After Dinner

After dinner

, her boyfriend had made some excuse -- gone to meet a friend about some drugs, he said, and left her alone with his step-father and the other man -- a guest, heavy, unattractive, stubbly beard, heavy gold chains, thick, wet lips. She knew who he was, some fashion business mogul.

They had ignored her, mostly -- talking business and politics, which had made her increasingly mad. She knew that she was pretty, and she knew that they thought she was pretty; she had got into the habit of watching men's eyes as they noticed her; she knew.

And there was something else, too.

The knowledge that she was a pretty young girl, on her own with two very rich men -- both old enough to be her father, but well known for being seen with younger, stunning 'girlfriends' -- this was part of it.

Out of nowhere, the guest broke in on these thoughts;

"Simon says you have expensive tastes."

She is taken off-guard, blushes, stammers;

"Um -- oh.. er.. I.. I g-guess so.." and she hears herself giggle, girlish, weak, and blushes -- why isn't she being cool with them, the ugly old bastards?

"Hmm" -- a considering silence; he is looking at her, his eyes travelling calmly all over her body.

It's insulting! She should say something!

But in reality, she finds herself subtly displaying herself, a little fake smile on her lips -- blushing more.

It goes on too long, until again, she giggles, betraying herself, weak. They're both looking at her quite openly now, in a way that she would never normally accept.

But there seems to be nothing she can do about it, now. Nothing she wants to do, at least.

More silence -- she gets a bit squirmily uncomfortable, and has to take herself in hand, not wanting to lose her cool.

OK, they're staring at her as if she's a model -- she'll show them!

Rather minimally at first, but getting slowly bolder, she begins to preen -- display herself deliberately for them -- inviting their eyes now, checking that they are interested from lowered lashes.

It gets harder and harder, as the silence lengthens, as their stares grow increasingly confident, to manage her mounting shame, the desperate feelings of vulnerability, of the unspeakable offer she is making, but there is no going back, it seems, no stopping, until at last he speaks;

"How would you like me to sponsor you? I could, you know -- keep you in pretty dresses -- maybe a better apartment; a hotel suite? Until I get you a modeling contract -- I can do that, you know."

He -- he's so blatant, undressing her with his eyes as he speaks -- and she only met him three hours ago, can't even remember his full name!

She feels herself start trembling. She.. she finds that she wants that life -- money to buy wonderful clothes, swanky apartment, swanky dinners, swanky clubs, no more college, no need to work. It is as if she has been dying of thirst her whole life without allowing herself to know it, but now someone has offered her water; her whole being is telling her;

Yes!, Yes! Yes!

A pulse beats in her throat, visibly; her cheeks are flushed. But she is a beautiful girl who has been practising the art of managing men since childhood. She keeps her face looking calm, maintains her passive pose, even though the erratic, deep breathing makes her chest, her bosom, her firm breasts, heave.

But they can see it, she knows -- that she is in turmoil. can also see how hard she is working to manage herself, to present herself for their pleasure, to be worthy of their interest; the experience at the same time deeply humiliating and wildly exciting.

But she can't say yes! She can't! He.. he will want to fuck her, have her kiss him, let him fondle her. And he's so -- fat! Hairy! His wet lips; the smell of cigar smoke. She'll know she's some sort of whore.

And the silence grows.

If he had given her any impression of even caring much about the answer, he would have lost her. But he's an old hand at this -- and for a fact he really doesn't care that much. He has two or three girls on the go, and a couple of other luscious prospects under consideration, so this one would be an unexpected bonus -- she hasn't been on his radar -- he had come to talk business, had expected no-one at dinner but his old sparring partner, Simon.

So he leans back, still looking at her, but less intently. His voice is pleasant, urbane, but with a hard centre.

"If you don't know what you want, that's fine. I don't want to cause you any disturbance. Please, forget I said anything."

And that's all it takes;

"Yes! Yes! Please!" she says, in a hurry -- voice breathy, low, throaty (

god, but I sound needy

, she thinks to herself).

Her cheeks are fiery now -- and she is, she is; deeply, needy. She wants what he offers so badly she can taste it; feels tears prickling in her eyes at the thought that she might get it -- might become that whore.

She is offering herself to this man she knows almost nothing about, who is older than her father, in front of her boyfriend's step dad, and they all know exactly what is being negotiated. It feels as if she is on some extreme high -- lucid, very, very immediately present, but utterly dazed at the same time. Nothing feels real.

Nothing that is, except the fierce, urgent need, burning within her, for that life. She has been offered it, and now she must, must, get it (

but, the cost! -- yes, and the cost, too, since it must be paid

). She won't get a second chance, she knows -- such a man does not negotiate or seek to convince. Either he believes she wants it, that she will take the whole package, and deliver without trouble, or this will be the worst of all outcomes -- offering herself as a whore, and being rejected.

Better to be a pampered, wanted whore than a rejected, foolish slut.

His reaction is slow, considered, betraying nothing of the increase in his own pulse rate (he's going to get to fuck this beautiful thing, soon, and then he's going to own her, and then he's going to embed his ownership of her so deeply into her weak little mind that she will have no concept of existence, any more, but as a servant of his pleasure);

"Really? Are you sure -- because this is not some lightweight proposal -- it's a serious commitment you'd be making? And, of course, a serious commitment on my part."

