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Blackmailed bitch becomes a sextoy
The windows of the motel office were dusty and fly-specked. The neon sign was off and there were weeds growing through the cracks in the asphalt of the parking lot, nearly deserted now in the late afternoon sun. There were only a few cars here, a big van, a Volvo, and a Taurus wagon. Janel had her choice of parking spaces. She parked behind the van where she wouldn’t be seen. She had come straight from work so she still wore her smart business suit, the one that turned heads at the office, and the concrete steps felt gritty under her shoes as she walked up to the second level, her purse clutched in her hand. She was way out of place in this part of town but she didn’t care about that now. She was flushed with anger and embarrassment and she just wanted to get this over with and get out of here as quickly as possible. She’d left work as soon as she was able to make an acceptable exit from her last meeting of the day, but even so she was twenty minutes late. Silly, waste-of-time meeting, something about departmental productivity, the same old bullshit. She’d sat on the edge of her seat, feigning rapt interest, yet all the time her face had been on fire and her mind burned with the photos she’d just seen in her email. They’d made her feel naked and exposed, as if the men and women sitting around her putting up their slides and giving their presentations could all see right through her, could see her as she was in the photos, reclining half-naked on her rooftop with her top off, her hand inside her bikini bottoms, face turned to the side in obscene pleasure as she masturbated. One shot especially—her heels drawn up and her knees apart, her back arched over the beach towel as her naked stomach knotted in the throes of a racking, self-induced orgasm. What the hell had she been thinking?
Room 232. A wooden door whose robin’s-egg blue paint was already flaking off, a grimy patch around the doorknob. She knocked and nothing happened. A car honked out in the avenue. Then from within, a voice said, “It’s open.” She had expected some sort of sleazy punk, a two-bit type who would think it clever to engage in something like this, something between a prank and outright blackmail. But there was nothing young or punkish about the man in the expensive suit who watched her walk into the darkened room with curious, dangerous eyes. He was in his forties, maybe older, with that tautness of body that made her think of the military—maybe an ex-officer, someone in the habit of taking care of himself. He had dark hair and a beard, both streaked with gray in a way she automatically categorized as “distinguished”. His eyes were brown and intelligent and not without humor, but he wasn’t laughing now. Instead he looked at her with cold and wary appraisal and just a hint of malice. He was so unlike what she’d expected that she lost her composure, and the speech she had prepared on the drive over just evaporated under his gaze. He was formidable, not at all what she’d expected. Someone to be dealt with. He had a book on his knee, closed now with his finger holding the place. A glass of whiskey and ice and a bottle sat on the table next to him. She recognized the brand, a rare and expensive single malt scotch. It was freshly opened. Another glass, empty of whiskey but also filled with ice, stood by the bottle. “Close the door,” he said. “You’re late, Janel.” His voice was deliberately patient, with just a hint of condescension. “I’m sorry, I had a meeting and I couldn’t get away…” She broke off. That was none of his business. What was she apologizing for? The man was a blackmailer and a sleaze. “The pictures are over there,” he said. He nodded to a buff-colored envelope setting on the cheap dresser on the other side of the room. “They’re prints of course. I have the originals in a safe place.”
She went to the dresser and picked up the envelope. She started to open it and then stopped. “Go ahead. Don’t you want to see them?” Clutching the unopened envelope, she turned to face him. “Who are you?” she asked. “How did you get these? How do you know who I am?” He placed his book on the lamp table and sat back in his chair. “Those are rather moot points, Janel. Let’s just say that when you expose yourself in public like that, you rather invite this sort of thing. As to who I am, you can just call me the Doctor. That’s close enough.” His gaze made her uneasy. At work she had no trouble taking command and the people under her deferred to her natural authority, but this man was not at all intimidated. He looked at her as though she were some sort of specimen. She nervously opened the envelope and drew the sheaf of pictures partway out. They must be in sequence, for the first one showed her on the roof sitting up and reaching for her iced tea, her sunglasses on her nose. The story she’d downloaded from the internet was clasped against her breasts, the pages folded over. Just a girl taking the sun and doing a little reading. He must have been watching her the whole time she was up there—half an hour, maybe more. “Do you always go around invading people’s privacy with your little camera? Is this a thing of yours?” He wouldn’t be baited. “I carry a camera with me. It’s part of my job. I shoot what I see.” A vision came to her mind of the high-rise under construction across the street from her apartment, a garish new building with a construction crane rising from it like a gallows. But she had been sunbathing on a Sunday when no one was working there. What had he been doing there then? “You’re sick,” she said. “Perverted.”
