against me, working the crumpled legs of my panties aside, his naked, hard cock teasing at the entrance to my sex.

He makes no effort to be gentle, or patient. I am grateful, at least, that my condition means that by this stage I am wet, soaking wet, and there is very little pain. It is, I feel, its one mercy. He forces his way in, grunting, pushing himself against me. I let out a small squeal.

I am defeated, totally and utterly. Yet again, I have been enslaved, helpless and pathetic, with no control over what is being done to me. I feel the bunched material of dress and slip between the naked small of my back and the wall, the hard surface of the wall itself, his rough, strong, hard hands gripping my buttocks as he thrusts inside me, the nails digging in to the soft flesh.

Good grief, he is so hard. So violent are his thrusts the tip of his sex, I swear, is banging against my spine. I feel the friction, as the material of my rucked up panties moves against the soft inner flesh of my upper thighs, the lace scratchy. I will have burns, there, for sure, afterwards. And the panties are, like my stockings, ruined, for he has ripped them in the violence of his enthusiasm.

He thrusts harder, and harder, and harder still. I cry out in pain, swallow my own tears, blink eyes that are smudged with make up, so that I can barely see. His face is screwed up with the effort, his deep blue eyes now closed, as he thrusts, hard and strong, so that I cry out, in pain and humiliation.

I have said that in my condition there is a small mercy, that at least the inside of my vagina responds when I am forced to do such things, but the mercy is greater still. There is, at least, a reward. For as he thrusts inside me, as he takes me, as he dominates me, I feel my breath catch, feel the wave rising, feel my body begin to tremble.

I scream, letting fly, this time in release and pleasure, as much as pain. It is like a convulsion, a bubble of air in my throat, as I fight for breath, then scream again, my nails clawing at his back through the t-shirt, feeling his flesh rip. I let fly, my tears streaming, and I am released.

And at that moment, he shoots inside me, an ocean, flooding me, filling me. And he goes limp, all over, his body falling against mine, as I fall, also limp, against him.

We stand, supporting each other, letting ourselves subside, listening to the beating of each other's hearts. I lean forward, and kiss him, a single, soft kiss, on those familiar lips.

Finally, after a long time, we release our embrace. I stand, smiling, as he gently wipes my eyes, cleans up my smudged make up, brushes the sweat-soaked hair from my forehead. I take a last look around the room, with its enlarged photograph, grainy and blurred, of brickwork strewn with graffiti, industrial bins, cars, blu-tacked to the wall, and follow him as he exits the scene of my violation.

After moving through the narrow passage that leads from the spare room to the kitchen, we can walk side by side, and do so, his arm around my shoulder, mine around his waist. As we move into the kitchen, with its table and the remains of my unfinished gin and tonic, and the smaller table my husband has shifted from the lounge, on which stands the empty glass that had contained his lager, I make a mental note to buy more of the eye drops that cause my eyes to water, that I apply just before the game begins.

I move behind the kitchen's serving bar, removing the block poster of the smirking girl, a rock singer, that in our imagination was the girl serving behind the bar. The other patrons, the young men and the newspaper reader we were forced to imagine.

I blow him a kiss, then plug in the coffee machine and begin to brew, while he opens the fridge, taking out the crab salad he earlier prepared for our supper, causing me to salivate with hunger. I am sated for now, but know that soon, perhaps as early as tomorrow night, or the night after, I will be eager to play the game again.

And play it, of course, we will.