Image by the fabulous Stuart F Taylor
When she’s sat for long enough in the aftermath of her wanton behaviour – knickers down, bent over the desk in his office, palms smarting from the whipping that kicked off her punishment, he calls her through to the lounge.
Just one word, barked with force and anger:
“Come.”
Note: degradation/humiliation, consensual role play, beating, fucking-as-punishment, slut shaming. Catch up on part one (gang bang in a bar) and part two (tell me where you’ve been) then pop back here for the climax.
She obeys his instruction. Tugging her skirt down to cover the humiliating nakedness of her arse and her cum-slicked thighs, trying simultaneously to pull the shredded remains of her shirt across her bare chest, she walks on tiptoe into the living room.
He sits in the centre of the sofa, and gestures to where she should stand. Right in the middle of the rug, in front of the blank TV screen. Facing his displeasure. Facing him.
“Now listen very carefully,” he tells her, drawling slowly to eke out the threat of it all. “You know I’m incredibly angry with you.”
She nods.
“You’ve behaved very badly indeed.”
Nods, again.
He launches into a speech about how she’s let him down. Been a slut. Allowed herself to get fucked and abused by a group of strangers without him being present to direct them. Tells her he knows she enjoyed it, he can see it in her face. He lists off all the things he thinks she’s done, occasionally turning a statement into a question so she can give the honest ‘yes’ that makes his dick twitch, or the lying ‘no’ that seals the next phase of her punishment.
“You let them fuck you. You liked it when they fucked you? You took two of them at once, one in your mouth and one in your cunt. You let four of them cover your tits in their spunk. You swallowed another one’s cum, didn’t you? You gulped it down and then smiled and told him ‘thank you’, didn’t you?”
She ‘yes’es and ‘no’s through his questions, drawing out her confession for as long as she possibly can. The more time he takes in teasing these secrets out of her, the longer she’ll have to enjoy this moment right here: squirming with bare feet on the carpet under his scolding gaze, cunt aching with unsated desire to get fucked. Dripping till she feels it down her thighs.
“Yes,” she tells him, when he accuses her of taking two men at once. And “no” she lies, when he asks her if she loved it. When he gets to one she feels able to get away with denying, she looks up. Staring him dead in the eye she bites back:
“I never said ‘thank you’ when I swallowed his spunk.”
Exactly what he was waiting for.
With speed and no warning at all, he leaps from the sofa and grabs her by the wrist, tugging her onto his lap and over his knee. He grabs the remains of her shirt and rips it – the final frayed seams giving way so it’s now in two pieces, hanging limply from her shoulders and exposing her naked back. She struggles against him, he restrains her. One hand on the nape of her neck, one of his legs pinning her thighs, so she’s trapped face down ass up. He lifts her skirt, gives a few sharp smacks with the palm of his hand. Tells her ‘quiet’ and ‘sssh’ and ‘you asked for this.’
She doesn’t need to wonder for long what ‘this’ might mean, because at that point he hits ‘play’ on the resting TV.
The room is full of sound. Loud – too loud – and aggressive. A crowd. To begin with she can’t quite place why it feels so fucking familiar, until she hears her own voice amidst the din.
Oh God. It’s the bar.
“What’s that you’re saying there?” he asks. And it dawns on her that he never needed to interrogate her at all – he knows. He has video of every single thing. He was watching this whole time. Observing. Recording. Judging.
He slaps her again with a flat palm, as if to prompt a response: “What. Did. You. Say?” Each word a smack, and each one hard enough to make her whole body jerk when it lands.
“Please,” she says, and he tells her:
“That’s right. I think you told him ‘please’. Please what?”
She moans. Shame and arousal and confusion and trying-to-remember. So much happened, it was a maelstrom. Men everywhere, shoving themselves into her: into her face, her cunt, her hands. She wants to tell the truth but she can’t recall, and her face is pressed to the sofa so she can’t even twist to confirm what might be on screen.
“Please,” she says again. “I don’t know.”
He softens slightly for a second. Leans back in his seat so he can expose his twitching, rock-solid cock for a little attention. Still holding her down so she cannot turn and look, he starts to describe the video.
He tells her who is in shot, and she recognises some of the men even through his disdainful descriptions of them. He sneers at them and about them, and every word hits her like yet another smack – resonating as punishment and aphrodisiac simultaneously. The way he speaks about her – you greedy slut, you wanton cunt, you filthy fucking bitch – drips heavy with disgust, and she squirms in his lap at the horror and the horn of it.
He’s tugging really firmly on his dick now, getting off on watching her be degraded by all of these men. Getting off even harder on the chance to berate her for doing so.
