The words on the note I’ve passed to you are unmistakable, yet they seem so out of touch with the reality you’ve immersed yourself in that, contrary to your nature, or at least to your already considerable experience, you blush.
Yet your hand is already on its way to do as my note bid. Obedience is no longer a matter of choice, of reflection of any consideration of the consequences of what you are made to do.
One part of you may well be considering the implications of the order. You are bound to be working at the fact that around our dinner table are friends who you thought knew nothing of what you are. They are people with whom you have interacted like a person with choices and a right to modesty.
Yet no matter how inappropriate it may seem your fingers have already slipped under your pants and your underwear. I smile across the table. I already know the state your fingers will find you in when they reach your folds and you so, obviously and inconcealably in front of the table of civililized persons who must surely have thought you a civilized girl.
You can see glances are exchanged. Some of them are shocked, scandalized. You must be looking like some idiot completely without inhibitions, let alone table manners, so obviously masturbating in the middle of the entre.
You can see the way you are being looked at changing… not just to shock but to hunger – lust. You can see how you are changing in the eyes of the people around you from a person to an object of either indignation, desire or most likely a little of both. By what must seem like your own initiative, your own lack of the inhibitions that are part of what it is to be a person, you’ve been reduced to an something quite obviously not worthy of the dignity or restraint afforded a person.
There is both a shame and a pride in the fact that you do not even consider the consequences. It’s been long since obedience was a matter of choice to you. You may think of the consequences of your actions but you do not stop to think; you can only reflect on what must be the consequences of the things that you will inevitably do because you are ordered to do them. It’s as if you are watching a movie or a play that just happens to have you as both the protagonist and the powerless observer.
Even as your cheeks burn and you realize this is going to be a harsh night, a part of you relaxes and feels relief. You know now that the amount of autonomy I have entrusted you with is soon to be suspended and you are likely to spend the night surrendered to whatever I might have planned for you. There is a great peace in that, even though you will have anything but peace tonight. And a freedom, even though you have no choice and no power over what is to happen.
Her fingers are more dexterous, more agile than the others as they examine you, your need all the more obvious. And your girl friend is forcing you to look her into the eyes as she is doing so, she still fully dressed in skirt and a top while your pants are down your thighs and someone pushed up your top to expose your breasts.
One of the men, mean-while have produced a pair of cuffs from somewhere and draw your arms behind your back, cuffing your wrists to make your exposure, your lack of control, even more complete. It’s not as if you’d need cuffing, being ordered about, seeing me showing, that I approve of their control of you is more than enough to keep your hands submissively out of the way. Yet the cuffs reinforce your status, and in a way as soon as they close you feel yourself relaxing into them; one less part of you to control, one more way in which you will only follow now.
Your friend makes a joke that it was no wonder you had to be such a slut to be masturbating with the amount of juices you’ve accumulated. You know she’s right, you know your cunt is gushing fluids although you are pretty sure it has much more to do with the situation than any kind of masturbation. Though the fact that you are in such a state that you helplessly grind yourself against her probing fingers make it clear to anyone that you belong like this.
Then the man who was cuffing you grabs you. He was a stranger to you before tonight. Soon, you expect he will be no stranger to any part of your body. The man eagerly gropes your exposed breasts, hurting you a little. Then he forces his fingers up deep in you, one-upping your friend that “such a slut can’t wait for a chance to let go of any decency”.
He is both right and wrong. One part of you could very well wait and would have wished to hold on to that decency, hold on to that façade of normalness you have always needed and had to maintain. One part of you still feels attached to that identity.
Yet another part of you, the part that is taking over, revels in the fact that now you don’t need to keep any part of what you are back from them anymore. You have no control so you have no responsibility. You are given no modesty so you have no dignity to protect. You can freely feel whatever you feel and be the sexual creature you are. You neither may nor can hide your nature, and there is a great freedom in that.
