Timmy's Story Pt. 02

He took me from half insane fear and desperate, animal struggling to eager, open invitation, from hot, harsh pain to urgent needy pleasure at his fancy, showing me how weak I was, how easily manipulated, how helpless in the face of even his most passing whim, laughing at me, grinning at me, watching me, caressing me, kissing me, forcing me, using me..

He moulded me into the most degrading position, face down on the marble floor of the hall, ass high, and wet his cock on my hungry sex for a few delirium inducing thrusts before pulling out and forcing my virgin asshole, enforcing my compliance with an iron grip on my wrists, laughing at my squeals of outrage, of hurt, of genuine fear, working himself relentlessly deeper, unstoppable, but at the same time casual, almost relaxed. He'd done this to many other girls, would do it to many more. Nothing would surprise him, or distress him - he was just having a little passing fun with the little chalet girl, who was nothing, nothing at all.

Gradually, though, he became more serious, his breathing harder, sharper, and, through the pain and the shame, I felt little bursts of pride and gratitude - I had given him this, he was taking it from me, enjoying me, letting me take him there, he wanted me, I was letting him, moving for him now, offering myself, opening myself, willing him on, to take me as fully as he wished, without restraint, my arms limp in his grip now, my belly quaking, soft sobs wracking me even as I strove to thrust my ass up to meet his strokes, letting him hear that my sexual tension was growing, even under this onslaught, the he was making me want to come for him, wanting him to know that about me, that he could do this to me...

Sated finally, after a shout of Russian as he jerked himself deep inside me, he pulled out and sat back, laughing softly at my weak, hoarse sobs, stroking my flanks, my breasts, until I moaned again, and at last turned to him in my need, desperately shy to be naked at that minute, feeling more vulnerable than ever before in my young life, more open, more known, all my secrets invaded, exposed, trashed, revealed as being nothing but baubles, girlish silly dreams. A whore, seeking his mouth with mine, opening my legs to his big hard hands, inviting him to my sex, to use it as he would, hungry for more of him, wanting the orgasm I had been so close to so many times, until he laughed out loud;

"Enough! Enough, slut! Make pancakes, good blinis. Then we will see if you can take any more."

He watched me, still mostly dressed, as I, naked but for shredded stockings and high heels, made pancakes. Several times he put a hand in my hair, bent me over the counter and slapped me, hard on the arse, five, six times, making sure I was really hurting before releasing me, laughing at my meek acceptance, the way my tits bounced, the squeals, the urgent, sincere, humble pleas for release, for mercy - ignored, of course, as their very nature emphasised my abject acceptance of his right to do as he pleased with me.

There was no resentment in me, none. I didn't enjoy the pain, didn't want to be hit, but if he wanted to hurt me, wanted to see me cry, it somehow seemed impossible to refuse him, and I didn't struggle. In fact I made efforts to look good as he slapped me, making sure my breasts swayed, lifting my bum for him...

I knelt for him as he ate the blinis, made love to his cock with my mouth, shameless, daring, doing everything I had never dreamt of doing before, delirious with the freedom of it. the freedom of being an acknowledged and obvious slut. A whore. Degraded.

He pulled my head off him, hand in my hair, hurting me, and said;

"I'm going to really beat you now, then rape you. After that, I'll sleep. You will be beautiful again by seven, wake me with your pretty mouth soft on my cock. Breakfast ready for when Ninotsch arrives at nine, you will serve naked. After breakfast, I work, Ninotsch gets nice mouth and fuck, then make you scream again, hurt you, quick fuck before you make all nice again ready for kids. Ten thousand euros. Fifteen thousand if I'm happy with what Ninotsch tells me."

And that's exactly how it went.

He did beat me, thoroughly, strapped down over the table, his heavy belt on my arse and legs, me crying out my despair at being treated so, but not really struggling. Then what wasn't rape, since I had already consented, but which was carried out as if it were, ending with him coming loudly, deep in my pussy, a sound which somehow filled me with gratitude (even though he left me still without an orgasm, despite the sexual rollercoaster he had put me through), after which he laughed, untied me, tousled my hair, smudged away my tears with a big thumb, took me on his lap, facing him thighs split, feeling like a little girl on his muscled, sinewed size, and kissed me softly and deeply, his tongue all over mine, until at last I sobbed; softly, this time, and held him tightly, desperately, sore breasts against the slick silk of his jacket - he was still dressed, while I was naked and sticky with sweat and come, trembling, lost, in shock, totally conquered.

He held me, gently enough, for a long time then, perhaps ten minutes or more, until the shakes had gone. I felt his cock stirring again, under me, and at the same time feared and gloried in it, and I moved for him, for it, using my buttocks to caress him, offering him myself for more, pushing my breasts at him, leaning my head back, feeling myself get hot and heavy, giving myself over to the feeling, the slutty feeling of blatantly doing anything you can to get a man to fuck you, until he laughed softly, lifting me effortlessly off his lap and placing me on my feet, swaying;

"Enough, slut. I have told you my plan. Go! Clean, chalet girl!"