He smiled and raised his glass to her in mock salute. He didn’t seem to be the least bit nervous about this and Janel felt a twinge of fear. She reminded herself to keep her cool, she was dealing with an unknown quantity. “What did you expect?” he asked. “And I hardly think you’re in a position to talk, Janel. At least I have the sense to confine my vices to the indoors, rather than taking care of myself out on the roof where anyone could see. Or was that the whole idea?” She felt herself flush and bit back her anger. She reminded herself that the point was to get this over with as quickly and painlessly as possible. “All right, all right,” she said. “What now? I suppose you want money or something.” He sighed. He leaned back in his chair and poured some of the whiskey into the second glass. “Drink?” She mustered her dignity and said, “No thank you. I’m tired. I want to get out of this rat trap. Now just tell me how much you want.” “Oh, I don’t want any money.” He smiled pleasantly. “I really don’t need any money. I want something else. I want your cooperation.” “Cooperation? What kind of cooperation?” He stared at her until she felt her stomach knot. “Oh no,” she said. “No. No way. Fuck you.” She had considered this possibility, that he might want something sexual, but had dismissed it as being too melodramatic, and even now as she felt a sudden throb of fear in her stomach she felt the urge to laugh in his face. It was absurd. It was entirely too much like a bad porno story, the kind of thing she’d been reading that day on her rooftop. He was still looking at her, his eyes patient. She gave a snort of contempt. “You’re joking, right? You’re not serious.”
The laugh had been a mistake. His eyes hardened and he took a slow sip of his drink and Janel felt her sarcastic sneer die on her lips. “Well then you can just go fuck yourself, because I assure you that I’m not doing anything of the kind. You can shove those pictures up your fucking ass!” She threw the envelope on the bed and turned to walk out. The Doctor nodded sadly, as if in complete sympathy, and put his drink down. “Let me tell you how this will work,” he said quietly. The calm and measured tone of his voice stopped her in her tracks. “The first batch of photos will go out to your sister back in Ohio, just to show you I’m serious. The next batch will go to your secretary, Miss Champion. She’ll be shocked, but she’s very loyal so she probably won’t tell anyone. Well, she is given to gossiping, isn’t she? So maybe she’ll tell just a few people, like Mrs. Gruber, your boss’ secretary. The next batch will go to your parents in St. Petersburg and some of their friends back home in Indianapolis, on Douglas Avenue? And the next batch will go to your bosses and coworkers at Foster Fredericks.” Janel froze, facing the door. She could see him in the mirror. He was staring at her and his eyes were full of concern, as if he regretted all of this so very much. “How do you know all this about me?” she asked. “Who told you?” “It’s business, Janel,” he said. “Nothing personal. I don’t make judgments. You gave me a lever, and I just used it. It would be a shame for you to lose that promotion. And your job.” He held the glass out to her. “Drink?” She almost laughed. “Look, you’ve got the wrong girl. I don’t know how you found out all this stuff about me, but I’m not playing your little game. I don’t do ‘sex’.” She emphasized the word, giving it a little flip of contempt. It was laughable, really. She hadn’t really thought about sex since college. She’d spent the last seven years working her ass off, making a way for herself in public relations, and sex was at most a nuisance, something you had to take care of every so often like flossing your teeth or going to the bathroom. He’d might just as well told her he wanted her to run a marathon or solve a quadratic equation.
He sighed deeply and shrugged. “Well then, I suppose that’s that.” He put her drink back down on the table and opened his book. She looked at him curiously. “You’re serious about this,” she said. She said it softly, as if she were talking to herself. She looked into his eyes and she could see that he was. “I have the pictures and the addresses. Stamps are cheap. I’ll ruin you.” Through the split in the window curtain she could see the bright, afternoon sunlight outside. Down below a fat man was getting sample cases out of the back of the Taurus, laughing, talking to someone she couldn’t see. There were two sweat patches on the back of his white shirt. The neon light in the fly-specked office was on. It all looked so bright and normal outside. It was all so bizarre. He picked up the glass and held it out to her again, and Janel found herself walking over to him and taking it from his hand. “Why?” she asked. He shrugged. “Fate. Opportunity. Because I liked what I saw, and I liked what I found out. And because I want to. And I can. You’re wasting yourself, Janel. Even you know that.” The story she’d been reading on the rooftop was about a woman who’d been forced at gunpoint to strip and service a man, and she wondered if he knew it, like he knew so much else about her. It had become her favorite fantasy, the idea of being forced and compelled. The more responsibility she was given at work, the more exciting she seemed to find the fantasy of having her power taken away from her. The irony of finding herself in that very situation wasn’t lost on her, but this didn’t feel like her fantasies. She felt remote and far away. She sipped from the drink. Her head was buzzing but nothing of any practical use was coming out.