“Confess,” he tells her once more, his tone now firmly settled into the lazy drawl of a man who knows the answers. She stammers and gulps through a rough account: how many men there were in that grubby bar, what they did to her and when. Occasionally new memories are triggered: from the video, she can hear the odd snippet of what was said, even if she can’t see the screen to know who said it.
This bitch is on heat. She takes it so easily. You hold her down and let’s see how hard she can take it. I want to see her cry when she chokes on my cock.
She recounts the events, but inevitably it’s all a little blurred. She gets the order wrong, of what happened when. Each time she fails, he sighs. Takes a break from beating his dick to beat her instead. Eventually, bored of this game, he lets go her neck and urges her to watch along with him.
“Kneel down,” he instructs, dragging her red-raw, whipped palm to his cock and clasping it tight, “and don’t take your eyes off the screen. Just tell me what you see. Tell me what you did.”
Like that, she narrates the video. Kneeling in mortified agony beside him while he uses her hand to rub at himself, she murmurs a shaky play-by-play account of what is happening.
Now they’re stretching me backwards across the bar. Now pouring more beer. Now he’s grabbing my hair, and that other one is shoving his dick down my throat. Now I’m gagging and choking. Now the one behind me is smacking my arse. Now I’m arching my back so he can fuck me.
All the while he’s on the sofa, diamond hard in her forcibly-closed fist, a sneer of undisguised disgust on his face. Sometimes she can tell a particular snippet gets him hotter, as he squeezes her grip on his cock with a little more force. Jerks it with a fraction more speed. Occasionally, he’ll grunt or interject with a bitter-sounding question:
Did you like it? Which dick did you like best? Did you think that one was too big to fit? Did you want that particular guy’s cum?
Where necessary, she confesses. On every single point, she tells the truth. Where’s the win in lying now, when he’s got it all on screen? Cameras set up at all angles to capture every frame of her humiliation. She narrates the video and confesses to her sins, hoping only that when this is over she will get the reward her whole body is aching for.
She wants him to fuck her as punishment.
Wants him to bend her over the footstool in front of the screen, make her keep talking while he slams in stroke after stroke. She wants her sentences punctuated with hard thrusts and brutal smacks, ratcheting up his brutality – with fists and belt and dick – as each filthy confession spills from her babbling mouth.
He knows this, which is why he resists. Insisting instead that she sit still as she wanks him off to the porn in which she’s the star of the show. Ordering ‘don’t fidget’ when her spare hand strays to the sopping wet slit of her cunt. She almost mewls. She definitely grins. But – good girl that she is – she keeps talking. Telling him in detail all the things he has already seen. Everything that’s causing his cock to pulse harder as it plays out on the TV.
But it has to come to this, eventually. As all my fantasies come to something like this, eventually. He rewinds the video to the moment she enters the building – noting with dripping disdain how she flirts with the camera. Poking her tongue out at the lens and flashing it one of her tits: irredeemable slut. He bends her over on the footstool and makes her watch the entire film again, belting her every time he sees her take a new cock.
Calling each moment out. Adding it to a tally like it’s a brand new crime. Telling her exactly what she’s done.
“Brushing past that guy and letting him fondle your arse.”
Thwack.
“Smiling like a flirt when that other guy covered you in beer.”
Thwack.
“Letting them maul your wet tits through that white shirt.”
Thwack.
And on and on and on, until:
“Swallowing all of that dick till you choke on his spunk.”
Thwack.
“Whimpering like a bitch while they pinned you down and fucked you.”
Thwack.
Each listed crime gets more wanton than the last, and here – finally – is the escalation she was hoping for. She didn’t want to confess to everything at once, she wanted it to build to a crescendo. Wanted the punishment and pain and verbal chastisement eked out far beyond the point of bratty denial and swiftly-given justice. She wanted to feel the disgrace of it as strongly as she felt each lick of his belt. She needed to inhabit the character. Wanted her degradation to mean so much more than plain old kink.
She’s long ago lost count of how many strokes he’s beaten into her, or the number of times he’s berated her for being such a filthy little slut. The confessions she’s made worked their magic to help her get over the knowledge that nothing she’s done is really, truly forbidden, it’s part of the plan. A role play. A game. A nothing. She needed that long to shore up the fourth wall of their production. Block out reality and fully inhabit her part.
By the time he finally decides that he’s ready to come, she’s tapped into a feeling of such abject, genuine self-disgust that the plans they made together have blurred and been lost to her memory. Now everything about her is pathetic, wanton, desperate. Not only is she fit for nothing except being used in this way, she also deserves to be punished for everything those disgusting men did to her willing body.
She’s tapped into a submission so abject that it feels brand new: inarguable, all-pervasive shame.
By the time he finally enters her, with a grunt and dismissive remark, she has sunk so low that even she agrees with his contemptuous assessment:
“I’m too good to you, you know that? I’m far. Too good. To you.”
