All characters engaging in sexual relationships or activities are 18 years old or older. The following contains themes of blackmail and coercion, if such content offends you, please do not read. This is an erotic FICTION story. This is purely for entertainment and never meant to happen in reality. If you have issues with such kinks, please do not read. I've received lots of private feedback from readers of parts 1-4 and I really appreciate it thank you.
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Over the few months, I surrender myself completely to Ben, submitting to his every whim without any resistance at all. No more arguing, no more struggling, just pure, unfiltered obedience. My body becomes his playground, a canvas for his every desire, every dark fantasy that lurks in the depths of his mind and he takes full advantage, pushing me beyond my limits, moulding me into exactly what he wants. Every command, every perverted idea he conjures up, I submit to his every whim, letting him do with me what he wants, however he wants it.
Ben revels in my submission. He thrives on my compliance, the way I've become so pliant, so utterly obedient for him. He gobbles up my surrender like a man starved, taking his pleasure in every nod, bow and kneel. But mere obedience isn't enough, he documents nearly everything, capturing my degradation through the lens of his brand-new cameras.
Film after film, each more degrading than the last, some of me alone, writhing around under his orders stuffing my holes with bigger and bigger toys. Others with him, taking me, even going so far as to theme them, scripting them. Naughty neighbour, friend's mom, doctors' office, prostitute fantasies, you name it, he edits them meticulously, crafting feature-length movies out of my humiliation. Every angle, every expression, every position is carefully thought out and choreographed for his viewing pleasure. And as if that weren't enough, he forces me to watch them, again and again, trapping me in an endless loop of perversion.
For me however it's just not the same, there's something missing and I can't quite put my finger on it. Even when I resist, even when I push his limits and provoke the reaction, I thought I wanted, his grip tightening around my throat, the sting of his hand against my skin, it still falls short. Yes, there's a thrill in the fear and pain but it lacks a certain something. It's like chasing a high that never fully materialises, leaving me completely unsatisfied. And the worst part? I don't even know what I'm searching for.
It's the end of February, and we've just arrived at a hotel, one of those cheap, no-frills places meant for contractors and cheap weekend getaways, or a night with your mistress. I didn't want to come but Ben insisted on this trip, saying we needed to shake it up, go out and cut loose. We're fifty miles away from home but even that doesn't feel like far enough. I still fear running into someone I know, being seen with Ben, and having our secret outed.
At the front desk, Ben handles the check-in. He flashes the receptionist a smile as he says "Mr. and Mrs."
The girl behind the desk tries to keep her expression professional, but I see it, the flicker of amusement in her eyes, the roll of her lips as she stifles a smile. She knows what this is. She knows we aren't married, she knows exactly what we're here for. A cheap dirty weekend and I can almost hear her judging me.
I look to the floor, my face burning despite the cold. Ben, takes the key card from the counter and thanks her, before putting his arm around me. As he leads me toward the elevators, I can still feel the receptionist's eyes on me, desperately holding back her laughter until I'm out of sight and earshot.
As we enter the room it's a basic and dull as I'd feared. Beige walls, stained wallpaper, a worn carpet and thick heavy grey curtains hanging in front of the window darkening the room. A large king-size bed with a cheap branded duvet on top, the kind that feels more like plastic than fabric. Against the far wall sits a rather sad small table with a mirror above it, and in front of that, a hard, plastic chair, something that looks like it was salvaged from a school cafeteria.
Ben doesn't seem to care. He tosses his bag onto the bed and turns to me.
"You need to hurry up and get changed," he orders, as he gives me a firm pat on my bottom.
I look towards him briefly, his face oblivious to my displeasure. Sighing inwardly, I place my suitcase down on the bed and open it. I take out my toiletries bag and a towel and without a word, I slip into the bathroom, closing the door behind me.
The bathroom is just as bleak as the bedroom. Sterile white tiles from floor to ceiling, the grout stained a sickly yellow and a small patch of mould by the bath.
For a moment, I just stand there, staring at my reflection in the mirror above the sink. All I can think about is how much I don't want to be here. But I am and I have no idea what he has in store for me.
I turn on the bath and as it begins to fill, I sit down on the toilet holding my toiletry bag to prepare for what is likely coming later.
With my preparation done I climb into the bath and stay there until my skin glows red, until my limbs feel loose and my head spins from the heat. Finally, when I can't take it anymore, I lift myself up and step out. I wrap the towel tightly around my chest and grab my toiletries bag, before unlocking the door and stepping back into the room, shivering as the cool air wafts over my overheated skin.
As I walk towards the bed, my stomach drops. My suitcase is gone. In its place, laid out over the cheap duvet, is a tiny, sparkly black multinet dress, if it can even be called that. The fabric is mostly sheer, designed to expose far more than it conceals. The only material of substance is a V shape bit of material covering the breasts and the groin.
"Where's my things?" I ask in a panic.
"In the car," Ben replies bluntly. "You'll be wearing this tonight.
I stare at the dress in disbelief, my fingers clenching around the towel wrapped around me.
"Like hell I am!" I snap, my voice sharper than I intended.
