Mason made me take his Merc today even though he knows driving it turns me into a nervous wreck. For a saloon it feels like a tank and God knows what he’d do to me if I put a scratch on it. And he made me wear that little leather skirt I bought that barely keeps me decent and was intended purely for the bedroom, for his pleasure. He knows things like this burn me, and in truth I know him well enough to guess he’d send me straight out wearing it. I got every single eye in that place judging me, either lustfully or scornfully, and the ground simply refused to swallow me up. My blood felt like hot soda in my veins. I swear some old bastard over by the dairy counter muttered something about me being a filthy whore. I can’t say I didn’t feel like one.
So I’m still trembling now, my mind a-whir as I try to negotiate my exit from the parking lot. I’m taking extra care to look and make sure the road is clearer than clear. I’ve got the image flashing through my head of those three college guys grinning and eyeing me up and plotting in whispers about what they think of me and what they want to do to me. That’s not helping. I blink and try to concentrate. The road is empty but I keep my eyes right as I pull out in case some sneaky so-and-so tries to come out of nowhere – and then…wham! I actually shriek with the shock. The body bounces up towards me to smack against the windshield before rolling back down the hood to drop out of sight. I swear I was only going, like, three miles per hour but I know if you aren’t extra easy on the gas this baby can reach sixty in the blink of an eye. And so I’ve hit her.
I know it was a her. The flailing limbs were lithe. I saw the ponytail under the baseball cap. My mind pieces the fragments to tell me she was a jogger, in vest top and tight leggings, with smooth, tanned calves bare above white sneakers. And now I’ve killed her. Or maimed her for life. Whatever, she hasn’t got up. I want to stay sitting here for ever so that I don’t have to drag my shocked, shaking body out to go witness the mess I’ve made of her. But I can’t do that. The air is suddenly warm on my skin, out of the realms of the Merc’s air-conditioning. There are no sounds coming from the front of the car, no moans and groans to assure me it wasn’t a fatal hit. I creep forward inch by inch, trying to delay the sight of her all broken and bloodied, as if somehow she might miraculously mend in the meantime. Then I do see her. She is sitting on the road glaring at me. In a threatening but measured tone she says, ‘I’m going to have you for this, you bitch.’
I gawp in silence and blink three or four times. At first I think it is Jennifer Lawrence herself – a chestnut-haired Jennifer Lawrence. The similarity of the cheeks and eyes is so uncanny she could be a double. But the eyes are a bright green, not blue. And the lips are fuller – more reminiscent of Angelina’s. But then that’s me: since I’ve been transported across the Atlantic and immersed deeply into the sublime madness of Hollywood, I think I see A-listers in every face I set eyes upon. I cannot think outside the movies, can’t really separate the fact from my fantasy any more. My world has become a thrilling, sunny montage of beauty and glamour that I have been brought here to serve.
Strikingly pretty this woman may be; one thing that she isn’t is dead. Nor does she seem to have a scratch on her. However, this escape from injury hasn’t apparently dampened her fury. Glowering expressions always send the quivers right through me. I can’t help it. They defeat me in an instant. I have no answer to any kind of power used against me. I buckle and yield in the next breath, as if just doing so brings me a comfort I crave. So when she holds out her hands for me to take to help her get up, I clasp them immediately and start pulling, even though I’ll be even more at a disadvantage with her off the floor. Then she is right there in front of me, strong and toned, gorgeous and unnerving at once, all sweet scent and eyes like fire.
‘I didn’t see you,’ I stammer. I’m hoping my accent will make her cut me some slack. People over here have said it makes me sound more innocent.
‘You didn’t see me, you blind British bitch,’ she snarls, moving closer, ‘because I’m guessing you always have your dumb blonde head so far up your own ass. Was my fluorescent orange top not bright enough for you? Or were you too busy wishing you’d worn a skirt that showed off your prissy cunt completely, instead of only half showing it?’
