Timmy's Story Pt. 02

Please read this before reading the story.

Although my stories are typically BDSM in their subject matter, they are certainly not genre/lifestyle/romantic BDSM stories, where one can expect care, consent, safe-words, and a code of conduct that keeps real people safe in real relationships. My stories are pure fantasy, and much darker—please don’t read them if this will upset you. This is why I am recategorising my stories to the Non-Consent/Reluctance category.

*****

I hadn't dropped out of college, I told myself. I just - hadn't gone back.

Refusing to stay with my parents after a terrible row on Christmas day, I had got the coach to the Alps, and found an agency that provided chalet girls for the high-end ski trade.

Finally, I used my education for something practical - to impress them at the interview with my sophistication, my command of both Russian and English, my knowledge of world affairs, and my general all-round competence.

I got the job, and was in work 2 days later. An English couple, 2 pre-teen kids, infuriating, ill-mannered, lazy, rude - a caricature of the worst kind of people that island produces. But I made light work of it - it was easy, somehow, now that I had decided I no longer cared, that everything was meaningless.

Another week with a quiet German family, annoying in a different way - no style, no charm, nothing. But again, I took it in my stride, then at the end decided to take up an offer to go out with some other chalet girls and their ski bum guys. We went to a round of bars and clubs, all essentially identical, full of people who looked, sounded and talked just like we did, got hammered to endless eurobeats, went back to a guy's flat, fucked like bunnies, slept all day, then did it again the next night, same routine, different guy. All without once having a genuine emotion.

It was time to go back to Paris, back to student life, to give up on 'my little tantrum' as my mother called at, my 'treason to the family ' according to my father and his older brother.

I so nearly did, as well - after all, what was one meaningless existence over another? Except that I got a call; another girl had broken her leg (ski-ing while drunk), and I had impressed them so that they were offering me a two week stint at one of the swankier chalets, high up on the mountain - the sort where the clients - a Russian billionaire and his kids, I was told - tended to arrive by helicopter. They gave me to understand that the tips might double the wages. I took it, not for the tips, but for the views. Views of the far peaks from the tops were the only thing that had given me peace since I'd got there, and this chalet was right up there in the sky.

So that was it, I hadn't dropped out, I was just earning some useful cash, and would catch up in a few weeks time. I blocked my mother's number (not my father's - he never called me anyway), and signed on the dotted line.

As minions, there was no helicopter for us, but a jouncy ride on a snowmobile, banging around in the dark. The driver fancied his chances, and tried hard to chat me up, but my experiences over the weekend had left me cold - I gave him flat 'no'; he called me a frigid bitch, grinned at me and left. Fine by me, I thought, and began to look around.

'Swanky' was an understatement - it was bling to the max - everything up-to-the minute, remotes for everything, rustic charm draped in satin, finished with gilded marble and mirrors, all in gruesome taste, backed up by wall-to-wall electronics and automation. Television the size of a wall, that disappeared into the ceiling when you didn't want it - that sort of nonsense.

I had an evening and the following morning, so I put my serious head on, stopped thinking, and learnt how to make it all work; scrubbed all the bits the cleaning staff had done sloppily, made a couple of cakes and some wreaths. I might as well have been at home after all, slaving for my mother, preparing for her traditional New Year's event. But here, at least, I didn't have to make small talk. The billionaires were coming tomorrow, and I'd be lucky if they learnt my name.

At least I slept well, physically and mentally exhausted, grateful for oblivion, these days.

They did indeed arrive by helicopter, mid morning, and surprised me, a little. I had been expecting loudness, insensitivity, crude displays of wealth, but in fact here was a serious, courteous man in his late forties, grizzled, tough looking, but speaking excellent French, and his two quiet children, both mid-teens, friendly if reserved, eager to ski.

They listened politely to the short tour, were appreciative of the cake (without eating more than a token few bites), then the children were off with their instructors (who had also arrived in the helicopter), and the father was setting himself up in the well-equipped study with his tech guy - who had already done a full sweep of the house in a professionally efficient manner. It was all quite impressive.

It looked as if I would have an easy couple of weeks - this lot were very self-contained. I would cook, and tidy, of course, but it seemed unlikely that I would be called upon to handle vicious sibling rivalry, as with the English, or blank-faced rudeness, as from the Germans. I turned my brain off, and did my work, staring out at the immensity of the snow-covered peaks.