His eyes darken, clearly angered by my outburst.
"You will," he replies coldly.
"I won't," I snap. "That's practically lingerie. Everything'll be on show!"
"That's the point," he replies calmly.
He climbs up off the bed and he picks up the dress by the shoulders, holding it delicately between his fingers as if it were something precious. He steps toward me, closing the space between us inch by inch before suddenly thrusting the dress toward me.
"And now," he continues calmly. "There will be a punishment for that little outburst. I suggest you do as you're told and put. It. On".
The room feels colder, goosebumps suddenly forming over my damp skin.
"No!" I reply.
He flashes me a look of annoyance before turning his head away. But instead of snapping back, he exhales slowly, tilting his head slightly as if considering his next move. He presses his lips into a pout before dragging his fingers lazily along his jawline, as he decides just how much trouble I've just gotten myself into.
"Okay," he says at last, his voice cold and eerily detached. "Let's make this simple. Either you put it on and wear it out tonight, or I take that towel, right now, and leave you here with nothing. No money, no clothes. And you can figure out how to get home on your own."
He begins to smirk, as if he already knows he has me beat. My fingers clutch the towel tightly, I don't want to let it go but I know that I've already lost. What choice do I have? Stay here until the maid comes to clean the room for the next guests and finds me naked.
I look at it one more time, hesitating for a moment longer. Then, with a sharp exhale through my nose and a deep scowl, I snatch it from his hands, ripping it away from him in petulant anger. Without a word, I turn away from him and head over to the table with the mirror. Enraged, I drop into the plastic chair with a thud, the impact rattling through the table and mirror immediately after. I set the dress down over my lap, smoothing it out with stiff fingers as I prepare myself to do my makeup.
About ten minutes pass, as the tension simmers away quietly. Then I hear him behind me.
"Lots of red lipstick tonight," Ben murmurs as he rummages through my bag. "The brighter, the better."
I grit my teeth but say nothing, my hand gripping my make up brush a little too tightly as I fight the urge not to force it down his throat.
Suddenly Ben grabs the towel wrapped around me and yanks it away with such force that I nearly topple out of the chair. Enraged I drop my makeup brush before clenching my hands into fists. I whip my head around, shooting him a death stare that could burn straight through steel. But he doesn't even acknowledge it. He simply turns away, the towel dangling from his hand, as he strides toward the bathroom without so much as a backward glance.
My whole body shakes as I turn and look at myself in the mirror, but as my head drops, I see the dress somehow still sitting in my lap, waiting for me. Mocking me.
I know I have no choice but to put it on.
A lump rises in my throat as I run my fingers over the fabric, the delicate threads feeling insubstantial, useless even, nothing more than a flimsy suggestion of clothing. The sheer material is laughably small, and as I lift it up to inspect it, doubt creeps in.
I stretch the fabric between my fingers, testing its strength. It barely gives, resisting even the gentlest tug, and instantly, I get the sinking feeling that if I pull any harder, it'll tear apart in my hands. My stomach twists into knots.
Maybe when I was a size twelve, it might have just about held me. But not now.
Since going on the pill, my body has changed, the weight has crept on bit by bit, I'm a size fourteen now, curvier, fuller, and this flimsy scrap of a dress was never designed for someone like me. How the hell is this supposed to hold all of me in?
And then there's the design.
Why did he choose this? Even a twenty-year-old with nerves of steel would think twice before stepping outside in something like this. It isn't a dress for going out, it's for playing dress-up in the bedroom, to spice things up between an old married couple and here I am, about to wear it out in public, in front of strangers, in the middle of winter.
The dress dangles from my fingers like a cruel joke, and for a brief second, I hesitate. Then, with a deep breath, I raise it over my head and slide it down.
The moment the fabric touches my skin, I know, it's too tight. I barely manage to get it over my shoulders before the material begins to squeeze me. Snug isn't the word. It's suffocating. I wriggle, twisting awkwardly, trying to tug it down over my 36F breasts, but the fabric resists, stretched to its absolute limit. The seams strain, and I swear I hear a faint rip as the threads are tortured to their limit.
I grit my teeth, sucking in my stomach as I force it lower, inch by inch as I squeeze every curve and lump inside. I can't help but think that this must be what it's like trying to put a sock on an elephant.
With one last careful tug, I finally manage to wrestle the dress down over my wide hips and round backside. The fabric strains, clinging to every curve, stretched so taut that I half expect to hear it rip at any moment. I daren't breathe as I turn and look at myself in the mirror and the sight before me steals what little air I have left.
I look like a cheap whore. Almost everything is on show, more skin than fabric. I feel naked, and I might as well be. The only things that remain covered are my breasts and vagina, barely shielded by the narrow sliver of thicker material strategically placed for the illusion of modesty and even then, my nipples poke through the material leaving nothing to the imagination.
I turn slowly, dread curdling what little there is inside my stomach, and as I see the backside of the dress my heart sinks further.
It's no better.
A single, thin strip of material runs up the centre, offering almost nothing in the way of coverage. My backside is practically bare, the fabric doing little more than teasing what it fails to conceal.