“What do you want me to do?” she asked. “Take off your clothes.” He said it calmly, deliberately, and once the words were out, it didn’t seem so very unreasonable. Here in this sleazy motel room with the bright light of late afternoon seeping through the thin curtains, it didn’t seem unreasonable at all. “Do you really think I’m worth it?” she asked. He looked at her intensely for a long moment, then nodded his head. Janel felt a sudden sharp thrill spear through her body. He put his book down and got out of his chair, and Janel watched as he came to her and took the drink from her hand and set it on the table. He took hold of her arm and pulled her away from the door. He didn’t squeeze her hard, but the strength in his hand and the way he held her was unmistakable. She felt the blood surge into her face. “I’m really in no mood to negotiate,” he said. “I’ve told you what I want you to do and now I’m giving you the opportunity to do it. If you don’t care about the pictures then just walk out the door and you know what will happen. Otherwise take off your clothes and stop wasting my time.” He said it calmly, with complete self-assurance, but in his voice she could hear a barely suppressed anger that spread heat through her already warm body. It was something like her fantasy now. It was the anger that did it, and before she could stop to think about what she was doing, her hands went to the smoothness of her silk blouse and she began to work at the top button. He let go of her, and for a moment he was standing so close that she could smell his cologne and see his chest lifting with his breathing. His clothes were expensive and out of place in this seedy room, like his book and his whiskey. The knot in his tie was perfect. He must have taken an inordinate amount of time getting it just so when he’d dressed this morning, getting ready to come here and do this to her. He took a moment to straighten it now, then let out a long, slow breath, releasing his tension, as if an agreement had been reached.
He stepped behind her and she felt his hands on her shoulders. With a start, she realized that he was waiting to help her out of her jacket, and she reached up and parted the lapels so he could slide it off her arms. It was a gesture she had performed countless times in the presence of helpful gentlemen. Strange that she’d never stopped to think of what else it meant, its sexual connotations. He folded her jacket and placed it on the dresser, then went back to his chair. He sat down and steepled his fingers together in front of his chin. “Stand over here where I can see you.” She was numb now, her gray silk blouse felt transparent. Inside, her mind was whirling, but on the surface some sort of shock had set in and she was resigned, even placid about what she was about to do. Her fingers worked on the next button on her blouse, the one that was level with her bra, and she undid that, then the next. She opened all the buttons she could reach, then automatically unbuttoned her sleeves, just as she would do if she were home alone, changing out of her work clothes. The Doctor sipped his drink and the ice cubes clinked softly in his glass. Without thinking, Janel turned her back to him in modesty. “Face me,” he said sharply, and she stiffened, remembering where she was. She turned toward him, her face coloring. She pulled the blouse from her skirt, aware of the smooth silk sliding against her skin, and finished unbuttoning it. She stood there with the garment hanging loosely upon her shoulders, arms at her side, her chin up. “Remove it,” he said. She was wearing a good bra—dove gray and sheer, the cups edged in lace. With her last check she had splurged and bought herself all new underwear as a gift to herself, a taste of the high life that her coming promotion would bring. Now she was aware that this sexy lingerie might give him the wrong idea about her—make her appear to be the kind of girl who dressed like this beneath her work clothes just to keep herself aroused. But there was nothing she could do about it now.
