Thank you all for your positive comments and emails about the story so far. Unfortunately, there have been more than a few readers sending me personal emails, detailing how they plan rating my story a one star just because of the genre. Thank you...I think...for your honesty, and the heads-up of your intensions (as if there was anything I could do about them). However, I cannot give the same credence for your courage, given that all but one email was anonymous.
As to the main point of this preface: the nature of Nonconsent/Reluctance stories. For those of you unfamiliar with this genre, an excellent summary of the problems facing authors of nonconsent stories can be found at this link: www.literotica.com/s/a-treatise-on-nonconsent. I encourage everyone to take the time to read the author's short, 750-word essay, particularly if you're still considering rating my story low only because you don't like the genre.
Now, for those of you who are familiar with the genre, but find it distasteful and disturbing, I need to remind you that this is a
fictional
(and I emphasis, fictional), nonconsent story, and a rather mild to moderate form of the genre, to boot. Given your emails, it would seem some of you believe this story is, in some way, autobiographical, and that I have personally blackmailed women into having sex, and thus, making me an evil fuck. I can assure you, I have never blackmailed anyone, male or female, nor do I ever intend to. Nor do I want anything bad to happen to anyone, friend or foe. I hate to think what type of messages you might send Steven King, given that the subjects he writes about are vastly more disturbing than mine.
I don't mind you hating my story because of poor writing, plotting, or (just pick any grammatical or stylistic problem of your choice, and apply here). In this regard, letting me know what you don't like in story as a reader, invariably makes me a better writer, and I welcome that. However, you, as a reader, should also expect nonconsent stories to contain a certain degree of emotional, psychological, and/or physical discomfort toward the characters involved. It's the nature of the beast and the main impetus of the genre to begin with. To expect differently is childish.
**
The following week, Jack took Brittany through the same procedure as before: she rented the room, waited fifteen minutes for Jack, and then let him in when he knocked.
Brittany was wearing the same black dress as last time. She complemented the outfit by wearing a deep shade of red lipstick, and accentuated her eyes with the right amount of black mascara, making their green color stand out well in contrast.
Jack smiled to himself, amused. Most of the other wives didn't bother with makeup, at least until they were well into the program. Brittany, on the other hand, seemed to be easing into her role as concubine faster than Jack had anticipated.
On the table was another paper bag full of money. Jack picked it up and felt its heft. It seemed about right. He didn't bother looking inside, knowing all three thousand would be there. Setting the money back down on the table, he asked, "Any trouble with the broker?"
"I got four thousand like you said. I asked for more, but..."
"Like I said, he's not a charity."
She couldn't hide her ire, and blurted out, "Yeah, and I went back a few days later and saw it in his case with a six thousand dollar price tag."
Jack laughed, and said, "The man's got to make a profit."
"Profit," Brittany yelled, incredulously, "That's not profit! That's theft!"
"Alright, just shut up about it. You have other nice things he'll take off your hands and give you a fair price, whether you think so or not. So don't fuck it up by pissing him off, or you'll really be in trouble. Now, take off all your clothes."
She did as commanded. Yet, still wary about her situation, did so facing away from him. When she turned to face him, she had an arm wrapped around her breasts, while her other hand covered her groin, looking every bit like Botticelli's painting, 'The Birth of Venus.'
Jack sat back in the chair admiring the view, and striking the same pose as before: an elbow resting on the arm of the chair and his hand propped up under his chin. "Such a shy girl," he finally said, "You shouldn't be after last week. Drop your arms."
When she did, he saw that she didn't have any pubic hair. He smiled at her, and asked, "Did you remove all of it?"
"Yes."
"Then show me. Sit back on the bed."
Sitting on the bed, she spread her legs so he could see.
There was no hair at all around her groin. Free from any covering, the folds of her outer labia looked thick, almost muscular. Particularly in comparison to her more delicate, inner labia, a small corner of which, peeked out, teasingly, from behind the heavy outers. The whole area of her vulva jutted slightly away from her body—a cute, semi-spherical area that reminded Jack of an apple with the skin removed. It took most of his will power not to bite her sweet, tender offering, or, at least, to reach out and touch I and push that small, tease of an inner fold, back under its protective covering.
"Very nice," he finally said, while smiling thoughtfully into her eyes, "It looks like a thorough job. Did you use a razor?"
Brittany tried to cover her groin again with her hand, but Jack stopped her with a headshake. Sitting stiffly, she answered, "I used one of those chemical, hair removal products."
"I hope it didn't burn too badly."
She just shook her head.
Continuing to look at her intently, Brittany began sweating as his stare bore down and into her. She had to look away to keep from crying out of anxiety and frustration from being on display.
Seeing her look away, he asked, "When did you fuck last?"
She initially gave him a shocked look that he would ask her such a personal question, then realized she shouldn't be shocked by anything Jack asked or did. Finally, she responded, "A couple of days ago."
"Was it with Santos?"
Another shock face before blurting, "Of course!"
"What do you mean, 'Of course,' using that indignant tone? It's a valid question given your history." She was about to respond to his insult, when he cut her off with another question, "Did he notice when he fucked you?"
She knew what he meant. Dejected, she just shook her head.
"I thought as much. Now, come here and kneel in front of me."
As she knelt on the floor between his legs, he brought his face closer to hers. Thinking he was going to kiss her, she turned her head to the side so that he couldn't kiss her lips. Instead of a kiss, however, she heard him take a deep sniff of air near the nape of her neck. Then he said, "But I notice you're wearing Dior, again. It's very nice."