And he went upstairs, laughing. I would have paid to hear more of that laughter. He had enjoyed me - me! Yes, yes he had used me abominably, but it was hard to believe that he wasn't interested in me, me, Timmy; right now, right here; interested in using Timmy, in fucking her. In using her. And she was happy, happy to have been used.

An hour later, I was cleaning the kitchen, wearing the apron now, but still naked, moving slowly, my mind full of wonder and astonishment, half numb, half joyful, half fearful, feeling my body (principally its many pains - all inflicted by him, with intent and full knowledge that he was hurting me) as never before, inhabiting it. Feeling like a being. This was Timmy, this naked slut, sticky, bruising, bleeding a little, tender, puffy, emotionally washed out, conscientiously and thoroughly cleaning for him, while he no doubt slept the satisfied sleep of a man without doubts or unmet needs.

By the time I went to bed there was no evidence that anything had happened.

I woke from a deep and dreamless sleep - all but catatonic - without the alarm, at 5.30, and knew that something was wrong, something big, something overwhelming - but .. what?

Then, with a shock, I remembered. Remembered with my mind, but also with my body - the slow heat of the hurts he had inflicted on me, and the intensity of the experiences, the unrestrained power and casual violence of his usage of me - of his coolly sadistic and total domination, of my abject submission.

Curling slowly into a foetal ball, I whimpered to myself, unable to comprehend the enormity, the implications, the dreadful reality of last night. it couldn't be real - it was undeniably the most real thing that had ever happened to me. It was insupportable, outrageous, impossible. It was heart-wrenchingly emotional, an experience of deep, unmatched intensity, the only thing that mattered was getting more of that - all of these feelings were chasing each other round my head, until I dug my nails into my arms, keening wordlessly.

I couldn't couldn't have let that happen - crazy! Impossible! I mustn't, must never, ever, go near him again, I must get away, now! Go. Escape.

Escape? Escape was impossible! And anyway, there was no-where to go, no place else to be.

And I would die without him.

And then the tears came, soft at first, then stronger, sobbing uncontrollably, crying out, almost snarling at myself.

Rather suddenly, it was over, I was as weak as a kitten, quivering, still dripping tears, but softly now, softly.

Because there was no conflict, really, no decision to be made, no questions that needed answers. I was his. My freedom was gone. In some way, without detail, I knew, at that moment, my fate. My destruction. What I would lose, give away, had already lost, somehow. Knew my ability to resist, to fight back, was all but zero, knew that he had me, that I would give myself to him.

That I must work, work to make them interesting for him, keep him interested, be good tits, good holes.

Somehow, it seemed alright. Easy almost.

And in a way it has been.

Easy.

Just do what it takes to get them to fuck me, make them enjoy it, serve their pleasure, encourage them to do everything they have ever dreamed of, accept it with a smile, with grace, with gratitude, lean in, accept...

Easy? Perhaps, but oh, the cost, the cost..

Somehow I understood all of this at that moment, and wept for myself, for sweet, innocent Timmy, who was no longer relevant, except as something to be violated for passing entertainment. Which she would work for, sweetly and helplessly offer herself up for, would do her shameful best to make her destruction entertaining for her abusers.

A small, clear voice came into my head then, to tell me it was time, and suddenly there were no choices, no more time to think, to cry, to lament my loss, my end; I was up, showering, meticulously applying make-up, finding new stockings, the suspender belt, the heels, nothing else, and waiting at his door until seven on the dot.

Door opened, I couldn't enter - a fit of the shakes, tears building. He was going to have me fuck his guy, then beat me again.

I tried for resistance, one last time - I didn't have to put up with this!

It only made me laugh at myself, and, with a sad little giggle that was almost a sob, I was on my knees, crawling as elegantly as I could manage toward the bed, lifting my head, so, so nervous, trembling, desperate not to do anything but make him happy. Because he would hurt me? Nothing to do with it - he was going to do that anyway.

No, I wanted to please him, wanted him to want me. I could do that, with my mouth, stroking him with my breasts, my pussy available to his strong and greedy hands.

That was me, that was what I could do, and it was real; immediate, shaming, glorious, sweaty, harsh, painful, exciting. I was that. He wanted that. I meant something. I was grateful; eager; needy, helpless.

He came, deep in my throat, made me a twitching, struggling, gagging, sticky mess, stuff coming from my nose, his strong hands pinioning mine, knees clamping me, panic rising - I was choking. No release, no let up, not a millimetre, until he had absolutely finished with me, finished his pleasure, luxuriated in his absolute possession of my throat; then casually pushed to the floor, shattering, wracking deep breaths, feeling my breasts move, wondering if he's watching them; hoping so, thinking; 'I should open my legs, show him my pussy' - and doing it, spreading myself wantonly, obscenely.

He leans over, lifts my head, hand under my chin, gentle, voice normal;

"You are very lovely, little Timmy. If you weren't promised to Ninotsch, I would beat you now - whip these breasts with a cane perhaps, than rape you again. It is good that you make me feel like this. Very good. We will talk again next week. Perhaps I will keep you."

