Three short offerings
Bdsmlr being in the process of rebuilding itself (veeeery slowly, and the rebuild looking bad imnsho), THW has begun bulk uploading to an imaglr.com account.
Slave of the Encampment
Picture: Naked in the encampment: Click here to reveal.
She’d been wild camping. Not even a tent, just a ground sheet and an awning, being as self-sufficient as she could manage. It was something she’d wanted to do for a while, and in many ways it was wonderful. But after four days of it, she had begun to feel rather strange— dissociated, empty, meaningless; everything about her life somehow seemed arbitrary; nothing serious about it.
Then there’d been a terrible storm, and her sheltered little spot had become a small, but fast rushing, torrent of muddy water, leaves, sticks and even small stones; she’d lost half her kit, her phone had gone under and wouldn’t turn on. The high wind had turned an ordinary night into a freezing one for a soaking girl in light summer clothes, and suddenly everything was very, very real.
She remembered the encampment. She’d watched them setting up in a field down below the day before. There were about twenty of them, a bunch of lads; they had a military looking flag on a pole, and what looked like army tents, but seemed too old to be scouts. They had jeered and wolf whistled as she walked past on the way back from the village and she had yelled back, furious, which had only encouraged them.
It had been a strange experience, alone, miles from anywhere, facing down a large group of cheerfully sexually aggressive well-built young men, when she’d already been feeling estranged from the world, and she’d hurried away, trembling.
She tried to feel angry, tried to hate them, as a good feminist should, but instead she was gripped by a strange feeling of exhilaration, feeling her heart thump, her belly squirm, her throat tighten, mouth dry. Their attention had made her feel real again, and a part of her had wanted to go back. Why? To tell them just what she thought of them? Or to have them validate her existence, that she was something, after all— even if it were a young woman to be cat-called at.
She worked it off by walking super-fast up the steep hillside, and forgotten about them until she’d lain down to sleep in the warm summer evening that had given not a clue about the storm which was coming, and it had crept back into her mind— the feeling— and suddenly she had known it was sexual arousal; sexual arousal of a kind she had not experienced before.
She was not experienced. Oh she had had her boyfriend Steven for a couple of years and they had done it quite often, and a disastrous one night stand with Barry at the pub she’d done bar shifts in, but she wasn’t— experienced. Steven had been almost mechanical about it.
So the feeling was new, and, for once, she had felt she wanted to masturbate. She’d been overwhelmed by nerves though, halfway through; certain that someone would appear through the trees and see her with her hand in her crotch under the awning.
She’d fallen asleep feeling miserable about her botched love life, the emptiness reaching out to take her.
And then the storm had come, and the realisation that if she wasn’t to die of exposure in the freeing, lashing rain and howling wind, she’d need to go to the encampment and beg for shelter.
And— even in her trembling, shivering state, stumbling in the dark, stung by nettles, mud everywhere— in her hair, scratched all over, her clothes ripped by thorn bushes— even with all that, there had been that clench in her belly, that tightness of anticipation in her chest as she approached.
Weirdly, two of them were up— in big waterproof capes walking the perimeter of the encampment, as it it were a military base; but whatever, it made it easy for her— she didn’t have to wake anyone up.
They had not been as she had hoped, though; not in the least sympathetic or concerned; in fact they had laughed and joshed each other;
“Here she comes, and it looks as if she wants to enter the wet t-shirt competition!” (she’d taken her bra off to go to sleep and indeed her thin night-time tee shirt was soaked, her nipples stiff with cold).
“Please … please don’t be mean— I … I just need some warm clothes and a place out … out of this horrible wind.”
They had been abashed a little, then;
“Wake the Captain; he’ll want to know.”
They had wrapped a cape around her shoulders, but the captain— just another lad, as far as she could see, with a posh accent and a mop of very blonde hair had pulled it open and very obviously looked her up and down;
“Well we’ll definitely need to get you out of these wet clothes, girly, and then we’ll need to warm you up. And I think I know just how to do it; vigorous exercise! Come on lads, help a poor benighted girly out!”
The feeling in her belly had lurched violently when he’d ripped the tee-shirt off her, then taken a big bush knife and delicately sliced through her panties, leaving her naked, and somehow, when he’d scooped her up and hugged her in to his big, warm chest, she’d gone limp, even though she felt the hardness of his cock through his boxers, realised what sort of exercise he had meant, knew that she must protest.
But she hadn’t, and, without any fuss, really, they had taken turns with her, moving her from tent to tent, having drawn straws. She had said no— she had.