She shrugged the silk blouse from her shoulders and felt it slip smoothly down her arms. She caught it and placed it on the dresser. Her breasts were high and firm, and the cups of the bra molded them into smooth hemispheres and crowded them together, creating a shadowy cleavage. She glanced quickly down and noticed that her nipples were quite visible. The sight of her own nakedness aroused her in a suddenly unfamiliar way. She forced herself to raise her face to him, summoning what pride she could, and she was mildly disappointed to find him examining the photographs he held fanned out like playing cards in his hand. He chose one and threw it on the bed, face up. “I like this one particularly,” he said. “Don’t you?” Janel automatically crossed her arms over her breasts and glanced at the photo. It showed her on the towel, her back arched, her hips lifted from the blanket with such force that she was supported on her very toes. Her knees were spread, and she had one hand down the front of her bikini bottom, the other down the back where she’d been pressing her fingertip against her asshole, indulging in a fantasy of anal sex, something that had always fascinated and horrified her in equal measure. In the photo her eyes were closed, her mouth open in a silent scream of sexual fulfillment. It must have been taken just at her moment of orgasm. She liked to let herself go when she masturbated, moaning and thrashing and playing the part of an out-of-control sexual a****l. In her dreams she was a shameless whore no man could resist. Now she looked at the picture of herself and her cheeks burned hot with shame. She didn’t recognize the woman. “The skirt,” he said. The picture had quashed any last argument she might make. She unbuttoned the skirt and opened the zipper, then stepped out of it and laid it on top of the pile of clothes. Then, without his saying anything, she hooked her thumbs under the elastic band of her slip and slid it down her legs. She stepped out of it and tossed it onto the pile, brushed back a lock of hair that had fallen into her face and stood up, dressed only in her shoes and stockings, her black garter belt, and her bra and panties. Had she dressed specifically to seduce someone, she couldn’t have done a better job. She stood up tall, trying to hide her embarrassment under a gloss of pride, showing him she wouldn’t be intimidated. She knew instinctively that while he could do what he wished to her body, as long as she kept her pride of spirit he could not get to her. It would be a hollow victory at best. But when she saw the look in his eyes, she felt a sudden thrill of shameful excitement run through her body. His eyes had a hunger and a look of raw lust such as she’d never seen in a man, and the idea that she was the focus and reason for that look made her nipples harden perceptibly against the sheer fabric of her bra. “Walk,” he said. “Walk over to that doorway and then come back.” It was no more than three steps. Janel kept her back straight, pulling her shoulders back, but it was as if she’d suddenly forgotten how to walk. She was painfully aware of her own near-nakedness and the female roll of her hips, the feel of the fabric of her bra against her aroused nipples and the slide of her silky panties against the globes of her ass. She was aware of every sensation, the way her shoes pushed her ass up and out and lengthened her stride, the air as it moved past her arms. He smiled softly, his eyes glowing. “You’re a hot bitch, aren’t you? I knew it when I saw you on your rooftop. Sensual, sexual. Is there someone in your life?” “Yes,” she lied. Really there was only Jason, a guy from accounting she went out with occasionally, who might be good for a movie or a roll in the sack but who was tedious in the extreme when it came to any sort of nonsexual interaction. The fact was that outside of her masturbation, she had no sex life, and now suddenly all those feelings of sexual neglect were churning within her, threatening to escape. She knew he could tell she was lying. “All due respect, but it seems to me that your young man is not giving you the kind of attention you deserve,” he said. “Otherwise we wouldn’t have that.” He nodded toward the picture on the bed. “Would we?”
Janel said nothing. She couldn’t meet his gaze, and so her eyes were drawn to his groin. He was hard. The front of his trousers bulged and the outline of his enormous cock was plainly visible. He made no attempt to hide it, in fact, he seemed almost to be showing it off, and suddenly it was as if there was third presence in the room, someone impatient and menacing. Janel felt a flutter of nervous excitement in her stomach and she tried to remain calm but her breathing increased. She was no stranger to sex, but still, she’d never engaged in anything quite so cold and impersonal, so devoid of affection or any sort of intimacy, and being forced to parade around for his sexual enjoyment was humiliating and yet terribly arousing at the same time. “It excites you, doesn’t it, Janel?” he asked her in a low voice. “Showing off for me like this.” “No,” she answered quickly. Too quickly. He smiled. “Don’t lie to me. Your nipples are hard. I can see them from here. I’ll bet if I put my fingers between your legs I’d find out you were wet, wouldn’t I?” The thought filled her with heat, and she tried to look at him without seeing him, as if she could see through him. It was true. She had felt her own lubrication as she’d walked, but she was damned if she would admit it. He shifted in the chair, sliding his ass down and spreading his legs, displaying himself—an arrogant, male gesture. “I trust you can see what you’ve done to me, can’t you?” he asked. “In fact, you haven’t been able to take your eyes away, did you know that?” She would have blushed had her face not already been so red with shame and excitement. She hadn’t been aware that she’d been staring, but she had. She’d been almost entranced looking at his cock, and now she tried to compose herself. She looked at his eyes and caught that predatory gleam there again, so she looked away, studying a cigarette burn in the carpet at the side of his chair. Even as she tried to hide her gaze, she could feel her nipples reaching for him. She heard him laugh.
