Olive Oyly

Olivia Franklin awakes to find herself in a strange theater where she is forced to participate in an erotic performance involving humiliation, spanking, masturbation, and several other interesting sexual practices. At the end of the performance she is called upon to make what is perhaps the most important decision of her life.

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WARNING! All of my writing is intended for adults over the age of 18 ONLY. Stories may contain strong or even extreme sexual content. All people and events depicted are fictional and any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental. Actions, situations, and responses are fictional ONLY and should not be attempted in real life.

If you are under the age or 18 or do not understand the difference between fantasy and reality or if you reside in any state, province, nation, or tribal territory that prohibits the reading of acts depicted in these stories, please stop reading immediately and move to somewhere that exists in the twenty-first century.

Archiving and reposting of this story is permitted, but only if acknowledgment of copyright and statement of limitation of use is included with the article. This story is copyright (c) 2017 by The Technician.

Individual readers may archive and/or print single copies of this story for personal, non-commercial use. Production of multiple copies of this story on paper, disk, or other fixed format is expressly forbidden.

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Olivia Franklin woke up very, very slowly, which was unusual for her. Normally she would snap awake each morning as if a switch had been thrown. But this morning she was having trouble waking up. Her head seemed filled with fog and she was only dimly aware of her surroundings. Even so, something didn't feel right.

For one thing, she wasn't in her own bed. That she was sure of because the mattress beneath her, if you could call it that, was much too hard. And the sheets were rough, almost as if they were made out of heavy denim or canvas. Perhaps they weren't sheets at all and she was laying on some sort of thin pad.

She shifted her shoulder back and forth. She could feel the rough canvas move against her back. There was nothing between her back and the pad! Wiggling her hips told her the same about her ass. She wasn't wearing one of her teddys or even a T-shirt and panties. She was naked!

The cool draft across her body told her that there was also no sheet covering her. She was more than naked. She was naked and exposed!

She never slept like that.

She wasn't in her own apartment either. The room was dark. Her bedroom had large windows which let the sun in early each morning and the glow of the city lights at night. Regardless of what time of day it actually was, her bedroom would not be dark.

She was not in her own bed and not in her own bedroom.

Something also seemed to be wrong with her arms and legs. They didn't want to move. It was as if she were tied to the corners of this strange bed she was in. Maybe she just needed to wake up more.

"Wake up Olivia," she started repeating silently to herself. "Wake up. It's time to wake up."

She could feel herself coming further awake. She tried again to move her arms, but then she felt the rope in her left hand... and in her right hand... and around both of her ankles. She was now totally awake. She couldn't move because she was actually tied to the corners of the bed. No, not the corners of the bed. In the dimness she could make out what looked like a thick wooden frame surrounding the pad or mattress or whatever. She was tied to the corners of that frame.

She was lying naked on some sort of rough pad, tied tightly to some sort of frame.

She tried to scream, but all that came out was a muffled, "Hmmmpff." Not only was she bound, she was gagged.

A voice called to her. It was a male voice. "Come on Olive Oyly," it said. "Wakey, wakey."

She must be dreaming. No one called her "Olive Oyly." No one knew about that name for herself. Olive Oyly existed only in her fantasies. Olive Oyly was the girl that inhabited her masturbation fantasies. Oyly was what she was when she slicked herself up with oil and lay on the plastic sheets on her bed with several of her favorite toys. When she was Oyly, men would do nasty things to her-- and with her. They would make her wear that jeweled butt plug and then make her show her ass to everyone as they dragged her naked through the town. Oyly would let them do all this because Oyly was a pain slut who got off on humiliation and bondage and pain.

Except no one ever really tied Oyly up, or paraded her naked through the town streets, or inflicted pain on her in any way. Because Oyly existed only in her imagination. She had to be dreaming. This had to be some sort of very strange nightmare.

"Wake up!" she tried to scream at herself through her gag. "Wake up!"

The room brightened slightly, but somehow still remained dark. She could see lights shining down on her, but there was still nothing but shadows and silhouettes. It was as if she were looking out through a black fog which clouded her vision.

"Maybe I should removed the blindfold," the voice said.

