Timmy's Story Pt. 04

Although I think this belongs in the BDSM category (everything here is clearly consensual, making Non-consent/Reluctance inappropriate), a comment has made me decide it's worth flagging up that this story is not in the world of loving or lifestyle BDSM, but is a fantasy around the wholesale capitulation of a needy and weak submissive to a manipulative and cruel dominant. If you don't like the sound of this, please don't read it!

This will make more sense if you have read the preceding parts.

And thus began the second phase of my time with Karsh - what I called my double life.

Double, in that most of the time, like that first evening, I was acting the part - sort of at least - of a normal person, but at the same time, all of the time, I was his helpless whore, a willing victim of his greedy and cruel desires.

This double life was forced on me - without him ever explaining it - because he clearly expected me to behave at all times like a normal person; without any hint that there was anything more to my role than being a dogsbody assistant, until it occurred to him that he wanted to use me in some other way - at which point he required me instantly to change mode.

So, that evening, I had somehow to fold up and put away until later all the jagged, conflicting emotions stemming from those unbearably intense minutes: the rape, the discovery, Karsh' shocking punishment of Ninotsch, my own sudden understanding of my being somehow Karsh's possession - all of it had to be firmly and resolutely suppressed, as I rushed up to my room to gather what I would need to present myself at a high-end casino-restaurant.

To say I was dealing with a cauldron of emotion would be an understatement - so many conflicting feelings, so many powerful and contradictory urges. Nevertheless, it was clear what trumped them all - a fierce joy that Karsh wanted me to be at the dinner - wanted me to look good, would buy me clothes, that I would be with him.

The inescapable, sharp conflict of the double life hit me powerfully only a few minutes later, when I came into the hallway to get my outdoor gear, only to find Sergey there already. The last time he had seen me I was half-naked, obviously having just disengaged myself from Ninotsch's unwanted fucking (although come to think of it, he had no way of knowing then whether I was being raped or was a willing partner). But then again, what had Karsh told him when he had run out, or while I had been upstairs?

I faltered, feeling the heat rise to my cheeks, tried for cool, tried to act as if nothing had happened - at least as if that moment of revelation was not something to be acknowledged, but I had reckoned without Sergey being Karsh's son. His version of Karsh's stare, which I had never experienced before, was nowhere near as unsettling or merciless as his father's, but made it crystal clear that whatever he had thought of Timmy the chalet girl before - and he had always been friendly in a polite way - he now considered this Timmy - the one whose pussy he had seen all pink and puffy from recent fucking - as a sexual being, and one that he had little respect for, but nevertheless found sexually interesting. He was smiling at me with a sneer that burned.

And after all, he was right; what had I become, those few days ago - some sort of slut, some sort of whore, a wanton? It had been my choice. If I had not let Karsh use me like that, Nino would never have felt so confident that he could simply fuck me without permission. Sergey was right, and I knew it.

Nevertheless, here came Karsh, wanting to know if we were ready, telling us the helicopter would arrive in a minute or two. Karsh saved me; his requirements were clear, and strong, and I was instantly, deeply grateful - I didn't to have to rely on my own confused instincts; it was simple, just do what Karsh wanted. Be what Karsh wanted me to be.

Simple doesn't of course, mean easy, and sitting in the helicopter, feeling Sergey's eyes on me (and not daring to look up to see if this was actually true), feeling that he was looking at me now as some sort of sex object, that he knew something, something at least, about what had been going on with me, that was truly awful, made my stomach churn. Worse still, the reality that I had no way of knowing exactly what he did understand about my position - had his father told him anything? Everything? Some half-truths? I had no choice other to sit and endure, however excruciating, however humiliating.

But not just sit and endure, for the other side of my double life was also present. I was in a helicopter with Karsh, and he too might be looking at me. Strange that I would be happy to know that he was looking at me with just the same thoughts as Sergey's - I definitely wanted Karsh to know that I was wanton for him, that I was happy to be his sex-object - so, far from holding my body in, making myself drab, trying to make myself non-sexual, uninteresting, in the hope of deterring Sergey from looking at me that way, I was determined to make myself attractive to his father.

The balancing act of that helicopter ride was, in one way or another, my reality for the following months - wrestling with the insoluble problem of, most urgently, enticing and inviting Karsh' greedy usage of my body, without embarrassing him in public, but equally without enduring any more of the bitter shame that being a degraded slut brought with it than could be avoided.

It was, of course, Karsh' masterful manipulation of me and of such situations that meant I never once got past the idea that this triple impossibility was my responsibility - that it was my own stupidity, weakness and sluttishness which kept me constantly pulled in different directions, constantly failing, constantly castigating myself for getting everything wrong. That Karsh himself was simply a violently passionate, greedy and fatally fascinating man, with whom I had become obsessed due to some character flaw.

The reality - that it was me who was the naive simplistic, passionate one, and that Karsh was the driver of all this - simply never occurred to me, not for months and months.

For Karsh never appeared to be doing very much about me; mostly, it seemed, his interactions with me consisted of smiling and laughing at me, clearly seeing my trouble - the look in his eyes sympathetic and friendly - but mostly just entertained, offering no help at all beyond that - not taking my agonies, my embarrassments, my troubles at all seriously (and, by extension, not taking me seriously - and of course, since I was already convinced of my own fundamental lack of seriousness before I met him, this fed my own inner weakness oh so very neatly).