“I wasn’t wrong about you.” he said. “You’re a gorgeous woman, but you’re a tramp too. Not that you’d ever admit it, not that you’d ever act on it, but this excites you, having a man look at you like this, having this power over you.” “No,” she said again, automatically. She was sinking again into that strange, trance like lethargy—boiling on the inside, while on the surface everything was like a languid, erotic dream. Her heart was hammering and she could feel her breasts rising and falling with her deep, steady breathing. She felt his eyes on her like a lover’s caress. “Take off your bra,” he said softly. “No. I can’t. Really, I can’t.” In an instant he was out of his chair. Janel gasped in alarm as he took her and spun her roughly around so that her back was to him and she felt his fingers on the clasp of her bra. She raised her hands to stop him, but then thought better of it and clasped her hands over her breasts, holding the garment in place. All that sexual need she’d repressed for all those long years suddenly flooded her body and threatened to overflow, invoked by his rough male touch. She felt him unhook her bra and hold the straps apart, and then pull tight, using them like reins to pull her back against him. The hard log of his cock pressed against her ass and made her bite her lip to keep from groaning out loud. “Look,” he said, and Janel opened her eyes to see that he held her facing the mirror over the dresser. She saw herself standing there in the middle of the room, his face looking over her right shoulder like an evil spirit, that hot, predatory gleam in his eye. “Put your hands down at your sides and look,” he said. “I want you to see this.” Janel forced her hands away from her breasts. Again, she couldn’t look at his reflection, so she looked at her bra as he slowly relaxed his grip and drew it down and away from her breasts, pulling the thin straps down her arms. She watched transfixed as the wispy garment left her body and her breasts came into view, her traitorous nipples puckered and apparently ready for anything. His big hands held the flimsy garment as he drew it down and away from her, revealing her nakedness, then dropped it on the floor. His empty hands came up, his fingers spread wide and he took her breasts in his hands, pulling her against him once more. “Oh God!” she moaned. The sight of his hands on her in the mirror finally set it off, and she felt her own desire surge through her body with such force that it actually made her knees weak. The way he held her—so possessive, so greedy. She raised her hands and gripped his fingers, thinking to pull his hands away, but his arms were like cast iron, immovable. “Don’t,” he hissed at her with sudden anger. “You don’t touch me unless and until I tell you to, is that understood? Now put your hands down.” To her own embarrassment Janel nodded weakly and dropped her hands. It was just as well. Her fingers were shaking with need. The way he touched her was as if he were the real owner of this body, as if he knew what it was for, not her—as if he had a better use for her than anything she could think of. “Now just watch,” he said. “I want you to see this about yourself.” She raised her eyes reluctantly to the mirror where his big hands covered her breasts. He stroked her, sliding his fingers along the cones of her breasts and Janel felt her eyelids fluttering closed in helpless pleasure. He circled her nipples with his fingertips, all the while keeping her pressed against him so that she could feel his furiously hard cock throbbing against her ass. She watched as he took her nipples daintily between his thumbs and first fingers, and then squeezed. The discomfort became pain, a pain that shot through her body like a bolt of lightning and struck her deep between her legs, making her cry out and jerk in his embrace. He let go of her nipples but still held her tight as Janel was suddenly panting for breath. She could feel herself gush with wetness, as if she’d just been wounded. Her own response shocked her. “Don’t do that,” she gasped. “Please!” She could see him grinning behind her.