It went like that for three days; breakfast spread, early and all-day ski-ing for the children, him in the study mostly, supply delivery, cleaning, tidying, cooking, evening meals, bed.

The only thing that was bothering me was Karsh. That was his name - Karsh. Not a very Russian name. Slavic, he said, but not much more, when I asked, and stared into me. He did that - looked into you, not at you, with his ice blue eyes, unblinking, unsmiling, waiting. We French can stare, too, but I was in no state for that, defeated by life already, and meekly looked down at his feet.

He was looking at me too, though - more than once, I looked up to catch him looking at me - looking at my body. It was fairly frank, in fact. He wasn't looking at me - he was looking at my body. It made me blush, but there was nothing, really, that I could complain about - he wan't leering, wasn't obvious, wasn't trying anything, or staring just at my breasts, as the German guy had often done. No, Karsh was just looking at me.

But it was getting to me. He wan't especially attractive, and he was probably as old as my dad. He obviously kept himself fit and trim, dressed rather well, actually, and had broad, hard hands that fascinated me a little, but really, there was nothing special about him really but his calm confidence and that all-seeing stare.

Nevertheless, alone in that big place with him each day, I had certainly developed a feeling of sexual tension, and with not enough to do, with a physical refusal by my body to do what I had told myself I would, and catch up with my reading list, I had lots of time to think about him, what he saw when he looked at me, whether he liked it, wondering why I couldn't tell what he was thinking - and more specifically, what he thought of me, and why that bothered me.

On the fourth day, it was announced that the children were flying over to the next valley to stay the night with their mother (Karsh was twice divorced). They would be back the next day, or perhaps the one after - the weather might not allow the helicopter to fly, apparently.

He rang for tea as usual at three in the afternoon - the security guy had told me how I should make it, Russian style, and Karsh took it three times a day. When I delivered it, he motioned with his hand, casual, confident. I had no idea what he meant by it, but assumed that I should stop and wait.

I waited for ten minutes all told; after two or three, without him having looked up from his laptop, I had made to leave;

"Stay" was all he said, and I did, feeling increasingly odd as the minutes mounted up.

The sexual tension was rising, despite there being nothing, nothing at all obvious at least, that suggested it should.

Then he looked up. Silence, stare. Silence; I start to speak - the hand movement again. I am silent. He pours the tea, sips, gestures;

"Do you want some?"

"No, .. no, thank you."

A little nod, nothing. Staring again. I am fidgety now, my French cool fraying.

He's looking into me again. That look long, calm, in complete silence. I begin to get the jitters, feeling increasingly weak and foolish, without any specific reason. It is as if he sees everything about me, that I am entirely laid bare. It's terrible, but also incredible; he's really looking at me. Perhaps he sees something - perhaps .. perhaps..

Then;

"Timmy, I will take a woman tonight. Most straightforwardly, it will be you. I am rather demanding - but I pay very well, of course." - his voice as normal as if he were announcing his choice of dinner menu.

He smiles, a genuine smile, friendly even, and in spite of myself my heart does a little leap - he's suddenly dreamboat material. But that's not the point! He's just asked me .. asked me to, well ..

"What do you say?"

I can't speak for a few seconds, for the conflict of emotion in me, then it bursts from me;

"I'm not a whore!"

I sound shrill, girlish, panicky - not the 'in control, ' 'Parisian woman of the world' Timmy, after all...

Karsh though, is as relaxed and assured as ever. He waits a couple of beats, letting the sound die away, waiting, making sure I am done. And I am - I should say more, I know, but somehow there's nothing there. The initiative is his, once more. As always. I am uncomfortably aware of a tingling at my breasts, in my loins. The knowledge that he wants to fuck me, no matter how weirdly announced, has ignited something in me, and I know that I want him, at some animal level at the very least. I want him to fuck me; put those hands on me, hold me..

"You are avoiding the issue. I am uninterested in your status, or what you have done before."