The whole evening was like that; sitting in the restaurant, in my expensive and sexy new dress (which I loved and was in awe of, not really knowing how to carry it off) with Sergey and Marina and a couple of Karsh' staff who were staying in the town, trying to live up to Karsh' expectations (without in the slightest knowing what they might be), dampen down Sergey, and give the staff (strangers to me) no excuses to despise me.

And all the time having no idea what any of them really thought of me. My only comfort the knowledge that Karsh wanted me there, that Karsh had enjoyed buying clothes with me, insisting on coming into the dressing room of the stupidly expensive boutique he chose - it being so close to closing time there were no other customers, and the lady Patronne clearly knew him and would have done anything to keep him happy, so that I stripped and dressed in front of him several times as he chose lingerie and dresses for me, spending I don't know how much but clearly a great deal, judging from the glow of pleasure on la Patronne's otherwise flinty face when we finally left.

He had reached out at one point and lifted my breast - the one he had bitten so hard, the mark still just visible, and grinned at me - like some fierce bear, I suddenly thought;

"I want you always to carry marks of my making", he had said, grinning at me, as I trembled (how could his touch be so electric, so unbearably desirable?);

"I'd like to mark you - with a knife - cut you. May I?"

Naked, his hand on me, melting with the suppressed desire of the last days, frazzled with the emotional intensity of the last two hours, this was impossible to process - just impossible. Earlier, I had found myself stuttering for the first time. Then, I could make only incoherent noises;

"Bu... Nu.. na.."

I thought I was trying to say 'No'. I thought I was. But who knows? In any case he was ignoring me, reaching into his pocket and pulling out an elegant little stainless steel pocket knife, that opened with a sinister and sexy 'snik'.

Then I was just moaning, ever so softly, with each out breath, trembling violently. My hands had gone to his shoulders, but I wasn't pushing him away as he squatted, his face level with my sex, and lifted the knife.

'No, not my pussy - no! no! He can't cut me there! No!' - the thought screamed in my head, but, trembling so much, I couldn't actually do anything, couldn't look, couldn't cry out, couldn't do anything but wait, wait, tears already rolling down my cheeks. I told myself to close my legs, tight - but nothing happened.

And then I felt it, soft, but hot, so hot, but so gentle, just to the left of my sex, just clear of my little bush, a stroke, and again, and again, and he leant back, head on one side, appraising - looking.

Was that it?

Then he leant in again; I felt his hot tongue on my skin, and then wailed, softly, as I could feel it now, the cut - it must be just skin deep - all sting and no real pain - but with his licking, it stung and stung - and suddenly I was so turned on. He had cut me. I had let him cut me, and it - it was.. was so fucking intense...

I almost fell over backwards when his tongue moved to my sex, and my pussy burned, ten times more than the little papercuts he'd marked me with, and I was thrusting my crotch into his face, jerking, wanting him, hearing myself, not moaning, but urgently rasping with each out-breath;

"haa-erh ... hhhaa-aaHaerh .. hhaa-hhhaaa-aer .. "

An animal, working towards its desire - a climax that will obliterate all need for thought, eradicate all doubt, remove any possibility of meaning with pure and extreme sensation...

He was biting me there too, softly, but I could feel his teeth and I knew he was going to hurt me and I opened myself to it and moved my hands to his head to pull him in to me, offering myself to it, to his cruelty, to his desire, to his will, to my god, to the pain...

And then he pulled away, looked up at me, smiling, grinning, laughing, until I began to keen, to cry with frustration, and then I was laughing too, laughing through the tears, and my knees gave way and I knelt there facing him and his hands were hurting my nipples and I was kissing him over and over and saying;

"Thank you, Thank you, Thank you!", through the kisses, doing everything I could think of doing to tell him I had given myself to him, that he owned me, that I was his - just not saying the words, not having the words, not daring the words, until, softly, he pushed me back, held my shoulders, smiling at me, his eyes frighteningly intense, looked deeply, deeply inside me, and I calmed down almost at once, such is his influence, his magnetism, his power - although my breathing was still loud in the little room - and I could hear his, too - knew that he was not immune, not completely cool - this gave me such joy - to know that I excited him! Me! - my thighs split as wide as I could get them, opening for him, hoping to show him something of what i felt, what I offered, what I had surrendered, willingly, hopefully, humbly, happily...

He laughed, then, reached out, and, putting a hand deep into my hair, gripped, pulled me slowly, irresistibly, downward, hurting my scalp, and I went with him, happily, even though it was awkward in the squatting position and in the end I had to let myself topple, fall heavily, until my face was in his crotch, jammed up against his obvious hardness, breathing through the fabric of his trousers, holding my hands out at my sides, loose, palm upward - instinctively wanting to make them useless, make it clear that I was helpless - in his hands, completely, feeling deep shudders of emotion rack through me, feeling my hips still bucking at the memory of that intensity, of his mouth on my sex, stupidly, pathetically grateful that he had seen fit to cut his mark into my flesh.

And I heard him, ever so softly, talking to the back of my neck;

"I am thinking that I will take you all the way, little Timmy. All. The. Way."