“Hurts, doesn’t it?” he asked. “But you like the way it hurts.” “No. No,” she said, fighting the urge to pull his hands away. “I don’t like it. It just hurts.” He laughed. “You can stop pretending now,” he said. “We both know what’s going on here. You’re excited as hell, aren’t you? You’re a hot little piece, and you’ve made your entire career out of teasing the boys, out of using your sex to get what you want, with your hot little suits like the one you wore here today. You dangle yourself in front of their eyes and then cry ‘foul’ when somebody reaches for you, don’t you? Well, you’ve made this bed, Janel, and now you’re going to get fucked in it.” “No, stop!” She pushed back against him, trying to get away. This had gotten entirely out of hand. She had been willing to take off her outer clothes for him, but this had gone beyond that, and he was showing her things about herself that she didn’t want to see. She’d been willing to strip. She’d even have been willing to let him have sex with her if that’s what he wanted, but now he was playing with her mind, with her own understanding of herself, and that frightened her. She felt a sudden surge of hatred for this man, for the things he was doing to her and the things he was making her feel—his arrogance, that he was so absolutely right about her. She would never admit it, but it had felt good when he’d pinched her nipples. It had hurt, but on the other side of the pain there was something that thrilled her to her core. And just like the pain, her sudden hatred for him had another side too, one she was afraid to look at. “I’ll scream,” she said. “I’ll scream and call the police. I don’t care about your damned pictures. Just let me go now!” He made no move to release her though. “I’ll show you,” he said. He was still standing behind her. Her arms were drawn up to cover her breasts, her hands balled into helpless fists. With his left hand he reached around her and took her right forearm, encircling her with his strong arm and holding her pressed against him.
She watched nervously in the mirror as his right hand came down and slid over her smooth stomach and over her silky panties, heading for her pussy. “No,” she cried, fighting furiously against him. “No, damn it!” His finger touched her between her legs, and she felt a jolt of feverish electricity shoot through her body. She reached up with her free left hand and dug her nails into his forearm, trying to hurt him, but he ignored her. He managed to pull the crotch of her panties to the side and his fingers dipped into the pool of wetness between her thighs. “Oh God!” she moaned in shame. She knew she was soaking wet. She’d been lubricating since he first made her strip, and now her pussy was swollen and dripping like an overripe peach. She felt his finger splashing around in her wetness and sneaking its way easily inside her, playing on the edge of her opening, and she could just feel his grin of self-satisfied male victory as he held her. “Tell me, Janel,” he whispered in mock concern. “Are you always so wet? Do you always walk around with your pussy dripping like this?” She couldn’t answer. There was nothing to say, besides, his finger was sliding in greasy circles around her clit, forcing her stomach to clench in hot, eager spasms that brought little grunts of obscene pleasure to her lips. She tried to turn these into sounds of protest, but she wasn’t fooling anyone any longer—she was on fire to be touched and taken like this. He stood there holding her and playing with her as her struggles grew weaker and more halfhearted, and then finally ceased. Her protests turned into sobs of surrender as she shuddered in his grasp. He held her tight, leaning back slightly so that her body was extended. She was suddenly aware that she’d u*********sly spread her legs for him and was working her hips against his hand, pushing back at him and trying to entice him to enter her, to put his finger where she needed to feel it. She thought she’d die of embarrassment but she couldn’t seem to stop. It was as if he spoke directly to her body, and she was merely a horrified observer clinging to his arm, her eyes closed so that she wouldn’t have to witness her own degradation in the mirror across the way. All those years of denial had caught up with her and her nerves were stretched razor-thin, aching for his rough touch. His strength and her helplessness ignited the repressed lust within and her thighs trembled, licked by the greedy flames of impending orgasm. Then suddenly he let her go. “Take off your panties,” he said. He went to his chair and began to quickly but calmly remove his clothes, taking off his shoes and loosening his tie. Janel felt dizzy, as if she might fall. “No,” she said. He gave her a look of mild surprise but he didn’t stop undressing. “No,” she said again. “Not that. I won’t.” He dropped his pants and stepped out of them then skinned off his briefs. Janel saw his massive cock spring into view, long and thick and as proud as a rampant stallion, standing out from between his shirttails. Her throat went dry. He came over to her and took her easily by the back of the neck, pushed her down over the dresser so that she was forced to bend over, her breasts pressed against the cold surface, her ass in the air. He held her easily like that with one hand on the back of her neck and with the other, he yanked her panties down her legs, ripping the thin fabric and leaving them tangled around her thighs. Janel gasped in fear at his sudden v******e, but before she could do anything he began spanking her with flat, angry blows, hitting her like a disobedient c***d and making her flesh vibrate and jiggle. She was completely outraged, speechless, so shocked that she just leaned there and took it before she could even think to do anything. But there was nothing to be done. His hand on the back of her neck was like iron and her hands were trapped beneath her, useless.
