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“OK, so what are we going to do?” a man asks.
“Should I just beat the shit out of you?” His left hand reaches out and grabs me by the top of my head. His right hand secures me under the jaw, trapping me in his vice.
“Whore?”
“Yes,” I meekly reply.
“Absolute whore, right?”
“Yes Sir.”
“What kind of whore?”
“Dirty whore, Sir.”
“Yeah?” he pauses. “You know, lately, I haven’t had any energy. Have you noticed that?”
“Mm-hm, ” another man concurs.
“What do you think?” the first queries.
“Bitches have been getting off easy,” the second advises.
“Looks a little nervous,” the first considers.
“I’m a little nervous, too,” he mock-confesses.
“I don’t even want to hurt you,” he tells me. “But I have to—because my friends are here.”
Over the next ten minutes, he threatens to beat me, threatens to torture me, pulls up my shirt, pulls up my skirt, pinches my nipples, hits my thighs, slaps me across the face, humiliates me, degrades me, makes me cry. He gets me to admit that the only reason I'm here on this particularly day in this particular hotel room is to surrender to my dark desires.
“I bet you are proud, right?”
I want to leave, to escape. Why am I so foolish?
He orders me on my hands and knees, and begins beating me with a leather strap that cracks! across the bared skin of my backside every time he hits me, leaving angry welts, until, finally, in a futile attempt to protect myself, I reach my arm around with my hand turned upwards, my palm facing outwards, and the man stops.
My face is buried in the sofa cushions. I want to disappear.
“Can I ask you a question?”
I don’t move or respond.
“Could you look at me, please?” He repeats himself.
Eventually, I turn my head and face him. There are tears tracking down my cheeks. My body is shaking uncontrollably, and my breath is hitching with every intake.
“To steal a Quentin Tarantino line, ” he muses, mockingly, “‘Was that as good for you as it was for me?’”
This is when he broke me.
Slowly, I turn away, going somewhere else, inside myself, anywhere but here.
“OK, I’m going to bring the guys in here, ” the man announces to no one in particular. “Because you’ve just gone to pieces on me.”
And, with that, the real event begins...
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my knees are getting weak at the thought of riding that big thing!
I must be dreaming!
