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Whore Squat

By: Desiremakesmeweak



My private office is in an unsuspecting little place, on one side of a fairly modest hill, in an average, if rather newish residential suburb. I work until very late at night, and only recently realised that in a way, I'm somewhat like the character in Clint Eastwood's 'Play Misty' film of the late Sixties, except that I have a very limited, select audience of ultra net worth people, and send out my communications through a very narrow audio-visual channel down the internet.

Almost half of my office space is surrounded by large windows, giving me a lookout view across a shallow valley of residential developments and a couple of shopping centres, and a modern new train station. I caught a glimpse of myself with wireless headphones on my head reflected against the dark night window panes, and recalled the image of Eastwood in that movie.

If people really knew what I did, I know I'd be faced with a difficult stream of enquiries – enquiries for introductions, enquiries about money, enquiries about business. It's not that I mind any of these, just that there is no way I have the personal time to give them realistic or adequate attention.

I'm an ambassador of sex. Discreet sex. Very discreet sex. And very expensive sex.

Well actually it isn't expensive at all to the people from whom money passes to those who grant their sexual intimacy and contact for the price thereof. Not by comparison to what they are worth. 

I fell into this agenda almost by accident, when an accountant friend – a female, and a good-looking red-headed one too – mentioned that business wasn't going so well and could I introduce her to some wealthy people that I knew. Well now I know wealthy people because I am wealthy people myself! My father was, his father was, and so on and so on; my father's aunts were among the richest people in the world of their day: one owned four of the fastest tea clipper ships in the world, and the other the best Kenyan coffee plantations among a global assortment of various types of plantations. My own uncle donated the original raw film stock from Shell Far East for the James Bond movie 'Thunderball' when the producers were – well at least they were at the beginning – looking for funding to make their films. So, wealthy wealthy wealthy.

And knowledgeable. Especially about life and human beings.

We're not the infamous 'Illuminati!' ...If that's what you're thinking. There's no such thing as far as I know. But, um, we could go close if you want to make a point about it...

And there's also a matter of coincidence. It happens to be the case that I was a good friend of the fellow who developed Helmut Newton's photos when he first started out in Australia. And he, also a photographer himself though not well-known like Helmut, found model material for Newton – that is to say, he found girls for Newton. Or women, if you like, because they were all 'of age' as they say. I never could get with all of it – give me certain women 'of that certain age' - because the rest are daffy as all hell as far as I'm concerned.

I say 'certain women' because not all women grow into 'the type.' Simply everyone secretly believes they have a sexual dimension of some description, and most people would you believe, are incredibly arrogant about it and think they are without question capable of being 'good in bed.' That belief is completely unfounded in reality. Most people suffer the greatest delusions about themselves, and especially about what they are capable of when it comes to sex, of all things. Or so at least, I have found.

And that is also why the ranks of the ultra high net worth individual are remarkably smaller than the common media would have you believe. Those who appear regularly in the papers and on television as wealthy entrepreneurs and mining magnates and media barons and all of this nonsense don't even come close. They are merely people who are adept at using the media to give themselves a strategic profile for some financial advantage. They have delusions when it comes down to it. Truly wealthy people stay out of the media. They are not in the media. You have never heard of them. Period.

Today there are people who own and operate what are known as '**** pools' of money, none of which are less than a trillion dollars each. And that is just the funds they dispose or deploy, into investing.

However, back to my nice lady accountant. Youngish, forty-ish, short bob-cut hair – like I say – red-gold. Pretty face, kind of 'nice' in the sense of kind-looking, mostly soft fleshy oval curved but with a hint of almost square-ish jaw, though. Little bit like a girl, little bit like a young boy. But a great mid-sized hour-glass figure. Great arse. Round. A real woman's bottom.

Why did I not doubt even for a second that there was more underlying her life than numbers on a calculator? Maybe life experience but I realise in recent years it's probably in the genes that I am able to judge these things correctly; I guess stuff about people from a natural ability to do so accurately and correctly. I think I jumped right in there right up front and asked her straight out: 'are you doing some kind of business outside of accounting business...?' And she said, 'yep' and that she 'wasn't making enough compared to the risks and the personal costs.' Either in accounting or elsewhere, as it seemed.

Oh yes, much as I hated to say it - yes I did know those bastard types of private agents who bugged telephones and that sort of thing. Unfortunately I did know them - through a secret dead-usb stick drop. Money. Paper bag. Rock. Seldom-used parkland. Computerised coded transcript of the confidential phone calls. No one knew the exact nature of the phone calls except the client. In this case, that would be me. I didn't like it but when other things appeared to call for it - and sometimes powerful other people demanded it too - in all events it was pretty much unavoidable these days.