You retch again and then, as the guy yanks your head by the hair against his crotch, painfully forcing his cock down your throat you’re unable to hold back and the first course comes out over the cock and down the front of the drewly mess your top has already become.
Sucking cock or taking it in your throat is far from new to you. But it’s obvious that what’s happening right now is not about allowing you to remain in control, to perform well within or at the limits of what you can make your body do. You are being used.
You are given only a moment, where you gasp for breath the man yanks your hair, slapping you harshly across the face for not offering your mouth right at the moment he wants it. Then he jams himself inside of you, hurting the already aching back of your throat. You feel how he’s been spurred on by the fact that he made you throw up. You’re becoming a teary slobbering mess, and it’s in that that the men are taking pleasure. It’s in your lack of control. In your lack of capacity to handle the use they are subjecting you to.
In their brutality the men who are using you know what they are doing. They aren’t just mindlessly getting so carried away that you cannot control yourself as they assault your throat. Rather they consciously reducing an excellent cock-sucker, a beautiful sexy creature who knows what she’s doing with your body to a drawling, dirty mess being passed around.
The man empties down your throat and you are forced to swallow. His cock draws a strand of cum puke and saliva as he pulls free, passing you on to his friend before he falls into a chair, reaching for a glass of wine.
Giving head involves agency, a level of control. None of those has been allowed you since you were ordered to start masturbating.
You can feel her pleasure. You feel her fingers tightening around your head as she draws your face against her folds, using you for her pleasure. She moans, but it is in his kiss, somewhere above you, you know, her eyes locked with her lovers.
Although you are buried underneath your friend’s skirt, and she is obviously feeling every move of your tongue on her privates, you are merely used as a vessel for her pleasure. You are a toy, shared between her and her lover who is taking you from behind while kissing his love.
It’s not about you. Your gasping for air through the sensation you are giving as you desperately lick her is not about you. His taking you from the behind is not about you.The plug nestled deep in your ass is only about your tightness and his pleasure. Not about you.
Then you realize that as he fucks you she’s feeling his growing urgency, translating to your breathless service to your friend. And as you feel her bucking against you and straining in her orgasm you realize you’re convulsing around her lover in time with her climax. Though he is fucking you and she is being serviced by your mouth, they are making love and sharing their passions through you.
You have no control. It’s not even about you. You are a vessel of their pleasure. But you are of use.
My warmth envelops you as you sit on my lap. I have my arms wrapped around you and I kiss your forehead again. You’re still shivering somewhat from the harshness of your night of use, but your mind is melting away onto a soft cloud of content as you can now rest with no demands, no more assaults on your control and no more need to control anything.
You know I’m proud of you and you realize you’re proud of yourself too. You are proud even though you have been a filthy hole for me tonight. Or rather you are proud because of it.
Our guests have left a while ago and as they left each one praised your use. Not in the manner of thanking you of course – how could a girl give herself to others when she is already owned property. And not just what happened after you started masturbating.
Even though most everyone at the table was making you feel pathetically helpless and not worthy of dignity you were earlier, everyone who was part of tonight made sure to tell you that you could take pride in what you did. And they made sure to show you, that they respect you. You realize that I would never have allowed anyone who wasn’t able to respect you after it to use you like you have been used.
Your friend made a point of praising your work on the entre almost in the same sentence as how beautiful you were tonight and that she looked forward to seeing you for tea the coming week. You needed to know, she seemed to think, that the fact that you are a helpless fucktoy did not make the things you do in the outside world a lie.
Your pride is not in seeming like a free person. You wear clothes, you take decisions, you are afforded control over who touches you and who uses your body. But those are all necessary means to travel the world of normalcy. But it is the way you are of use and worthwhile, as a friend, as a helpless hole, as a young professional or as a paintoy that you pride of.
Your ability to obey and let go of any inhibitions make you useful as a slut and you are proud of that. Just as you are proud of the achievements that require that you pass for a free autonomous person much of the time. Neither part of your life makes the other untrue. Both are equally part of your service as an owned girl.