This tirade sees the last of my strength disappearing south. My pulse is racing and I feel hot to my core. My skin tingles with nerves. My breath is already too heavy to enable me to speak, so I can’t tell her it was only an accident, and that I was, in fact, trying to be super-careful when she jumped out of nowhere onto my car. I can’t tell her that a girl as stunning as her has no right to be angry at the world ever, let alone so foul-mouthed and nasty to someone who actually doesn’t deserve it. I can’t tell her how flustered and blood-fizzed her confrontational closeness makes me, how unfair a target I am in my weakened state. Or that the reason it makes me so beside myself is because it turns me on so much.
‘I didn’t…’ I start to say.
‘No, you didn’t,’ she cuts in. ‘And every camera in this parking lot will have recorded that, which is why I’ll have no trouble suing your trash-whore ass for every single dollar it has ever earned you. Unless, of course, you do something else for me.’
Her face is inches from mine now. One dip forward could see her take my trembling bottom lip between her teeth if she should so choose. I can almost feel the heat from her mouth. She has one eyebrow raised as if impatiently awaiting an answer. Except I’m standing here clueless.
‘I don’t…’
‘No, you don’t,’ she intercedes again. ‘Your sort never does. So let me spell it out for you. Your carelessness nearly caused me serious injury and now you owe me. If you prefer, you can let a judge decide how much. Or you can decide to let me deal out my own form of punishment.’
With that she brings up her open hand, almost like she intends to slap me. Instead she spits messily upon the palm, then turns it towards me so that I can watch the thick saliva make its slow, wet descent onto her wrist.
‘Either way,’ she says with a hint of a smile, ‘your ass is mine.’
Another shiver goes right through me. Sure, this situation now seems as surreal as any movie could be, this Hobson’s choice to either commit myself to financial ruin or give up my body as payment to a gorgeous fantasy woman. The thing is, as bizarre and far-fetched as it seems, it is actually happening, right now, to me. My pulse seems ready to race me to an early demise.
‘I don’t…’
‘Think before you speak, little bitch,’ she says. She looks like she might indeed bite me. Her mouth is wet from where she spat but it could just as well be her salivating at the thought of sinking her teeth into me. ‘You are clearly a whore and if you sell your body you should have no qualms about paying with it from time to time.’
Just one extra-short skirt has turned me into a prostitute in the eyes of everyone, and it wasn’t even my choice to wear it. And it was Mason who made me add more makeup than I’d already applied, so that I totally looked the part.
‘I’m not a whore,’ I whisper.
‘That’s what you say, but we shall see. I paid my dues the moment you decided to run me down and now I want what’s coming to me. Either you can talk to my lawyer or…’
‘Or?’
I shouldn’t speak out of turn, really, but I have to know. She moves closer still. I’d think she was about to kiss me if not for that glower.
‘Or you can give yourself up to be my spank-bitch for the rest of the day. And that is going to be as much an ordeal for you as it sounds. My two greatest loves in this life are money and spanking thick-assed bitches until they come from the sting. You are going to give me one or other of my pleasures today. Which, is up to you, and one chance is all I will give you, so think carefully before you decide. But I do want to hear you say it.’
This situation, this deal, has come out of nowhere but it is stark in its simplicity. Just like that she has me bent over a barrel. I wonder in what circumstances I would choose the lawyer option. Maybe if she were ugly, rather than essentially my ideal of the dominatrix to finally force me to bow to another woman’s every sexual desire. Perhaps if she were a man, since, although I find it hard not to cave in to any authority, I have sworn privately to never take any other man’s cock, whatever my lusts, while Mason deigns to be my Master. Maybe then if Mason were here, since I look to him to be my guide in all things, surrendering my very being to whatever he decides. But he’s not here, and with that goes my only chance of a reprieve.
‘I’ll do as you say,’ I mumble, so softly and incoherently that my own ears can’t even pick it up.
‘You’ll what?’ demands the woman, even raising my chin with her finger to ensure I have to look into her eyes.
‘I’ll be your…thingy, like you said.’
‘My “thingy”? My what? What will you be? I want to hear you say it!’
‘Your spank-bitch!’ I say, way louder than I’d intended, although fortunately my reckless driving hasn’t gathered a wider audience than the two of us. I colour at the words. However, I can’t deny they also caused a twinge of longing down below. The smile of triumph spreads slowly across her face, almost like she knows.
‘You realise you are agreeing to let me treat you like the kind of fuck-bitch that I take you for?’
