He kissed her on the cheek, very properly, almost coldly as he greeted her at Heathrow airport. "Welcome to London, my slut," he whispered into her ear as his face brushed against hers. "My car is just out front, let's get your things."
The word "slut," which he seemed so determined to use when speaking to her had not yet found a place in her heart, she was hoping their time together might change that as she knew he had a reason for calling her by what she considered to be a very derogatory term. She thought she deserved better and perhaps, she was hoping that she might change his mind about the use of that word, maybe she could sway him to call her his "queen" or his "goddess" or something positive? Was that too much to ask?
She was nervous, highly uncomfortable, out of her element. She felt capable of charming most anyone but she had a feeling that her charms would be falling on deaf ears and blind eyes over the next few days. She felt like she had been disarmed. She was vulnerable and open and more unsure of herself than she ever had been in the past.
"So, slut, how was your trip? I trust you enjoyed the flight over?"
"Yes, I did...quiet, a little dull and, quite honestly, I was so nervous about meeting you that I couldn't sleep, not that I didn't try. I actually spent much of the flight fantasizing - it took everything I had not to go into the loo to masturbate."
"Good, that makes me proud that you did not succumb to your desires. So, I'd like you to touch yourself now, in front of me."
Immediately she realized her mistake, she should never have opened this door so quickly, so easily unless she was prepared to walk through it and she didn't feel anywhere near ready yet.
"I'd rather not." she hesitated, wondering what to say next. "Sir." "I mean, I just arrived and we haven't spent any real time together. I would just like to get comfortable with you, to get to know you..." her voice trailed off.
He didn't say a word to her, he simply pulled off at the next exit, drove to a quiet road and stopped his car. Mr. J killed the ignition, unbuckled his seat belt, unbuckled P's seat belt and grabbed her by the back of the head, tangling his hands in her hair, to better his grip.
Before she knew what was happening, she was over his lap and Mr. J was spanking her ass.
"What the hell are you doing?! Stop hitting me!" Mr. J continued to slap her bum, one cheek, than the other, over and over.
"Take me back to the airport. Right now! This is ridiculous. I just got here! Stop it!!!"
Again, no response from Mr. J. He was bigger and stronger and he just continued with the spankings.
"Fuck you!"
He released her and she ungracefully made it back into her seat. He looked at P with disgust and anger.
"My dear slut," (he said with a clenched jaw), "I want you to masturbate for me, now and here. Do it now!" he grabbed her hand, pushed up her dress and put her hand over her pussy.
"Start playing with yourself or I will tie you up, put you in the trunk and leave you there until you are ready to do what I say."
P slipped her hand inside her panties and began rubbing her clit, sliding her fingers inside for lubrication. Rather than getting back on the road, Mr. J just watched her, stared at her - not in her eyes, not at her face but at her hand and its motion. He reached into the glove box, touching her knee and took out an old pocket knife.
P realized, for perhaps the 100th time, that this was nuts, absolutely nuts. He could cut her or kill her or do whatever he chose - she had placed herself in his hands, the hands of a dashing Brit who she saw as her last hope. He appeared to be a man who had it all. She had not come across many like him and she knew that he possessed something different. He knew that she needed what he had. He had insisted, since first they met, that she do things his way. She had fought it and fought it hard. When she did, Mr. J would simply walk away until she had calmed herself. But he would always return, tell her how things were going to happen and wait for her to follow his orders. She wasn't sure that she could do it, be a follower, a "slut" (as he called her, his slut) but she had to try. Nothing else had worked, no other man had been able to hold her attention they way that he could.
Mr. J opened the knife, slowly. He ran the blade, softly against her hand, which was still inside her panties. He used the non-sharp side of the knife and made small designs on her skin, up and down her arm.
"Do not stop doing what playing with your cunt, my slut," he instructed. She did as he said but she was worried, she had not signed up for bloodshed, after all. He reached over, sliding his hand into her panties, he twisted them around his fingers and pulled. He then took his knife and sliced the fabric away from her body, leaving her exposed, naked, her fingers at work in her sopping pussy.
"My slut," he said again, slowly and very deliberately, "I want you to make yourself cum while I watch."
She continued to play with her clit, dipping her fingers again and again to keep herself lubricated. She was having a difficult time, staying focused on an orgasm when he was staring at her hand on her clit.
"Are you my slut?" He leaned over and whispered into her ear. "You want to be my slut, don't you? You want to turn yourself over to me, giving up complete control. "You want to feel like a dirty, little slut - one for my use, whenever, however, wherever I see fit. Now in my book, that would make you my slut."
He emphasized his point by tearing open her blouse, exposing her breasts, pulling on her nipples, pinching them, watching them grow harder. "You know that you want this. I would even venture that you need this, I mean, why else would a dirty little slut, like yourself, board a plane to London? You're not visiting the museums this week or going to Stonehenge...No, you will be spending your time being trained as my slut. Look at your nipples, they are so hard and erect, you cannot tell me you are not enjoying this, slutttttt." Mr. J brought his fingers to his mouth, licking them before reaching for her tits again, stretching her nipples, then twisting them - his saliva made them that much harder..."Oh, yes, my slut, you are enjoying this, aren't you? Don't deny it, you love this - being forced to do something you would never do in your normal life. But with someone else making you do it, you can become who you truly are, can't you?"
To P's horror, the more that he said the word, the more that he gave her instructions, expecting her to follow his lead, the more that he stared at her, learning her, watching her every move, the more that he took control, the more freedom she felt. Her finger was rubbing wildly, pressing against her clit, working it just the right way, gaining the perfect balance between friction and speed.
Her hips were involuntarily lifting off the seat but Mr. J pushed her hips down. "My slut must learn to satisfy herself wherever and whenever I tell her to do so, with my permission, of course. But she must not let anyone else know what she is doing to herself - she and I will be the only ones who will know by the glazed look in her eyes, the flush of her chest, the blood rushing to her lips and her cheeks. It will be our secret, but not if you begin writhing around the banquette at the restaurant. You must learn how to behave like a lady, in public, but a slut underneath. I am not so concerned with the lady part - I know that was pretty well beaten into you as a child, so now I must break some of those bad habits and allow your inner slut, My inner slut, to emerge."
"Cum." he said as he stared hard at her. "Cum now! You have my permission but only for thirty seconds more, then you must stop playing with your swollen, deliciously-wet pussy, and if you haven't cum, it might be days before I allow you to do this again."
