Pictures and Captions 10

Three short offerings

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FloraMae, in over her head

Picture: FloraMae, vulnerable: Click here to reveal.

FloraMae found herself thinking about this moment, often.

It had become very transactional, very fast.

She had known what she was doing— she thought.

She was not really a party girl, definitely not a tart. She had a good Beltway job with prospects, if she could climb the greasy pole; had a good family behind her. She was smart and she knew she was good-looking and charming and she had make encouraging progress already, considering she was so young.

She had made a somewhat difficult decision, which embarrassed her, and made her sad, a little, too, but she had made it deliberately, after careful thought: she would trade on what men saw in her, and see how that might go, to help her career.

She had been working at getting invitations to parties and events of a certain kind, where she had been dancing with, accepting dinners and other invitations from, men she was not honestly attracted to on the basis of them having certain— desirable— characteristics.

Until that night, it had all seemed manageable— fun, often. The men were mostly nice, flattered to have her willing to be with them— only none of them had ‘stuck’.

He had been different; she was actually attracted to him— dangerously so; and he did have those characteristics, mostly; except that he was much older than the limit she had set herself, and did not have an impeccable reputation, either; in fact he was notorious. She should not have danced with him, should not have let him kiss her so thoroughly that she had become hot in a way she had not felt before, should not have gone to the hotel with him, should not have agreed to strip for him.

Because, at her most shy, most vulnerable, most needy, he had started talking; had laid out her reality for her— as if he could mind read, had been tracking her for years— as if he understood her own thoughts, letting her know that he understood what her plan was;

“You need to decide, lovely girl, decide right now. Because this is a fork in the road. Our exit together was noted, and not just by the people who matter socially, who notice such things; they are bad enough— but beyond them, there are the spooks and private information services. I’m some sort of a somebody, and there are other sorts of somebodies at the events you attend, and there are people— official and unofficial people— who make it their business to pay attention, to compile hard evidence, as to who is doing what with which somebodies.”

“If you get dressed, right now, and leave this room, go down to the hotel bar and have a drink, stay there for a good fifteen minutes, then go back to the party, stay for an hour, tell anyone who seems curious that I’m a creep, that you hate me— go home with someone else if you can— then you’re free to carry on ruining your life any way you want, clean of association with me— as long as you can keep away, that is.”

His grin was wolfish and knowing and smug and she hated him, but also knew that a part of her wanted him more because of it.

“On the other hand, if you stay— and I very much prefer this idea, because you are very much what I was hoping for tonight— if you stay, then it will be on a much more formal basis than you are used to. Because you will be compromised by staying, I will provide you with protection. Because this will cost me something, I will expect service; unquestioning service.”

He paused, looking her very directly in the eye— and this, this is the moment she comes back to; the words ‘unquestioning service’ had landed somewhere inside her; somewhere she had not known existed, somewhere for which those words, uttered by him, in just that tone, accompanied by just that look, with her half naked and vulnerable and aroused, made a fit as between a vault key and a vault door, and something had blossomed within her and her heart thumped and her throat tightened and her belly squirmed with need and her arms and legs were weak and she felt herself near to tears, so poignant was the urgency and need in her for whatever it meant;

Unquestioning service.

The words rang in her mind as she looked into his eyes, transfixed. As she made no move, no move at all, which suggested she was about to leave, to put her clothes on, to look for safety, he continued;

“Very good, pretty girl, very good; weak fascination is good, an excellent sign.”

He had a question in his face, then; ‘Will you let me make such patronising comments about you? Are you still here?’ and when she blinked and blushed and stayed, he continued;

“Very well, since you remain, there is more; in return for this unquestioning service (which will be enforced as necessary), I will support you; not only financially, and very generously, but in your career too. I’ll introduce you to people, some of whom will be allowed to fuck you, others not; I’ll invite you to other parties, at some of which you will be present as a party favour only, on hand to serve any guest who may choose you, just as they like it. I will share certain information with you, at my discretion. There will be more, but that is what I will tell you now.”