Just … not very loudly, or forcefully, and then they’d gagged her anyway and …
… and shockingly, unlooked for, the fifth or seventh boy had tried a little foreplay with her (she lost count, and at some points there were two of them in her at the same time); kissed her neck, his mouth hot, worked his fingers, with something like skill, against her pussy, and she had felt her body loosen for him; worse, his tent-mate had noticed, and yelled out; Jonesy’s doing the Casanova, and she LOOVES it!
And that had been it. They’d had her for two days, now, kept her naked, mostly tied up unless she was being fucked or made to cook.
She knows she should hate it, hate them, but has been shown that her response to this treatment is shamefully sexual, obvious to all, and this somehow makes it impossible to really protest; they know she’s a slut, and they’ll force her anyway— and now she’s experienced it many times— so, what’s the sense in fighting them?
There are four or five— maybe six even— who’ve pushed her into really rather astonishing orgasms, and she’s been unable to keep herself quiet, or hide the spasming of her legs and belly. Mostly there are three or four watchers— they have no idea at all of privacy it seems— and everything is noticed, commented on, loud and crude and hurtful. But the astonishing, glorious wonder of those orgasms— the deep, burning shame of them, had been more powerful than the comments, and for those few of them she could not help flashing her eyes up to meet theirs when they were near, wanting to see if they … if they looked at her in any special way, to turn her body toward them, just a little.
And this too has been noticed, and made the butt of jokes, until she had found herself not bothering to hide her desire, not really; even as her cheeks had burned, when told; If you really want it, spread’em! , she had indeed spread her legs for them, to encourage them.
She is terribly conflicted.
But her captors don’t care, anyway; she’s just something to play with until they get tired and move on. She’s heard them say they’re packing up and leaving tomorrow. They are a university Officer Training Corps, she’s figured out. Boys playing at soldiers, she tries to sneer at them in her head; but how does a weak and sexually depraved slut have the right to sneer at anyone?
Will they abandon her here? Will they take her with them? She can’t even think straight.
She can’t help herself when any of them are around; she has to hold herself well for them; feels an undertow of despair and self-hatred if they walk past her without even grabbing at her breasts or smacking her arse, grabbing her pussy.
It’s all so wrong. And soon it will be over, and she’ll have to go back to work, and her little grey flat, and … nothing … emptiness.
Being fucked, being fucked hard by strange boys who are greedy and selfish, being kept naked, tied up, so they can just do her whenever they want, is very definitely not nothing.
little fuck
“She’s very freshly broken; only in the last ten days or so— still coming to terms with what it means to understand herself as nothing more than cunt; that the purpose of her existence is to be fucked, that nothing whatsoever about her matters— will ever matter again— save that it can serve to encourage men to fuck her.”
“She still has memories of pride and dignity. We try not to completely crush that; see how hard she tries not to let herself down by sobbing her shame and despair. See her chest heave, how her stiff little nipples move, how her lips tremble, the pulse at her neck. She’s strong— was some sort of regional judo champion; it took perseverance to break her, but now, oh now she is lost, lost forever, and she knows it.”
Picture: 'little fuck', legs spread: Click here to reveal.
“She’s juicy down there, for sure; she can’t help it anymore; A huge part of her is eager to get to the point where I give her to you to be raped and shamed. But she still hasn’t learned to live with that truth about herself either; that she has become a true nymphomaniac— a girl who can find no meaning for existence outside of being fucked.”
“And, of course, she’s not learned to live with the fear; they rarely do. Tell the gentlemen, little fuck, what it is that you need, before they rape you; the inevitable; that which you are so pathetically afraid of.”
It takes her quite a little while to find her voice, but they let it play out, because, frankly, it’s exciting to see just how accurately Lomax has laid out her condition; to watch the waves of fear and desire affect her face, to see the tremors pass through her lovely body, so wantonly displayed.
Her voice, when it comes, is unnatural— carefully and deliciously so; breathy, almost hoarse, but high and musical, in a falsetto register, like a little girl;
“If … if it please, you Masters, I’m … I need to be whipped until I scream, and then whipped harder for screaming, before you … before you rape … rape me, sirs, please?”
There are tears at the corners of her eyes, then, though she maintains eye contact as she has been ordered to do, blinking desperately, in vain, her hands expressively limp, useless; it is the rule at the Club that girls are trained not to need to be restrained, but to hold their hands away from their bodies, wrists floppy.