A few moments later, a hand began unwinding layers of black gauze from her eyes. "I really shouldn't call this a blindfold," he said with slight laugh. "It doesn't blind you, it just makes it very difficult for you to see. It is more of a shade-fold."

He laughed at his own joke as Olivia blinked at the brightness that now assailed her eyes. She was definitely not in her own bed nor in her own bedroom. She was on platform on a stage with bright stage lights shining down on her.

"She doesn't seem to know what happened," the voice said. Behind him there was a sound of laughter-- a lot of laughter. It sounded like hundreds-- maybe thousands-- of people were laughing.

Olivia tried to lift her head to look around, but felt a tug on her scalp as if her hair were tied to the top of the bed. Her quick glimpse before the pain forced her to fall back onto the pad told her that there was, indeed, an audience in front of the stage. In that brief glance, she could see rows upon rows of men and women sitting as if waiting for the beginning of a Broadway show.

She struggled against the ropes which bound her tightly to the bed. Her mind was racing. Where could she be? How did she get her?

"What is the last thing you remember?" the voice asked as someone removed the gag from her mouth.

She took a deep breath. She remembered being at work yesterday. Her boss, Mister Abernathy, had been his usual asshole self. He was young, and blond and well-built, but thought he was God's gift to all women.

That was bad enough, but then Ellen-- the woman who was supposed to relieve her at lunch-- hadn't shown up, so she ended up having to eat lunch at her receptionist's desk with people coming into the office or sitting in the lobby waiting... and watching her eat. Olivia couldn't stand to have people watch her eat. There was no way she could forget that.

She particularly remembered a young black couple. The man wasn't too bad, but the woman had been all smart and angry from the instant they walked in the front door. Something had delayed their appointment and they both sat staring angrily at her as she tried to eat her lunch.

She also couldn't forget that slimy jerk from sales, Dave Wilcox, who stopped by mid-afternoon to ask for a date. He asked her out at least once a week. If he wasn't such a jerk-- and if his personal hygiene wasn't so bad-- she wouldn't have minded. She still would have said no, but she wouldn't have minded so much that he asked her to begin with.

There wasn't much to remember about the rest of the afternoon. It was the usual, boring stuff. She spent most of the afternoon watching the clouds move in from Lake Michigan and cover the Chicago skyline.

The drive home was routine... except... except... except something that she couldn't quite remember. She could remember that she was on I-55. Traffic was suddenly stopping. She could hear the dull thump of cars hitting each other. Everything was happening so fast. There was a huge column of smoke and flames from the center of the road. People were abandoning their cars and running. A young woman carrying a baby and pulling a small child ran across the road in front of her. There was no place to go and no time to stop. Her only choices were to hit the running woman or swerve into the line of stopped cars in the center lane.

The airbag slammed against her face and then quickly deflated. She knew she was hurt, but wasn't sure how bad. The door wouldn't open-- or maybe she didn't have the strength to push it open. There was a very loud noise and she looked out of her shattered windshield to see an extremely bright, yellow light heading directly toward her. The windshield seemed to dissolve in front of her as the light-- and the intense heat-- overwhelmed her car. And then... and then... and then she woke up here.

"I'm dead, aren't I?" she asked.

"Afraid so," the man said with a smile. "So now we get to play with you for a while..." he laughed a very deep laugh and added, "... a very long while."

"Oh, God!," she screamed. "I'm in Hell, aren't I?"

"I'm afraid I can't answer that question right now, Olive Oyly" the man answered. "Or should I call you 'Oyly'?"

Olivia thrashed against her bonds trying to pull herself free. The man reached down and stroked her face. "Does Oyly really want to get away?" he asked in a mocking voice. "Isn't this exactly what Oyly has always wanted?.. a chance to be humiliated and degraded in front of a large crowd of people?"

She thrashed again, and then suddenly her muscles went rigid as she felt the familiar tingling welling up between her legs. "Noooooo!" she cried out. "Noooooo. I don't want this."

The man laughed and let his hand continue to slide down Olivia's body. She inhaled sharply as his fingers passed between her breasts. She gasped as he twirled the tips of his fingers around her navel. She moaned as those fingers slid over her clit and dipped into her slit.

