“This the filly?”
I had never been called a ‘filly’ before in my life. Another time it would have made me laugh, but now it almost made my cry. I was so scared, all of a sudden. A strange sort of fear, though — hot, jittery, weakening. I suddenly recognised it, this fear. The serious, grown-up version of the fear that preceded a spanking. And with that recognition came the knowledge that I was wet between the legs. God, no — this couldn’t be real?
“She’s the one.”
“Huh. You c’n stand over there — good view, but not in my way — OK?”
“Just so.”
The mountain turned to me again, eyes running over me slowly. He had no expression at all beyond a slight, habitual smile.
“Blouse off, skirt off. Panties too, if you’re wearing any. On all fours on the bench, facing the mirror. Head down, ass up, legs spread. Quick now, you’re late.”
And he turned away, leaving me quivering. I’d been told what to do. I knew something was coming, and this was it. But could I? I wanted so much to look at R, but he was behind me, and somehow I knew that I mustn’t — that what he wanted was for me to obey. To my relief, he helped me.
“Do as he says, slut.”
He’d been calling me ‘slut’, and ‘wanton’ more often recently — and I’d got to like it. But he’d never used the words in public, let alone in front of another person, in front of a stranger. You’d never have guessed, though — it sounded as if ‘slut’ was my name, and that he was bored with it, too. It was like a slap in the face — shocking, painful. I was frozen for a few seconds, before a wave of sexual excitement hit me. He had told this stranger what I was; a slut. Of course; it was true, after all. I’d idly considered the thought before — that being a slut for one man only made little sense — the word implied a pervasive character — a woman of loose sexual morals — an easy fuck. That was what slut meant. And so here I was, stripping naked in front of a stranger.
I began to remove the blouse, fingers clumsy, pulse racing, knowing I was getting turned on by the idea of stripping for the big stranger; now the skirt, bending down, feeling my breasts swaying, wondering — hoping he was looking at them, that he liked them, blushing. Straightening … now the skimpy panties, breath fast, panting, nipples painfully stiff, sex moist, ashamed and trepidatious, jittery, and — undeniably — turned-on.
But as I straightened, my eye caught on a picture on the wall, a young woman, sluttily dressed, ‘tramp-stamp’ tattoo on her buttock, visible above the G-String that was all she was wearing apart from the tiny cropped T-Shirt and high heels. It was so tacky! This wasn’t me! I hate tattoos!
I stood, frozen, feeling so weak, so stupid, tears trembling in my eyes — just knowing I wasn’t able to do this… I don’t know how long it was, but eventually, as if at the other end of a cloth tunnel, I heard my voice, trembling, saying;
“I … I can’t do … can’t do this … Not … not a tattoo … I … I’m sorry — I … I just can’t. Please — please don’t make me…”
Not daring to look up, desperately wishing I wasn’t naked now, but too scared to do anything about retrieving my clothes. I just wanted to curl into a ball on the floor and hide.
Silence.
I was quivering, knees weak, feeling their eyes on me — on my breasts, on my haunches, on my thighs, on my belly — on my sex… I wanted to hide my breasts, but I knew that this was not permitted me — I suddenly realised how much training R had imbued in me — the number of things I knew he expected, the number that were forbidden, and a shiver ran through me. He had trained me already, prepared me for this – and I hadn’t even known it; I was filled with respect for him, for his mastery, grateful that he chose me, that he had been prepared to do so much work on me…
The silence was almost loud now, so fearfully did I await the resolution of this disobedience.
At last, R stood and came to me; his voice was calm and relaxed, without any hint of anger or disappointment;
“You can be handcuffed and strapped down, or you can do it voluntarily. It will be more humiliating and probably more frightening to be strapped down. The choice is yours.”
And he caressed my sex, quite gently. I dared not clamp my thighs together, as I fervently wished, and he laughed, softly, genuinely amused;
“My, but you’re wet, pretty. Quite the little wanton! Let’s hope he chooses to use your pussy — for your sake. His cock is entirely in proportion, you know. Quickly now — you have a few seconds only before the choice is lost to you.”
He leant in and kissed a nipple, and suddenly, I knew that I had no choice. Silly girl — testing him again! As if I could live without his approval.
Trembling, I moved toward the bench. R stepped back, to take his seat again, calm, unruffled — he had been totally confident.
I climbed onto the bench, facing the mirror as suggested. Was I a horse — only needing a little gentle nonsense in my ear to get me to obey? Because I was obeying, against my wishes. This was a test, I knew that it was, and some ruthless animal part of me which was determined that I would pass had taken over.
I was blushing, tears on my cheeks, feeling terribly, terribly sad — but in the softest possible way, without the slightest anger or resentment. In fact, I realised, it was quite the opposite; I felt foolishly, abjectly grateful to R. For what? I didn’t really know — for having coerced me into this? For having saved me from worse humiliation? For putting me in the situation where I was forced to display myself so lewdly to this man-mountain, this giant who would apparently be having sex with me — using a hole of his choice in the near future? Perhaps for all of these things. But the gratitude was certainly real.
I positioned myself, conscientiously, on the low, padded bench, burning with shame at the lewd position, images from porn swimming into my head, telling me just how shamefully slutty I must look, but trying my best nevertheless, head down, ass up, thighs splayed, pussy thrust up and out.
I heard something and realised it was me, panting, a little whine on each intake of breath. I was quivering. Was I going to be fucked by the man-mountain like this — fucked without any preamble at all?
“This the mark you want”
“Yes, that one, the sans-serif.”
Apparently not. I was going to be marked first.
I hate tattoos. I’d always said I’d be the last person on the planet to get one, and now here I was, naked, lewdly spreading my sex, buttocks perkily in the air, about to be tattooed with heaven knew what, without the slightest say in the matter. And all I could think about was how obvious the wetness at my sex must be. I was so focused on R at this moment. To have brought me to this — to this incredible experience, an experience I could easily have never come within a million miles of. The fear was the most exciting fear I’d ever felt. My chest heaving, I was unbearably, gloriously conscious of the naked, spread condition of my sex, of my vulnerability.