At which point, a woman entered the room, met with a smile from the man; a woman with immense poise and elegance, and a cool, self-satisfied smile, which had broadened significantly when FloraMae had both flinched, moved to cover her breasts, then immediately made herself relax, show herself. The girl was at once innocent, and understood that she was going to be required to become a slut. Excellent.

Ten minutes later, FloraMae was naked, her buttocks were marked— for the first, but very definitely not the last time— with darkening stripes from a belt, applied with vigour, her throat was full of Sholto Branigan’s imperious cock, her wrists were clamped together by one large, sinewy fist and her pussy was being stretched by his sister Carmina’s elegant hand, and she— FloraMae— was simultaneously crying with the shame, pain and fear of it all, and shaking with sexual intensity, experiencing for the first time the desperate need for an orgasm— not for pleasure, but for the absolution and release from reality it would deliver, even if only temporarily.

She thinks about that moment now, wondering. But there’s no point, really; I’m in way to deep, now; way over my head.

Becoming nothing

Picture: On her way to becoming nothing: Click here to reveal.

She kneels, naked, at his feet. He is calm, relaxed, taking a break from his work, having sent Nora to fetch her from her station at the bottom of the stairs. She has been fed, watered, emptied, cleaned.

It is her fourth day only, of being nothing. Nothing but this naked pet. Being trained, had been horrifying, terrible, a grinding shame, never to be removed. But she had been something, she had been a trainee sex pet; there was novelty, work to do, uncertainty about where she would end up. But now? Now, this is it. A nameless, meaningless sex-pet. At least until she is no longer young enough to be interesting to those who can afford such luxuries.

He is calm, but she? She is stilled, cowed, docile; all of these things, but she will never be calm again, she knows, save in the aftermath of brutal fucking or savage beating, when her mind has shut down. How can she ever be at peace? Anything can be done with her, to her, at any moment, by anyone, and likely will be, since she has been bought, for a sum of money she can hardly understand, for exactly that purpose.

She doesn’t know him. He has been alternately casually demanding and gentle; and, of course, she is not permitted to look at his face.

Early this morning, after she had wakened him with her soft mouth, he had been quick and greedy with her, taking her aggressively, hurting her, not hiding his enjoyment at causing her pain and shame, demanding nothing less than perfect openness, forcing her without hesitation. Last night, though, he had danced with her, caressed her, talked with her a little about her former life, even made her laugh a little, suckled on her nipples and toyed with her pussy until, blushing, but knowing she dared not refuse him, she had let him see how easily aroused she was, had made herself come for him and his two friends, splayed open on the low table, tears and hiccups along with the urgent moans betraying the depths of her despair at her new depravity.

They had shown her, for the first time, that a girl could be fucked by three men at once, and she had wanted to be eaten up by her shame, even as she had found herself unable to hide her intense arousal.

It had been awful, in the training centre, until that last trainer had shown her how to let her body take charge, after which it had been a revelation, and an absolute humiliation, to discover in herself a wanton, fuck-hungry slut; but as the trainer said, since she was now a slave, she would do well to embrace this new aspect of herself, since it would increase her value, and thus likely her situation; ‘you don’t want to end up in a public brothel, girl, you really don’t’.

The world is impossible; her position is impossible; and yet she must perform, at all times, because she is nothing; disposable, and she is not yet so far gone that she wants to be disposed of.

She moves, a little, intentionally, to show him her submission, to attract his eyes to her crotch, her breasts, her parted lips, and when he makes a small sound of satisfaction and amusement, she feels it, inside her, hating and loving it; the flush of weak, pathetic gratitude that means she is becoming a slave for real. She forces herself to accept the feeling, leaning into the shame of it, giving herself up to being utterly dependent on him. The trainer had told her that this could only be done with a certain kind of owner, one who would encourage her; that she should consider herself lucky if she was acquired by such a one, and that— if she tried, she could finally defeat all traces of her former self, and become a true slave— a slave in her heart.