He's like my most annoying professor - having asked a question, he does not repeat it - just requires that you answer it, stick with the issue. It's a trait I have admired, but now it's like being forced to confront something you don't want to acknowledge. Somehow though, his calm assurance is working - I'm relaxing. After all, he's not offered me violence, or even persuasion. I can answer the question, can't I?

Or can I?

It seems not; "Um.." is all I manage.

Why can't I just say no? Do I want to be his whore? No - No! Well .. at least I think I don't. Of course, I must think I don't want to - I'm a modern woman after all, and I hardly know this man..

On the other hand, if nothing means anything, and if I slept with two strange boys on two consecutive nights just days ago, for no result at all, why shouldn't I sleep with this man that is beginning to fascinate me, and get paid lots of money, too?

"Ahhh.."

He grins, amused, it seems, tolerant, unconcerned.

"Very well. You have half an hour. After that I will dismiss you - call the chalet company, and call Ninotsch - he will find someone. Don't worry, you will be paid for your two weeks in full, with a tip - you have been excellent. But I would like you to know that I hope you can say yes. I am interested to fuck you, and bite your pretty breasts. I bite hard; it will hurt you - you would remember me ..."

He looks at me, his gaze light, but again I feel as if he sees right into me. I'm shaking. How can he just - just say things like that?

And then, having seen enough, he turns back to his screen, and his attention is gone from me. I've been dismissed. I almost collapse - it's physical, that hold he has.

Somehow, I walk from the room with the dignity I can muster. I have no confidence at all that he even notices. I am walking with my feet on an imaginary line, like a catwalk model. I want him to like my bum, see it move. I feel pathetic; I feel exalted.

I feel completely torn by conflicting emotions of all kinds.

I curse myself. How, how could I let him do that corny 'dismissal' trick on me, and just leave, so meekly? Why didn't I tell him, right there and then, what I'm going to tell him, what I must, right now, march back in there and tell him - to go fuck himself, and his chalet, and his money. Fuck being paid, I'm calling the police, asshole!

My indignation and bravado lasts about 5 seconds before I grimace; who am I trying to kid? The chalet company, the cops here, the other girls - the whole town knows the score, and I do too. Nothing is going to do much more than ruffle his feathers, and if I try, it will be me that ends up in the slammer - not charged, of course, just 'cooling off'.

So, pack my bags then, slink off, tail between my legs. Hope he's straight about the money, accept it as just another sign that the universe thinks nothing of me. Carry on with the nothingness. What does it matter?

Well, if I'm going to do that, I may as well use that swanky bathroom once more, and put on my most 'fuck you' Parisian get-up, and try to leave in style.

I blink back sudden tears, and start up the stairs, feeling unaccountably weary, despairing.

In my room, I force myself to get a grip. Who is he, this Russian, this nouveaux-riche, arrogant, selfish pig? Away from him, I am able to whip up the anger and affront enough to get me through my packing, and twenty minutes later, I sweep down the stairs, bags packed, half expecting (hoping) to find him in the hallway, ready to make one last try at convincing me, so that I can reject him, magnificently.

Nothing - In fact, I can hear him on the 'phone in his study, sounding completely normal, as if nothing has happened (I soon realise that, for him, this is true - nothing at all out-of-the-ordinary has happened).

I haven't thought this through, I realise. How will I leave? No helicopter for me, no taxis here - I need the snowmobile. And I know that there's no way they will send it for a few hours - the guy is busy doing deliveries all day, and they won't prioritise a silly chalet girl who is causing them trouble by resigning.

I'm quivering with rage. I tell myself it's rage. But the real reason, that I can't acknowledge, is that I'm quivering because I want to stay. Because I want him to want me to stay. Because he said that thing. Because he said that he is 'interested to fuck me and bite my pretty breasts'.

He's interested in me. Nobody else is - not in me as me - only in me as a future success, as a future source of pride, as a future vehicle for the family esteem. My tits are me, just as much as my capacity for careful linguistic sophistry, surely? More so - more authentically so, for sure.

And no-one , no-one, has ever said that they would like to bite them before.

There are tears in my eyes. I don't want my breasts bitten - not hard, anyway. But I do, I do, desperately want someone to want me - want me for me.

I don't know how long I stood there, but I am fairly sure it went past the half hour. Efficient as he was, he was never, in my experience, a clock watcher, never interested in detail, only in outcomes that satisfied him.