‘I don’t have much choice,’ I say, back to mumbling and staring at my shoes.
‘And you know I like to treat my girls with even more disdain than my men?’
‘I can’t stop you,’ I say.
This doesn’t seem to provoke even an ounce of remorse in her. Blackmail clearly comes easy. She has me abandon Mason’s car and teeter on these way-too-high heels to where her own sleek cabrio is parked. I picture her forcing me to drop my underwear to my ankles to add to my difficulties. She certainly moves well for someone who has just been run over. Her hand is on my hair, propelling me forward and ready to hold me up should I trip. Her urgency to drive me forward could tell of her desire to get me alone, but then it might just be a sensible precaution, allowing fewer witnesses to this apparent kidnapping.
She lets me sit up front alongside her. I imagined I would be all trussed up across the back seat. I even fleetingly imagined a henchman to hold me down, but then again, I am going with her voluntarily. Her threats are her handcuffs.
‘You are going to have to agree to be blindfolded,’ she says. ‘I can’t have you seeing where I live.’
She flips down the glovebox flap and there lies the silken sleep mask for me to put on. There is some light at the edges but otherwise I am blind. You have to wonder at the type of woman who takes her cars out to malls rather than a park or off up into the hills when she goes jogging, and who carries a blindfold with her in case she bumps into anyone along the way that she wants to abduct. One might think she goes looking for trouble. But why wouldn’t she want me seeing her house when I could already identify her by sight?
‘Are you famous then?’ I say. Imagine if she was. I’m surprised at my own boldness in speaking up, although blindfolds always do unlock a less nervous part of me I seldom see otherwise. Maybe I’m just surprised I can speak at all. In my mind’s eye my mouth was already stuffed with my knickers, her fingers deep inside me right there in public to demonstrate how completely at her mercy I am.
‘I was thinking more in terms of you wanting to stalk me after today,’ she says. ‘But yes, I have a modicum of fame. I have been in several movies, including a few blockbusters, although I’d have to forgive you for not being able to name one of them, since you never get to see my face. I am a stuntwoman, you see.’
It’s not quite up there with Mason. He’s a director. No blockbusters just yet but they will come. It’s the perfect job for someone who loves to control any scene he’s in, to plan it with the finest detail, to boss it and shape it for his perfect outcome. I’ve seen his work and even with all those egos he is always in total control. It’s enough to turn me molten. I guess being a stuntwoman has its own kudos. It certainly gives her the body of a Domme goddess. She’ll be stronger than most and without fear. And she probably knows just how to leap onto the hood of a moving car to great effect and then roll off it unhurt again afterwards. Imagine if she was able to use that to trick people into being in her debt.
The drive isn’t long, no more than it would take me to get to Mason’s flash pad. There is birdsong and warm sunshine as we park, and the familiarly thinner, more breathable air of the hills. If anyone saw me blindfolded, no one thought to raise the alarm. Maybe they just saw me as a fuck-bitch on her way to be used. I couldn’t be sure but it seemed to me that we climbed, and high round here equals affluence. I wouldn’t expect this woman to be anything other than rich. Whether born into wealth, like Mason, or having fought tooth and nail for it, she carries that air of untouchable superiority that money brings. People like me will always be in awe of it, always be kept. It brings me some comfort; being used is mortifying but at least it won’t be any old skank getting their hands on me.
For some point of reference, I picture Mason’s leafy avenue, the houses spread wide and with teams of hired help endlessly manicuring the gardens out front. Who knows if there are any witnesses to see my plight? She comes round to my side to open the door and pull me out. I teeter around a bit and I can hear her tutting impatiently. All this will cost me, for sure.
‘What kind of cheap whore wears a skirt this short?’ she says. I have no time to even think of a suitable answer. I can feel the garment in question being tugged up by the hem, turning inside out as it peels upwards, clinging to my bare outer thighs in some courageous attempt not to expose my skimpy underwear to all. It fails. The gardeners will have stopped what they are doing, hunching behind bushes to spy in earnest. I can picture exactly how rude I must look because I know how tight these knickers are – scant lacy covering for my cheeks and almost shrink-wrapped to my mound to fully define her contours and her split. What possessed me to wear them under this skirt I will never know.