"Olivia's mind says no," the man said as he held his glistening hand in front of her face. "But Oyly's body says yes." He laughed again and the audience joined in his laughter.

"Oyly wants this," he said with a wide smile, "So I guess Olivia is just going to have to go along for the ride."

With that he turned to face the rows of people sitting in the audience and shouted out, "Let the show begin!"

Olivia felt a tug on her head and arms. The frame holding her in place was moving. It was lifting up and dragging her to a standing position. As the frame became upright, Olivia felt her feet slide to the base of the frame, increasing the tension on her head and arms. There was a noise and the bed slid away from her leaving the frame hanging in the air. A "thunk!" followed as the frame set down noisily on the stage.

The man stepped up in front of her and again slid his hand down the length of her body. "I think we need to let Oyly come out to play," he said. "Don't you, Olivia?"

Her mind raced thinking about what he could mean. Then her eyes went wide and she once again thrashed in her restraints. She knew what he meant! But how could he know? She had done that only once or twice-- or maybe three times-- but only when she was about half-drunk after a full bottle of wine. Those times, before she started playtime on the bed, she had stood in front of the big mirror in the bathroom and said aloud to herself, "Time to let Oyly come out and play."

Surely he couldn't mean that!

Two stagehands dressed in all black pushed a small cart onto the stage. Their heads must have been swathed in black gauze or something because it wasn't possible to see their faces. On the cart was a large bowl of what appeared to be steaming hot water. Next to it was an old fashioned shaving cup and brush.

"Who should we get to lather her up?" the MC asked. "It should probably be someone who knows about personal hygiene." He laughed again and dropped his voice an octave. "So we won't ask that type of person. Instead..." His voice came back to normal but was now very, very loud. "Dave Wilcox come on down!!!"

"Noooo," Olivia wailed, "anyone but him!"

The MC leaned in close to her and said very softly, "You wanted humiliation, didn't you? You are trembling inside at the thought of him touching your body, aren't you? Your cunt is dripping from having all of these people watch you be humiliated isn't it? Oyly is enjoying herself very much, isn't she?"

"Noooo, no, no, no, no," Olivia mumbled softly, but he was right. She hated all of this, but at the same time her body was responding just like it did when she let Oyly out to play in her bedroom. The only difference was that now all of this was real.

She watched as David stood sloshing the brush through the cup, stirring up foam. She felt the hot lather on her skin as he began running the brush in small circles throughout her crotch and up onto her belly. He seemed to spend an inordinate amount of time lathering up her clit. Perhaps that was because she bucked and moaned each time the warm, soft, slippery brush slid over that nub of passion.

After what seemed like ten or fifteen minutes of slathering during which Oyly cried out twice with mini-orgasms, he set the shaving mug back on the cart and picked up a straight razor. There was a wide leather strop hanging from the cart and he rapidly slapped the razor up and down on the strop making sure it was sharp.

"You need to hold very still for this," he said in that irritating, whiny voice of his, "or else I might cut you."

Olivia just turned her head upward and closed her eyes. There was nothing she could do to stop him.

She heard him laughing softly and she could feel the razor scraping along her skin, but the pull of the razor itself as it cut her bush was very light. She found herself thinking, "He must have done this before." Then she said aloud, "This is crazy. This can't be happening!"

"Stay still," the voice of the MC boomed out. "You don't want cuts down there with everything else that is yet to be done tonight."

"Besides," Dave said, "if I cut you, I don't get to fuck you."

That caused Olivia to buck furiously, but the slimy jerk from sales had a firm grip on her labia. He pulled it downward tightly so he could scrape the lather-- and hair-- from the edges of her slit. "One more stroke," he said softly as he let go and reached for her other pussy lip. A moment later, he said proudly, "All done and not even a single nick."

The MC bent in to examine Olivia's body more closely as Dave used a rough towel to wipe excess shaving lather from between her legs. "Nice job, Mister Wilcox," he said. "You have earned first crack at her."

"No, no, no, no, no," she cried out, but there was nothing she could do.

She stared in horror as he took off his clothing and dropped it on the stage. Then he approached her and bent his knees slightly to lower himself so that the head of his raging hard penis could be aligned with her slick opening.