He slapped her with the flat of his hand and each slap was like a pistol shot in the room—a sharp, flat sound accompanied by her squeal of pain and outrage. All she could do was wiggle and roll her hips, trying to escape the blows, and all that did was distribute the spanks all over her trembling ass cheeks until her entire bottom was red and on fire with masochistic heat. She screamed, a snarling, feral sound of violation, but he didn’t stop. His fingers dug into the back of her neck and the blows rained down upon her and through the haze of shock and outrage Janel became aware of a new sensation. The shaking and jiggling of her ass communicated itself to her already-aroused pussy and lit a fire there—a fire that burned deep and began to glow with hot incandescence. Her skin burned and each sting from a blow melted into the molten liquid at her core until she was burning with need. She needed to be touched and filled. She needed him. And he needed her too. He was hitting her not out of anger but out of lust. She could feel it in the way his spanking hand lingered for a brief moment on her hot skin, the way his other hand trembled as he held her down. Not because it took any strength—she had stopped struggling after the first few blows—but because of his own need for her. He wanted her, and that’s what this was about. This man wanted her so much he was shaking. There was no possibility of her escaping now, and moreover she no longer wanted to. When he let go of her neck and stepped back she stayed where she was, bent submissively over the cheap dresser. The v******e and humiliation of the blows echoed through her body like the fading tones of a gong, the feel of his trembling hand still on the back of her neck. She lay there panting, with her chest pressed down on top of the dresser and her knees locked, her buttocks thrust lewdly into the air, red and burning from his lustful punishment. “Touch yourself,” he now ordered her. “Reach down between your legs and play with your pussy. Do it, Janel!”
With an abject groan of acceptance, she reached back between her legs and ran a manicured nail down her wet slit. She was totally exposed to his gaze and in the mirror she could see him behind her stripping off his shirt, getting ready to fuck her. He looked like a Greek god, like Zeus himself with his thick curls and salt-and-pepper beard, a dark and furious glower on his face. His cock stood out before him like the god’s own thunderbolt. Janel felt no shame now, no compunction. He’d won and she was the spoils. He’d been right about her, just as he’d said, and suddenly she felt an overwhelming urge to show him just how right he’d been, show him what a slut she really was. It was just like her masturbation fantasies now, but this one was real, and at last she didn’t have to hide herself from anyone and play the demure princess. He knew that deep inside she was a shameless whore and she knew it too, and now she wanted to prove it to him. She was filled with a fierce, female pride. She was no match for his strength and his male power, but she had power of her own—the power of her own sexuality and desirability which made him every bit as weak as she was now. She slid her finger up and down her empty and hungry slit with obscene deliberation, smearing her wetness around, spreading herself open with two fingers and showing him what she had for him, what she was. In the mirror she could see his eyes grow wild with hunger and pure, naked lust, and she wanted to laugh with joy for the sudden freedom she felt. He came into her savagely, just like she wanted, fucking into her so hard that he lifted her feet off the floor. He reached beneath her, grabbed a breast in one hand and dug into her pussy with the other, finding her clit and forking his fingers around it, rubbing her in rhythm to his powerful thrusts. Janel arched her back to take him deeper and covered the hand on her breast with her own, feeling the strength in his fingers. She reached down between her legs and showed him where to touch her, and then gasped, shocked by her own savage joy as his own hand took over and did to her what she’d always wanted a man to do—take her, use her. He dug his fingers into her tender flesh and punished her, insisting that she yield up her pleasure to him. All the while his big shaft sluiced in and out of her cunt with desperate male fury, wanting to possess her and make her his. He stuffed her full and then pulled out, leaving her aching for him, and the fury of his pistoning cock sent her higher and higher into her own dizzy heaven of lust. Janel dared a glance in the mirror and saw him standing behind her, leaning back slightly, the big muscles on his chest hard and filmed with perspiration, a look on his face of satisfaction mixed with mild disdain, the look of a haughty conqueror. It was the disdain that did it for her, that look of arrogant satisfaction that caused an emotional thrill to burn through her body, bringing her to the very edge of a shattering orgasm because she knew that he’d been right about her, that he’d been right all along. It was no accident that she’d been out masturbating on her roof when he’d caught her, fucking herself with her fingers while she dreamed of a man shoving his hot cock up into her ass, showing her wantonly to the world. It was no accident that she’d come here and stripped for him, let him bend her over the dresser and spank her ass, and then fuck her within an inch of her life, as if she were a common whore. It was who she was, and who she’d always known she was. And as she clenched her eyes tight and bit down on the ferocious sweetness of her thundering orgasm, it was all she wanted to be.