I feel the light graze of her fingernail there, tracing those contours. I draw in my own breath as I feel hers at my ear.
‘My God – you are actually wet!’ she sneers. ‘You actually fucking like all this! Or were you turning tricks before you ran me down? Is that what you were doing in that parking lot? Am I going to find this dirty whore cunt of yours full of hood-rat come? Well?’
I’m actually full of protests and indignation but the image of a horde of bandana-wearing gangbangers, chucking dollar bills disdainfully onto the hood of the car as they bend me over it, gets me so tongue-tied that all I can manage in answer is a mumbled ‘No’.
‘What? I can’t hear you. Speak up. Say it out loud.’
I feel that fizz in my veins again, the lurch within, the heat in my cheeks. Things like this get me every time. I picture those hidden gardeners straining their ears to hear what I have to say. I have to draw in a big breath before I let the words come out, loud and clear, just like she asked.
‘No, Mistress, you won’t find my dirty whore cunt full of hood-rat come.’ It’s using the c-word that withers me most.
‘My, aren’t you all prim with that accent of yours, calling me “Mistress” and all? A real lady of the English gentry. Except, of course, for this whore skirt and this wet cunt of yours.’
With that she presses her finger flat and hard to my slit and I feel the material of my underwear relenting its cling to be forced inside me. The buzz it gives me there causes a gasp and a weakening of the knees. The pressure yields before her finger can defeat the resistance of the fabric and slide deep, but then I sensed she would know just how to tease most effectively. The knickers are then yanked clear of me, down my thighs and calves, pulled clean off as I hop from foot to foot to allow this.
‘Here, hold these,’ she says tersely.
I obediently hold my hand out flat, awaiting my wet underwear. I hope I haven’t made them too sodden or how is that going to look?
‘Not you,’ she says, the derision plain in her voice.
My hand closes quickly with the shame. Not just at standing there looking stupid, but at standing there like this at all, with a third party clearly present. My mind’s eye conjures a servant girl in classic maid’s dress, my knickers now borne upon a silver tray. It could just as easily be some grubby handyman, twirling them around the end of his finger or stuffing them into his trousers to bring out later, once he is alone. Either way, that third person will have seen me in all my lewd glory. You could warm plates with the heat in my cheeks.
There is going to be no quick escape, however. She is manhandling me, moving me back so that I am sitting upon the sun-heated hood of her car, my thighs forced apart so that I can feel the rays on my weeping puss.
‘You are a dirty bitch,’ she says. ‘One that likes to make a show of herself. So do it now – make a show. Put your fingers inside. I want to see two of them in there, stirring around.’
I almost whimper at this cruelty. My humiliation is obviously her pleasure. But nothing and no one is coming to save me so what can I do other than whatever she commands? I try not to make too much of a meal of it, whatever she wants to see. I rub just a little, as much to ease the throb there as anything, then I part myself shyly before slipping my fingers inside, pushing them deep, as she will want. Of course it is going to make me gasp and shiver. She knows this. She wants my quivers to be seen by those bastard spies hiding behind bushes either side of us. She wants them forced to pull their stiff cocks from their pants.
Too much of a show and they might be driven here from their hiding places, cocks at the ready. But what other option do I have? I have to stir my fingers around as she instructed and that makes my hips grind and hump against them. There is nothing I can do. I can’t prevent the vulgar noises it makes – so audible in the still, quiet air – any more than I can stop the warm flow from within me.
‘Take your fingers out and wipe them across your lips.’
Oh, I will look a hussy. They won’t know I’m here under duress, acting this way because I have to. They can’t see my heart racing with the mortification. I smear but it’s not lewd enough for her. She wants my lips, my nose, my cheeks all coated. She wants me to get my fingers wet three more times so that those treacherous juices can be wiped right across my face. My nostrils are filled with my own scent. My skin will be glistening in the sunlight, apparently incontrovertible evidence that I am loving this humiliation.
‘Enough!’ she snaps, as if this rude display was all my idea.
