A bedroom. Two gentlemen, one girl. Their girl. It’s late at night; the other guests have left. She stands before them, nervous – and, perhaps, despite the fear: anticipating. They glance at one another, then at her. And the first gentleman speaks:
“A good evening, my dear?”
They know the answer already, of course. They’ve watched as she’s talked, hugged, danced: the centre of attention. They’ve smiled knowingly at one another as she’s disappeared upstairs, accompanied by one (or sometimes more) of their fellow guests. Monitored the time during which she was absent, each independently imagining what would be happening to her. Would she be being soundly spanked? Tied, beaten? Fucked, the gentlemen or ladies who’d led her away taking their pleasure from her, yet rarely offering her her own?
But now they’ve all gone. The house echoes with the voices of recently-departed, sated guests. Leaving just the three of them. Alone. Together.
She pauses, not sure what they want to hear. “It was… busy.”
“Is that what you call it?” The tone of his voice was surprisingly abrupt, severe.
“Yes…” A pause, then the carefully measured: “….sir.”
The second gentleman calls her forward, lifts her chin, raising his eyes to his. Lets go – then slaps her, hard, across the face, bringing tears to her eyes. “And what happens to little whores, when they’ve finished amusing our friends?”
“Please, sir…” (A forlorn ‘please’, indeed: as if it might bring mercy. As if…)
When he strips her, he does it roughly, grasping her tightly, leaving her no means of escape as he sheds her clothes abruptly. Bare before them, she covers herself, as if scared of the gazes that have viewed her naked so many times before. Her hands are pulled to her sides; fingers probe, squeeze, hurt, before he forces her face down over the side of the bed, her face buried in the crisp white cotton sheets.
Her tormentors’ belts unbuckle in perfect unison; the first gentleman steps forward: “I think we know the answer, don’t we, little one? Whores have to be punished, don’t they?”
She bit her lip, not answering: a small gesture of defiance, despite knowing it could cost her dearly.
There’s a limit as to how much she dares provoke them; experience has taught her that. “Yes, sir…”
He waits, and calmly adds: “Manners?”
She gulps. “Yes, please, sir…”
She’s marked already, of course: bruises pattern her buttocks, stripes adorn her thighs. Yet that’s no cause for mercy: with these two, indeed, quite the opposite.
He whips her slowly, methodically, each cut making her whimper. Not for him the gentle start, the warm-up, the “see if a few gentle lashes are enough to teach her”. He means to hurt her. He does. He knows precisely how to gauge her: studies her reactions, understands how to break her. And once he has done, once she’s sobbing and pleading and beyond the point at which she knows how to take any more, he summons up strokes that are harder still.
And then he stops, suddenly, without a word, and the second gentleman is behind her. Touching, exploring, penetrating deeply and roughly with his finger. Fingers.
And then… and then. The ultimate humiliation, as he enters he forcefully – as her other gentleman walks around the bed, grabs her hair, and makes her look at him whilst she’s fucked. Whilst they reclaim her from the others who’d taken her earlier in the evening; whilst they tell her how grateful she should be to be punished.
Before long, disciplined by them both, the girl can take no more. The pain floods into pleasure, as she asks permission – duly granted. “May I come?”, as he does too.
They hug her afterwards; she smiles through the tears, loved and protected by them, as always. Their girl. Safe. Secure. Cared for.
It takes a few minutes before she’s composed once more: calm, re-assured. The second gentleman takes her leave with a kiss: “I’m heading for bed.” Leaving the first gentleman behind – to push her face down on the bed once more, mount her from behind, and fuck her in the one place that hadn’t yet been dealt with…