Oddly, given the range of appalling injustices, cruelties and degradations to which she is routinely subjected, little fuck— for that is all the name she has at present— little fuck still finds this almost the most terrible thing about her condition; that she must accept that she will never again use her hands except in the most unusual of circumstances; will not feed herself, wash herself, dress herself, caress herself or another, make anything or break anything, unless ordered to. It eats at her, in the middle of the night, as she realises that, already, her own hands are becoming strange to her…
“You understand, chaps? She’s not permitted to scream— unladylike; you’re to whip her, though, until she can’t control herself, until she screams full-throatedly— and then of course you must punish her for screaming.”
“I’m not sure you’ve ever fucked a girl who will wholly open herself to you, despite being in the throes of full-blown hysterics, but it is a remarkable experience— and rather rare, for obvious reasons— outside our special circle of hell.”
“Gentlemen, little fuck is all yours for the afternoon; please, show no restraint. no restraint at all.”
The C-N-C Club
The C-N-C Club was notorious— the subject of numerous rumours and many false stories, its very existence contested and ridiculed. It just couldn’t exist; it would have been shut down; someone would have sued. Someone would have blabbed.
But still the rumours swirled. And in fact, the club was real. In the high end party circuit, there have of course always been girls trading their bodies for access, favours, money, opportunity. It’s all highly informal, though. Rules and agreements here would just be a source of vulnerability for the rich and powerful, whom the arrangements are supposed to benefit. Thus a girl’s position is terribly weak and they are consequently often terribly abused. Nevertheless, it’s a bargain that it seems there are always new girls willing to make. Even as they see others like them regularly being trashed, they somehow cling to some hope that they might find a path through— perhaps to become a favourite mistress kept in luxury, or even a trophy wife.
The C-n-C Club, by contrast— and it does exist— has a well defined set of arrangements, though these are carefully designed and promoted, such that none of the rich and powerful participants (who have all been personally recruited and vetted by existing members, although without any formal process or documented records) can be held responsible for anything.
The rules— although they are not presented as rules— but rather as examples of permissible behaviours, are published online, anonymously, but public to all. These rules are of course the source of the rumours, but no one has been able to point to anything more concrete than a minimalist website with some notes.
All arrangements are made through in-person conversations outdoors.
A venue is selected by the rich group and certain girls whom they believe might be interested are asked to look at the website.
If the girl comes back and wants to know more, her conversation is with three of the organisers. Everything is couched in almost jokey, ‘What if…?’, ‘But that’s crazy!, ‘Wouldn’t it be cool if …?’, ‘But how would that go?’ terms. Nothing specific is ever mentioned, and the whole conversation is experienced as a bit of fun by the organisers. It’s not at all fun, of course, for the girl, who is by this point knowingly touting herself as a willing rape victim to rich and powerful sadists.
Most girls are not invited to any further conversation. The bar is extremely high in terms both of physical beauty, evident sexual energy, submissive character and mental stability.
There are usually between five and seven new girls at an event, which takes place in a large private house in the countryside— a different venue every time— rented by a society charity for a ‘donor event’. The girls arrive blindfolded in the trunks of anonymous vehicles driven by trusted servants. There are between ten and twenty-five guests who may be accompanied by girls they already own.
The new girls are there to sell themselves into sexual servitude; to advertise their suitability for such a role through their willingness to get themselves raped by jaded men (and women too), who already have access to as much beauty and sexual service as they desire. Competition is fierce. The stakes are very high.
The rules are that it starts as a perfectly decorous party. Everyone is nominally decently dressed, although the girls both owned and offering themselves strive to achieve the most alluring and sexually obvious outfits that meet that standard.
At some point, though, one of the new girls will find it within herself to make a move to advertise herself as a willing and compliant rape victim.
Layla here is the first mover at the party it has taken her more than six months to achieve an invitation to.
Picture: Layla makes herself obvious: Click here to reveal.
Earlier that evening at the rendezvous with the servant and the unmarked car, she had accepted a paper envelope with half a million dollars in cash. She had then been delivered to the discreet offices of a Swiss bank, where a suave and obsequious official had opened an account for her and given her a long set of numbers. She was next delivered to a law firm who took the envelope with those numbers in it, and guaranteed to hold them safely for her. In these settings, she was treated as an important person, a customer of consequence, with respect and care (although the senior lawyers eyes had gleamed in an unsettling way).
Then, in a back alley, she had put on the blindfold, cuffed herself, and got into the trunk, alongside her sing;e small piece of luggage— which contained only her outfit for the night (very expensive, very little of it). No phone, no keys, no money, no credit cards.
Tonight, her life would change, one way or the other.