I am guided up a few stairs and through a doorway. At least those prying gardeners are behind me now. The house sounds big, if that makes sense. A big open atrium hall like Mason’s. It is cool on my bare limbs. My heels clack as if on marble or some other smooth stone floor as I am led further inside. I’ll get no scent clues; all I can smell is my own arousal smeared across my top lip and that will be all I detect for the remainder of this. Even her sweet perfume is now blocked out. Sound might be my only reference point from now on.
‘That will be all,’ she says. There is no answer nor do I hear any departing footsteps but I take it the servant has been dismissed. It calms me just a little, although I doubt I’ll see my knickers again. A door swings open and I am led inside another room. I am gladdened by the silence here. I picture a library, dead quiet and totally private, a place where the Mistress of the house can guarantee not to be disturbed. Uninvited eyes provide my greatest shame. The thought of them upon me can leave me almost beside myself. Mason once sent a video he’d taken on my cellphone, of me naked except for black pegs on my aching nipples, lewdly pushing a pair of fishnet stockings up inside myself. He took it upon himself to send it unannounced to one of my girlfriends, as if from me. It took me days to get over that.
Libraries have desks and I expect one to be where I end up, forced unceremoniously across it. My mind’s eye pictures a wooden, glass-fronted case of canes and paddles too, like a headmaster’s study. I hope not. Paddles and whips I can take at a pinch but the cut of anything thinner is too much. I need the sting spread over a greater surface area. Mason, the one who brought this darker side of my sexual self into the light, has always known this. I’m not sure I trust this woman, and trust is all.
I still don’t try to stop her as she peels off my top and unclips me to let me bounce free. I know my nipples are hard. There’s little I can do about it. They always get that way when I’m pushed into these situations, made to look every inch the slut. She circles me, and I know I am being examined. These are the times I cannot temper my pulse, can’t stop the internal flutter from almost overwhelming me. Who knows what twisted minds have in store for me?
‘We will begin,’ she says, from further away than I’d pictured her. I could have sworn she was close by. Then her grip is on me and I am being put into position. It is not a desk, that’s for sure. Some kind of frame – my imagination can’t entirely form a picture but it’s like being astride a low motorcycle, hunched forward across a solid surface to clutch at a straight bar, my thighs forced apart and my backside jutting. I can feel straps or something by my hands; loops of soft plastic or leather. I tentatively run my fingers over them to ascertain more information. They are wrists restraints, no doubt. I think maybe I am meant to put them to use.
‘Should I?’ I ask, not quite having the guts to go on with the question.
‘Are you likely to try and stop what I do to you?’
‘I might,’ I whisper.
‘Then you had better secure yourself.’
I slip my hands through the loops. I knew she wouldn’t show me any quarter. Now I am at her mercy. My ears strain for signs of her collecting an object to use on me. I’m sure I can hear little things here and there but I cannot pick up anything distinct. In my head she is parading around, viewing me at her leisure. I squirm against the leather padding beneath my crotch and belly.
‘I am going to spank you,’ she informs me in her measured tones. ‘You may cry out but you are forbidden to either ask or beg me to stop. I will do it for as long and as hard as I wish. If you can get through it without pleading at all then I will reward you. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, Mistress,’ I say. She makes it sound so easy, but my trembling body shows her it will be anything but.
‘I want your ass wet before I start,’ she says. I nod a little, more to myself than to her. I’m aware wet skin changes the feel and adds to the noise. It would be the choice of an adept spanker.
‘Do it for me,’ she now says. I don’t know what she means. How am I supposed to?
‘Ready?’ she asks. How can I be ready when I don’t know what I’m to do? Will asking her cost me dearer than failing to do anything?
‘Action!’ she says loud, cutting through my whirring thoughts.
The word has hardly died when the flow hits my backside. The internal flutter spreads its heat as thoughts and images cascade through my mind once more. I’m pretty sure I know what’s happening. The flow is warm, for a start, and a direct stream, targeting my cheeks first and then between them, hitting me with precision and force to splash me all over my inner thighs, pooling beneath me on what I take for a saddle. I gasp at the utter rudeness and humiliation of being used this way but I cannot sink into my shame because two more things demand pondering. Firstly, I am not alone with her as I thought. There is at least one other present, maybe female, maybe male – and indeed who knows how many more witnessing my debasement? Secondly, that word she used, ‘action’. That’s the word a director uses to get the cameras rolling.