"This can't be happening," she said softly as she felt him enter her. Her mind wanted to shut out everything that was happening, but her body began bouncing on Dave's prick as he straightened his legs and forced himself fully inside her. Soon she was again crying out, "No, no, no," but each "No" was in time with her downward thrusts as she bounced on Dave's quite impressive penis.

After several minutes, her body began shaking and she cried out a long drawn out "Nooooooooooooooo!" as she went into a full-blown orgasm. Dave countered her cry with a loud, "Yeeeessssss!" as he erupted within her.

Dave lowered himself so that he could pull out of her as she hung almost senseless in her bonds.

"That's one!" the MC cried out as he faced the audience. Then he turned to Olivia and leaned in close to her face.

"What does Oyly usually want after a good orgasm?" he asked quietly.

Olivia remained silent.

"Now, now," he chided. "You know what you do after your first really good orgasm with Mister Rabbit."

Olivia shook in her bonds, trying desperately to pull herself loose. She knew what Oyly-- she-- usually did after taking herself to orgasm with her rabbit vibrator. She would stand in front of the mirror and give herself twenty or twenty-five smacks with her wooden paddle.

"So you do remember," he said jovially. "How many smacks do you think your mother should give you?"

Olivia's eyes went wide open. Her mother had caught her masturbating once when she was a senior in high school and demanded that she get over her lap for a spanking. "I'm eighteen years old," she yelled back at her mother. "I don't have to listen to you."

"You just set the number of times I'm going to whale that ass of yours," her mother retorted as she grabbed Olivia and pulled her across her lap. Olivia fought furiously, but her mother was stronger and held her in place as she repeatedly smashed a ping-pong paddle into her naked ass.

"I am going to keep going until you say you're sorry," her mother said between swats. Her mother stopped counting at thirty, but somewhere around the forty-fifth slap with the paddle, Olivia suddenly stiffened across her lap and cried out "Aaaahhhhaaahhhhaaahhhhaaahhhh!"

"You came from getting your ass pounded!" her mother yelled at her as she shoved her off her lap and down onto the floor. "You're a hopeless slut," she screamed at her. 'I want you out of this house by the end of the week."

And so Olivia had moved out on her own. Her parents helped with her rent and such until she had finished high school and then the local junior college, but after that she was truly on her own. The memory of that last spanking at the hands of her mother, however, always remained with her. When she stood in front of her mirror swinging the paddle into her own ass, she was imagining it was her mother who was beating her. Sometimes, she could even see the face of her mother over her shoulder as she did those final strokes before the pain drove her into orgasm.

"How many is it going to take to make your slut ass pop?" her mother said sarcastically as she stepped up behind her. Olivia could see that she was holding a thick wooden paddle in her hands. It was about three feet long and four inches wide and was made of two-inch thick oak. One side was smooth and polished. The other had an intricate pattern cut into it. In other words, it was an exact duplicate of the paddle Olivia kept hidden under her bathroom sink.

Olivia could hear the swish as the paddle swung rapidly through the air. There was a loud "Splat!" as the patterned side of the paddle slammed into her left asscheek. She screamed. Then her mother said sharply, "Count them!" and Olivia sobbed out, "One."

"I think the audience needs to see this," the MC said as he signaled for a couple of stagehands to come out onto the stage. Two gauze-swathed figures rushed out onto the stage and grabbed the large frame. Another ran out with a step ladder and climbed up to release cables on the top of the frame. The first two then pushed the frame around so that Olivia was facing the back of the stage. The stagehand with the ladder then went up and re-attached the cables.

"What does that say?" the MC boomed as he pointed to the red welt on Olivia's ass.

"Slut!" the audience screamed back.

"That's right!" he replied loudly. "Each time Oyly's mom smacks her ass with that paddle, it brands her as the slut she truly is."

"Nooooo," Olivia said mournfully. She had only used the patterned side of her paddle once or twice because it hurt so much more than the smooth side. And she had never hit herself hard enough to raise a welt that showed what the pattern actually said. But now, thinking about what it said and the fact that everyone could see her butt proclaim that she was a slut, Olivia could feel her body responding to the shame and embarrassment-- as well as the pain-- of what was happening.