It became ridiculous - I couldn't leave, I couldn't go back upstairs, and I especially couldn't go into the study and confront him, so there I stayed, trembling, in an agony of impossibility, fighting back tears, hating myself.

And then, at last, he was there, smiling - really smiling, no sardonic grin this time. And his voice was soft, almost kind;

"My my! I'm impressed. Quite the smart Paris woman - you look years older, more - more serious .. almost scary. Almost too scary. I am more interested to fuck you than before, I think. And now I will."

And without any fuss, while I stood there, as if frozen, he began to unbutton my chic little jacket - and then it was gone. And then my tight skirt with its clever kick pleat - also gone, leaving me in my lingerie. I had, for some reason, put on my most fussy and fancy pieces - things I wore, like secret armour, to important interviews and the like, where they helped me feel remarkable, special.

Now, though, in the presence of a man who probably owned a few lingerie businesses just for access to the models, the effect was different. Everything about them said 'expensive whore'.

So it was a surprise when, disarming me completely, he laughed;

"My little Timmy, you amaze me! You bring these, to a ski chalet! And you not a whore!"

His smile again made it clear that he knew for a certainty that I was no whore, and now, now I gave in to him. In a voice that was not much more than a whisper, and embarrassingly intense, I heard myself say;

"Nothing .. nothing but the best for .. for you, sir."

Intended to be some sort of kickback, carry some sarcasm, or at least irony, it came across as utterly sincere - a submission, an offer, an invitation. I heard it like this myself, and the sexual heat was ignited in me again, and my chest swelled as my pulse rate jumped, felt myself flush hot, pink, felt the softness flow into my joints.

And he clearly understood, and took full advantage of the invitation, smiling at me, making me melt, one hand confidently coming to my sex, thumb mashing into my clitoris, making me gasp.

"Take off the pretty bra, Timmy. I have a fancy to see you always in such finery, and until you start spending my money, I assume you have no more, so I won't ruin it this time. "

"That's it, hands behind your head now. These are good tits, girly, not bad at all - just what I like to get my teeth into .."

And with that he bit down, hard, onto my right nipple, carefully savage, making it hurt, holding me, gauging how I held myself, too, he told me later. And I did. Hold myself. Hold myself still so that he could hurt me. Hurt me for the first time.

And it did hurt; I cried out in frank, undisguised dismay, and he laughed into my soft flesh, and twisted his head, pulling off me without releasing his jaw, making me yell.

He was for real; he was what he said he was. He meant something. I was putty in his hands from that moment. So many boys had said brave things to me - trying to impress me with their manliness, their power. All of them - but all of them, these boastful ones, had failed to follow through. And here he was - going far beyond anything I had imagined possible, with complete casual assurance.

Yes, he was hurting me, and it was shocking and outrageous, but also, he was here, he was real, and he wanted me.

Somehow, my hands were still behind my head, my thighs open to the hand foraging at my sex. Hot tears were on my cheeks, and I was sobbing, close to hysteria, but moaning as well as he did gorgeous things with my clit.

And it went on from there, that afternoon, like nothing I had experienced before (or since, really - there is nothing like a first time); there was no hurry, no pressure, no doubt, no question - as there had been with every sexual encounter in my life thus far.

On the other hand, never had there been such relentless control, such ruthless pleasure taking, such selfishness and greed, such a clarity that I was the vehicle for his pleasure, that I was his prey, his meat, his toy.

It was like being invaded by an army of such superior force that there is nothing to do but comply. Comply with everything, even though it hurt (which it often did), even though it be transgressive (which it often was), even though it required me to make it clear just how excited, or shamed, or agonised I was by so much of it.

I was like a rag doll. He bit my clitoris, hard, using his molars, until I screamed. He licked my sex until I melted, and screamed some more. He tied my elbows behind my back, my neck to a stairpost, and thrashed my breasts with a belt, until I nearly choked myself attempting to find a position where he could not hurt my nipples any more, all to no avail - screaming again, seeing him smile, feeling him looking at me in that way, seeing just what this was doing to me; nowhere to hide, more naked than naked, feeling that he was inside every conflicting, warring emotion that shook me, that he was playing me like an instrument.