The scene in my head changes in an instant, making the glow inside warm to a burn. Gone is that picture of empty solitude, morphing into a whole cluster of script advisers, light and sound technicians, clapper-loaders, boom operators, runners, extras, all sorts, all around the periphery of the twin cameras and the director sitting in the big chair. You wouldn’t think I could have failed to detect such a horde but I’ve seen it in the flesh – when Mason calls for quiet he gets absolute pin-drop silence. You’ve never seen focus like it: bated breath; eyes that daren’t blink; every ounce of concentration trained on the performers; scrutiny as intense as you will ever witness. And that scrutiny is falling on me.
They’ve already seen my backside come out, yawning for them in all its naked glory. You can’t open yourself up much more shamefully than that. I mean, in these days when rounder rumps seem to court more admirers than of old, I can’t say I’m not a little proud of mine, but I’m far from wanting to show it off to a room full of strangers, let alone that mass of avid porno watchers out there, all ogling my bare body as wank-fodder, imagining themselves finishing all over that rude arse of mine. The camera has already captured the dirty way she had it drenched. Thousands might get to see that, if this movie she’s making is given wider distribution, and all I have is a flimsy sleep mask to protect my identity. Imagine that shame. I doubt I’ll even be able to leave the house.
Of course, I don’t even know that I won’t be revealed to the camera in the final frames. I don’t know what lies in wait for me. They do. They have the script. They can see all the players. I don’t even know if it was a man or a woman who defiled me with their warm stream. How could I tell? There could be any number of other players surrounding me, already in character, their roles defined. Some might have their frilly maid’s knickers down around their knees, waiting for the order to present themselves to my slut face. Some could be stroking their oversized porn-cocks hard, ready once any spanking has subsided to bury themselves into me as the script demands, regardless of any oaths I have made to be true to one Master alone. Women I have made no such promises about, maybe because so many of my fantasies recently have seen me under the control of a gorgeous Mistress just like this one. In fact, when Mason spanked my most intimate secrets and fantasies from me, this was the one he said he would readily entertain.
‘I do want to keep you happy, after all,’ he said that day. ‘And keep you mine.’
There is no more time to flesh out the scene. The first of her spanks lands out of the blue. The slap echoes around the room, the noise louder than the weight of it. I still yelp. It is sharp but the afterglow swamps any pain. The camera will have zoomed in to show the hand mark she left. The watching crew will have stifled gasps. The waiting cocks will be straining harder than ever. Eventually the next slap comes, on the other cheek this time to even the score. I buck and yelp again. The delicious sear spreads and then the sting rises to the surface. The only way to stop it is for another slap to land to swamp the pain with that soothing glow. I’m still new to all this but I already know the cravings are as addictive as anything I will ever experience.
The next slaps have me waiting just as long. The tease is almost unbearable. The camera will have captured my wiggling slut arse, pleading silently for more. God, she is so cruel, making me whimper and writhe like this, the intensity of the moment so much greater because of all those eyes upon me. Mason always deals his spanks in a flurry, as if wanting to unleash an immediately gathering, unstoppable rush of panic-pain-pleasure inside me, sending me over the top so quickly I’m almost in a trance when his well-timed pinch allows the climax to pour from me. After that, I will gladly do anything he says, and he so loves me to finish him with my mouth – something his wife would never do.
Each fizz is made to count. She won’t pick up her pace for anyone. It drives me to distraction. The director must know this and either it’s what he wants or he’s seen how much more impact it will have on his audience. If it’s as tantalising for them as it is for me then something will have to give soon. Those cocks will be in me like a flash when the signal is given. How will I even have a chance to refuse them? She’s up to a dozen smacks now and I’m trembling. I expect to feel the press of hard flesh against my holes between each blow but it doesn’t come. Every eye watching will be wondering what it would be like to take my place, wondering what it is to feel your whole body on the edge like mine, tingling beyond any inbuilt coping mechanisms – an almost unmanageable bliss.