Her heart was breaking as she knew that she would try, try her best to give up on everything. To become nothing.

What else was there?

Acquired

“Acknowledge me, slave, push yourself back at me; grind your pussy into my boot, bow your head; you have led the life of a favoured pet here, but that will not be the case from now on. You’ll be my new new girl a few days at a time for men who’ve done well, or to soften a deal of bribe an official. Other than that you’ll be duty girl for my security team.”

“I told you, that ight you denied your pussy to me that I’d have you grovelling soon enough, and now its true. I always deliver on a curse.”

She looks at her former mistress— the woman who has been humbled, forced to sell her favourite slave; it’s a hard look, in both directions; the slave mutely reminding her Mistress that her promise— the promise which had delivered her full enslavement— had been that she would never be sold, never be transferred.

The Mistress’ bitter look back at the slave she has enjoyed for four years now, and intended to own forever returns the hard truth that it was her slave’s stupidity in flaunting the privileges her owner allowed her in public, and eventually into the face of this man, a proud and crude and greedy man, for no reason at all, at some dreadful event, last year, which she had not even intended to attend, except that her lovely slave had begged her, so much did she enjoy being displayed, but being unavailable— Reserved for you, Mistress; 100% yours to play with!

He had put his hand between her girl’s legs, and instead of meekly accepting, but begging permission to inform him that her mistress reserved access, the stupid girl had been cheeky, so that he felt humiliated in front of people who already considered themselves above him, and from that day on he had been planning, it turned out— though she had only learned of this a few days previously.

And now her lovely Ellen was to be denied her forever, brutalised and degraded at the hands of men who were little better than thieves and gangsters.

As Ellen— who was well trained in some ways, and who had learned in the last day that she was to be allowed very little leeway at all— as Ellen complied, helplessly with his command, the man laughed at both of them;

“She’ll be worn out in a year or two— they all are; maybe I’ll throw her back to you, then, if you’ve trained up another pretty for me; remember, I hold your downfall in my grasp.”

Years ago, when she was a student, her daddy had bought her a pretty boy slave to play with, and she’d got carried away, tied him to her bed, sat on his head, grinding herself into his face, and she’d been so out of it that she hadn’t noticed how violent his jerking had become (except to enjoy herself through them), and then how still he had gone.

Slaves were slaves, but they were still people, and killing one was still murder. Her dad had hushed it up, but somehow this guy had found a witness, a girl from the sorority house, who was feeling bad about having said nothing for all these years.

She had felt a little bad for a few months, but then she’d met Ellen, a free girl, and seduced her, turned her lesbian, and forgotten about it.

Her family, though, had been upset that Ellen was from a poor neighbourhood, was covered in tattoos, had not been to college, and in the end, she’d been convinced that if she was to keep Ellen it must be as a slave.

To be honest, the idea had turned her on, and Ellen too, a little, as a fantasy. But she’d kept pushing, until after a year or so of increasingly intense ‘fantasy’ sessions, which went on longer and longer, she’d said to Ellen, ten days into a session (she’d been kept naked, collared, chained, gently but repeatedly flogged across her breasts and between her legs, brought to orgasm and denied repeatedly, fed on very little, kept high on MDMA, interrupted sleep)— What if I never unchained you, pretty? What if I just called my lawyer and he came over here and you sucked his cock and took it in your ass and signed your life away to me? Huh? Lovely girl?

And it had worked.

For a few months Ellen had pouted and said she’d been tricked, but she gave up pretending it didn’t suit her to be a slave quite soon, and everything had been peachy until Ellen had started getting above herself. It was true that the slave of a rich and tolerant Mistress could be powerful in her own right, and Ellen had made the best of that, but she had gone too far, and now. Now she was gone.

It wasn’t the end of the world, she concluded, a few days later; it really had all been Ellen’s fault. There were other, younger, cuter girls, and she’d make no mistake with the new one; train them hard and keep them under stricter discipline— the servants could do the boring bits.

Meanwhile there was this annoying gangster type. She have a word with Daddy about him.

It would be alright.