Over the threshold now, she cannot bear the slightest risk of the humiliation of being rejected at this point; she leans forward, lifting her chin, opening her shoulders, pushing her breasts forward, letting him look into her eyes, see her lower jaw trembling, hear the neediness in her voice -- letting him see everything, offering everything, not daring to take the risk of acting in the smallest way as if she is cool.

It's desperate -- she feels naked, so terribly vulnerable, but it has to be done -- she cannot fail herself now, whatever the cost;

"Yes, yes, please -- I'm really, really sure. Please. I.. I really want this."

Her tits are a little on the small side -- he'll have them done as soon as she's been broken in, he thinks. It's always good to have them cut early on -- for the girl to experience what it means to sit there, silent, naked, holding herself well, not consulted once while he and the surgeon -- touching her, manipulating her, matter-of-fact, while they decide how her tits should look; her labia, too, if they can be improved -- how the most intimate parts of her body should be permanently reshaped, with a scalpel, to suit his whims.

To remind her, while she's sucking the surgeon's cock, to do a good job since the man will be using a knife on her pussy soon.

Fuck her from behind while she signs the consent forms (the nurse holding the clipboard for her), still not really knowing what will be done to her breasts, to her pussy; to have her on her knees, afterward, come on her face, and to ask her; Is this what you want? Will you be grateful?, to hear her working hard to sound sincere as she replies; Yes, Oh yes, I'll be so happy! Thank you! and I'll make sure you know just how very grateful I am, too..

hr>

Silence. He looks into her eyes. Lets her see, there, just how serious he is, now radiating the full strength of his personality, the reality of his enormous wealth and power, his rapacious greed, so that the import of this conversation burns into her.

There will be some sort of contract, some agreement -- but this moment, her willing submission to the message he is sending -- this moment will be the one that crystallises the depth of his dominion over her.

His stare unwavering, his eyes boring into hers as he says, very normally;

"You are absolutely sure that this is what you want. All of it?"

She is trembling visibly, and when she says, with a voice that is very, very soft, a little sad, but steady enough;

"Yes, yes, please. All... all of it."

It is clear to everyone in the room what is meant; that 'all of it' means;

letting you use and abuse my young body as you please

-- that she will smile and offer herself for such use, just as he likes, even if he hurts her. That that is her part of the deal; that she has understood it fully. That she wants those terms, commits herself to them. In exchange for -- well what? That's the interesting part. For whatever he has said, he has made no real commitments at all to her. If the flat is banal, the money merely acceptable, the modelling contract lacks the anticipated glamour, what will she do?

That she has accepted fully is swiftly tested, and proven, by her response when he says;

"Please, let me see you naked."

As she unzips the dress, she realises, with a rush of frightening intensity, that this, too, is something she has waited for her whole life, that the experience of stripping herself for rich men who will abuse her is -- alongside the searing shamefulness -- a peak experience; one that makes her feel electrified, her whole being prickling with tiny sparks of anticipation; feverish; she is flooded with a deep, slow trembling, possessed by a determination, dreamy on the surface, but with a core of iron resolve, to do anything and everything she can to satisfy him, to be sure that he will want to keep her.

For already, she is possessed by fear of him abandoning her, knows for certain that she will become addicted to being in this position. Of stripping herself, as a whore, for her employer, knowing that she is about to be used. Of working so hard to hold his attention, knowing that she is worthless, since he has access to as many women as he chooses; needing, needing so badly for her to be the one he pays attention to right now, not to be the rejected, foolish slut.

Somehow, she already understands and has accepted the depth of her unimportance to him, the cruel asymmetry of this relationship, that he will be everything to her; the owner and despoiler of her youth, while she is little more than an expense item to him, the cost of an easy and servile fuck at any moment which suits him -- not too hard to come by for a man in his privileged position.

All of those things -- the sexy clothes, the swanky apartment, all those things, she realises, won't be for her. They'll be for him -- they'll enable her to serve him, to be just what he wants her to be. But there will be no more doubt, no more fears, no more questions. Because he will always be the answer.

It's like drowning in immensity; delicious, terrifying, irresistible, final. She is embarrassed by the unhideable excess of girly gratitude that near overwhelms her; laughs a little -- a small, wondering giggle, over in an instant;

"Thank you", she half whispers.

And then she's serious again, taking pleasing him seriously, as the dress falls from her naked breasts.

When her boyfriend returns, she is on her knees, his step-father's cock in her mouth, the hairy man using her tight little ass.

She's crying, just a little, but working diligently to please them both, holding nothing back, moaning and crying out to inflame them as much as to express her own astonishment that this is happening to her, that this is now her life.

The boyfriend laughs out loud, a little tightly, perhaps -- a tinge of bitterness, but not seemingly surprised;

"Fast work, Dad. I guess I'll go get baked on my own then."

She is simultaneously on fire with the shame of it and, weirdly, proud -- as if she has moved up a league. No more college juvenilia for her; she's in the tank with the sharks now, swimming for her life.

As he opens the door, he turns and says;

"Gonna be after a big finder's fee for this one, Dad -- I actually liked her."

The fat one says;

"Not to worry, son, you'll be happy with the fee. And of course, I'll send her over to you every now and then; she'll be extra nice, I promise. She'll do all the things you and your friends want from her, of course; and with a sweet and sexy smile, to boot. And if it should make you feel better about her betrayal to give her a good thrashing, she'll take that, too, with a pretty smile and a slow, deep blow-job to say thank you afterwards. All my girls are very thoroughly trained, don't you worry."