I must have taken two dozen to each cheek before I feel my hair being grasped and the softness, the gorgeous warm wetness of her smooth cunt pressed to my mouth. I mean, I suppose it’s her, since the slaps have abated for the moment, but I guess it could be one of the maids. She might be elsewhere, putting on a latex glove to protect her palm from the sting there. I can’t think too much of that now. This is a treat I’ve waited a long while to savour. I wish I could get my hands to her, at least to pull her closer. This woman just loves to punish me. She can’t even know how wet the tease makes me. It’s barely more than a titillating taster when I so want to feast. I want all of her forced into my mouth or onto my tongue. God, I hope I get to do so in the sequel.
My face is left dripping with her juice. The smacks come again – a faster pace this time and delivered with a paddle. I’m already so pent-up it feels like I might explode. The sound man is going to have to be on his game to cope with the screams. I’ve been good, though. I’ve done what she’s asked and taken it so far. I’ve wanted to cry out and beg but I’ve kept in mind that reward she promised, and I’ve stayed quiet. It is taking all my willpower now. My backside will be bright red, juddering for all the world to see, dancing open between each smack to show me off. Can that audience tell how much I’m longing for a cock inside me? A rock-hard pole to sink right to my belly?
Then there is one at my face, smacking my cheeks. I should close my mouth to stop it entering but the cries are forced from me with every slap to my behind. I will just have to pray it is Mason’s. I can’t get my hands on it to give me that familiar feel. I can’t get its scent because all I can smell is pussy, the cream from two now coating my top lip and up my nostrils. There is a chance it might be him. Who better to direct such a film? It is perfectly possible he might know this stuntwoman and have used her to lure me here. And if it is him I must open up and take him because it is my sworn oath to suck his cock dry just as soon as he has had his pleasure and spanked the orgasm from me.
The meat keeps beating my cheeks as the climax builds within, awaiting that trigger. The spanks have stopped but the glow and sting will pervade for ages. It will make the final rapture no less glorious. My hips are being gripped. I cannot tell if the hands there belong to a man or to a strong female like my Mistress. My yearning tells me I cannot now care. Something glides down the sodden split of my puss. I imagine her there with the toy strapped tight to her waist; then a burly male, a porn star, guiding himself into me. It feels more like a toy but I’m actually too wet to tell, my nerve endings too overwhelmed with pleasure. In it sinks and I do scream, as loud as I have ever done.
A hand has to hold my hair so that the cock can plunge into my waiting mouth. I suck and slurp with all the greed I show my Master. I feel the hand beat my lips as the cock is stroked fast. I am fucked deep and hard from the rear. I thrust backwards to aid this because Mason told me that time he’d want me to buck like a bitch if he ever got to see a woman have me. The final straw is a buzzing toy held to me. My brain is almost too scrambled now to picture who might be doing this. I think it is most likely to be a naked maid. Whatever, the effect is immediate. My mouth is flooded but I cannot concentrate on identifying the male grunts I hear through my own shrieks. The quakes are massive; incomparable.
Through muffled ears I hear her calling out, ‘Cut! That’s a wrap!’
She helps me up off the frame onto legs that can barely stand. She yanks my skirt down again and pulls my top back on, ensuring the blindfold stays in place. I am led away from the room, the house. In the car I am still too shaken, my head too full of stars to speak. One thing does strike me: I will have to watch the film to see exactly what went on. I cannot ask Mason to show me the tapes in case it wasn’t him. I will have to sit in trepidation hoping he never comes across it, and he does like to watch porn, particularly scenes with young, round-arsed British girls getting spanked. And I could easily find myself blackmailed by the same woman. She could threaten to identify me as the star unless I agree to more of the same. When will that end? My fall from grace, my endless shame, seems inevitable.
I am pulled from the car and she tells me to wait where I am. I hear the sound of a door shutting and a car driving away but still I stand there bewildered for a while, unable to go against her wishes. After maybe half a minute I give in and remove the sleep mask. She has gone and I am by my car, released back as if nothing at all has happened. I have been used, though. Whether it was her idea or whether it was Mason’s I shan’t know. My shamed arse might be on countrywide release very soon or all over the Internet by midnight. There is nothing I can do except shiver with the indignity and bow for ever to those who know how to control me. Here’s the thing: when it comes to making movies, you think it’s all about the star, but really and truly it’s always about the director.