And then he's in his bathroom, and I'm slowly grinning like an idiot.

Smiling; crying, yes, but smiling. A stupid idiot girl, hugging her knees to her chest, feeling her breasts tingle, knowing that he will do this thing - will beat her there with a cane, make her scream.

I'm sick, I think. Sick.

"So what's new?" came the response - "You knew that last week. Which is worse, that grey despair that was eating you alive, or this intensity, this wildness?"

I already know the answer. But the thought of Ninotsch seeing me reduced to this, of having to kneel and suck him, let him fuck me, of knowing that Karsh knows he can tell me he's going to thrash me and rape me, and that I'll meekly perform for him anyway, that is almost unbearable.

As before, I am a quivering mess until it's time, at which point something takes over, and I'm up, up; into the bathroom, cleaning myself up, lipstick, mascara, hair, all over again, then heading for the kitchen, putting on the silly, frilly little apron which hides nothing but my pussy, and hardly that, getting the eggs, setting the coffee going, blinking back the tears, looking in wonder at the spreading bruise where his teeth were in my breast, 18 hours ago, rising panic at the sound of the door, Ninotsch talking to Karsh, coming into the kitchen. I want to die.

I also want Ninotsch to find me attractive, to want me, it seems, pathetic as that is, and so I turn, make myself smile, even though my lip wobbles.

It makes it worse that Nino looks decidedly uncomfortable - nervous even, not meeting my eyes.

"Tell Nino you'll be good to him, Timmy - Tell him why. Make it good."

Karsh is teasing me - he sees just how it is with me, the awful tension - and he's enjoying it.

At that moment, I realise that it matters to me more than anything in the world that Karsh will decide to 'keep me' - whatever that means, I want him to want that. That the reality is, for me, that if he wants to, he probably can keep me, is in the back of my mind. I know it, but I can't let myself know it.

But right now, I have to please him. I need to please him so badly it hurts;

"Ninotsch, If Mr Karsh wants me to please, you, I .. I will do anything I can. I'm .. bought and paid for, I'm yours for as long as Mr Karsh says so, and I'll be what you want me to be."

He's not convinced. I'm fizzing with contradictions, shame, a wild freedom at being so debauched, naked, being made to offer myself as a whore, obvious marks of cruelty on my body. That's it..

"Mr Karsh likes to hurt me. So he does. I'm .. I'm easy. A .. A whore."

He's reaching out to touch my breast, and I'm - just - holding myself open to his touch. He's looking at me, wonderingly, but Karsh has other ideas;

"Later, Nino, later - plenty of time - you can rip her pussy with that big dick of yours after breakfast. Now, I need you to concentrate, yes?"

And we both obey our puppet master - me back to the stove, Nino to force himself to concentrate on the ins and outs of some new idea of Karsh's.

Nino's reticence has faded by the time breakfast's over. He's impatient now, frustrated, and he holds my head in his hands and fucks my face, fast and careless, then turns me round, pushes me forward and is on me, rutting into my pussy hard and fast, my breasts swinging wildly, and suddenly, unwantedly, I'm coming, helplessly, crying out wordlessly, jerking against him, wanting it, needing it, going for it ...This tips him over the edge and he's ramming himself deeper and deeper as he grunts his pleasure out in a series of dirty words in Russian.

I've lost all strength in my legs, and roll into a messy heap on the floor, apron rucked up, legs akimbo, his hot sperm cooling rapidly on my thighs, quivering and spasming. Sobbing softly. I am a whore now. A dirty whore. A dirty whore who comes for a stranger because it turns her on to be a whore.

This time the voice in my head takes over as soon as Nino leaves the house, whistling cheerfully to himself, manhood assured. There are only a few hours left until the children return (I've looked, the forecast is clear - they will be coming), and Karsh wants to beat me and rape me. Therefore, this will happen.What Karsh says, happens - I know this now. What Karsh wants from me, however appalling, however frightening, I will offer as sweetly and seductively as I can. I know this too.

So my only agency here is to make the experience good for him - so that he will want to keep me, so that I will be validated, have some meaning, some purpose. Even if it is just to be his whore - the one he wants to keep.

It is as aggressive as the last time, and my conscious submission makes no difference to how much it hurts, how degrading it is to be made to scream, and struggle to hide from the cane, to writhe, and beg for mercy, to offer him my pussy, my ass, my mouth, anything; to whimper, to plead, even though he and I both know it will make no difference, that he will do exactly as he wishes with me.

He uses my ass, hard, and the pain is indescribable - yesterday's hurts are still fresh there. There is no pleasure, no hint of sexual fire in me. I'm just a beaten, fucked, whore, trembling and crying her shame naked on the cold marble floor as he walks away. No cuddles today.

"One hour" is all he says. One hour to become little Timmy the competent and contained chalet girl again, ready to feed his children, clean his kitchen, deliver his tea, somehow hold her emotions inside, manage to continue.

It's the hardest thing I have ever done in my life. And I do it perfectly.