At the end of the hall, he releases his grip on your wrist, and casually pushes you up against the wall.
"Now," he says, face close to yours, expression hard and flat. "I want you to be a good little slut for me, okay? I know you want to be good for me, and I won't ask you to do anything more whoreish than anything you've already done for me online." Not that that narrows it down much. "But if you disobey me, I'll punish you. Understand, bitch?"
You nod, eyes locked on his. You're trying to look sincere, but you're not sure if you *feel* sincere. You let go in the elevator, when let those strangers ravish your breasts and your mouth, but that was it. Now that you're back in your regular headspace, you can't imagine being that girl again.
Something in your gaze must be less than genuine, because his hand comes up to grip your throat. "I'm not going to complain if I have to punish you," he says. "The only one crying will be you. So if you fuck up like the worthless, stupid little whore that you are, remember that all I asked you to do was obey me."
You close your eyes against a fresh welling of tears. How could this happen to you? You thought you were so careful about hiding your identity online. But this man recognised you on the street after a moment and dragged you to his hotel, and now you're forced to be his fucktoy until he releases you, or face the consequences.
As one tear slides hopelessly down your face, you hear him laugh.
"Cheer up, whore," he says. "It's not that bad! I know you'll love everything I'll make you do."
Your tears, as well as amusing him, seem to satisfy him. He lets go of your throat and steps back.
When you manage to regain your composure and open your eyes, he's standing in front of the now open door. He clicks his fingers, and you stare at him, uncomprehending.
"Hands and knees, slut."
You cringe, but drop to the floor almost automatically. A few of the men you talk to online love to watch you crawl around on all fours, pretending to be so worthless that you're barely more than an animal. The command is so familiar to you that it's almost second nature to obey it, even when you don't want to. He grins at you, like he understands how easy it was for you.
"Good girl," he says approvingly, and something in your cunt twinges. You have something of an inappropriate reaction to that phrase. "Now come along," he says, speaking like an owner to a dog that wasn't very good at following orders. "Get inside, bitch."
You hang your head in shame, but crawl on your hands and knees into his hotel room. You shiver when your bare arm brushes against his trouser leg.
The room, or suite, as you realise, seems spacious and airy from your vantage point. You've crawled into a large, open living area, with a handful of doors leading in different directions. Behind a large couch you can see the far wall is all glass; there's a balcony beyond it. You crawl far enough inside that you give your tormentor plenty of space to walk around you, and then stop. Sometimes online you can almost follow orders that haven't been given yet, anticipating correctly what they want from you, but you can't tell how this man wants to torment you.
"Slut," he says loudly, as the door closes, and you look up automatically. You cringe a moment after you do. You can't *believe* you just answered to "Slut". He looks pleased that you did, though, and you can't help but feel an answering reaction.
"Kneel," he continues after a moment of silent eye-contact, and you, again, obey without thinking. It's not so much that you *want* to be a good slave for him, as it is that you almost can't help but be good. You've spent so much time obeying people online, it really has become second nature for you to drop into this headspace where you obey basically unthinkingly.
He steps close, and strokes your head for a moment, running his long blunt fingers through the silken strands of your hair. "Good girl," he purrs again, and you shiver under his touch. "You like that, don't you," he adds. You've already humiliated yourself enough today, you decide, and refuse to answer.
In response to your disobedience, his hand clenches tight in your hair.
You yelp, hands coming up to try to free yourself from his grip. His other hand swoops down immediately, trapping both your wrists in his grasp. His grip on your hair only tightens, pulling back so that you're forced to look up at him.