...She was a terribly, terribly kinked woman. And did some risky meetings to get herself on – or off, if you will. Well, at least perhaps we could save her from that dangerous stuff.

Actually I recall looking at her and thinking my god you really wouldn't think she was a hooker. But I never use those kind of words directly to someone. I told her that in Europe among the special circles the phrase they used was 'expensive friends.' And then I asked her did she mean that she had been playing the game of trying to be 'an expensive friend' to a few local people. Is that what she meant; I asked her.

She was wearing a very little light spray of fragrance. Something really light and fresh citrus-y floral. Very very light though... Hardly tell she had it on at all really. But it certainly wasn't an old afterhang scent off the clothes and fabric. It was sprayed on within the last few hours at the most. 

I went to the drinks table and picked up a Sauternes French wine. And gathered two glasses. And opened the small bar fridge and took out some fois gras and black truffles. I suppose that when you are like me these sorts of things are done rather casually and without too much deliberation. It was not long therefore before I had a small plate of dried toasty bread and paté with truffles, and two glasses of rich golden wine, laid onto the side table next to her. The wine was an excellent example of the appellation: and just recently headed into that 'colour of an old copper coin' phase, that tells the expert that the thing has hit its characteristic type of maturity that is so vital for a Sauternes wine to reach its exemplification. Of course, it required a touch of wine imagination, but one could almost certainly, but almost certainly - taste the apricot, honey, peaches, and with a slight nutty note somewhere, that gave the wine its personal flavour and peculiar appeal to those who loved the sweet wine.

To halt its fermentation, the wine-maker employed sulphur fumes in the barrel. 

I always graded human sexual preferences along the same lines as certain famous wines: and this one, was all to do with the fire and the brimstone. Fire being in the burnished copper-gold, and the brimstone being the sulphur, of course.

"You know," I said. "The people I know, are considerably older than me – sixty, even seventy, some of them. And one or two women amongst them too. How do you feel about women as clients?" That was pretty direct now wasn't it.

"Don't know. Never done one before."

"Well but you've done yourself of course." I suggested.

She shrugged. "I guess so."

Hmn. That was pretty compliant. At least I tended to think so.

"Can I ask you," I said. "How did you know I have contacts who were so genuinely wealthy? And by the way, how wealthy do you believe they actually are, just while we're at it...?"

"Ah. Well. Accidently found out. I did part of the audit on the north city bank's foreign transfers this year. And when I saw your name against a certain figure in the accounts I asked the staff what the person with that name looked like and they basically said looks and acts like an olden-days Sherlock Holmes. Not that twerp Robert Downey though. An olden-days Sherlock. And that's pretty much you, isn't it. ...Sherlock Holmes with a depositary receipt for $260 million."

"Hmn."

"So. I guess you're clients or friends or whatever you choose to call them, assuming they're using corporate funds, must have at least several million each to themselves...

"You would think...?" She said with her tone going up in a question at the end.

"Hmn."

I took a long long sip of the beautiful sour-sweet classic French wine. And looked at her.

There were things that she would have to come to know about these people. Things I would have to tell her. Things too, that I would have to ascertain about her, whether she could really do it the way I knew they would insist. Me, I was a fit strong fifty-ish guy with an athletic background and even I would not be able to carry on the way these others could and regularly did. Well at least not with the same utter confidence and abandon. The fact was, I cared for the women I ever had sex with. Cared for how they felt, what they thought, whether they were happy about it all, cared if they ever felt sensitive. Women are not necessarily fragile but I at least did not disregard the possibility of their sensitivity to the extremes of sexual manners that were sometimes the order of the moment in certain parts of society.

Yes yes I know all about the modern university claptrap about Irigaray and all that. Foucault. Et cetera. Not real life though. ...Anyway you'll get to see a little about real life as this small episode of private reporting proceeds here. Put it this way, it's all very different when it's real. I'm deeply in it and even I've always found it although absolutely thrilling, really very scaring too sometimes, frankly.

"Listen, Sue." I said at last. "You have to be prepared for certain things you may not yet fully appreciate."

"What things. I've done a lot of things already, John." 

I think she was still thinking about the millions she presumed they had and the perhaps few thousand she might 'earn.'

"No no, Sue. These people are much wealthier even than you suppose. Much wealthier. And I certainly know some of them sufficiently well enough right now to be able to tell you that at least three that I have in mind would take you up on the offer, and pay extremely well."

Oh god I hate myself. Well no, not really. I'm being sarcastic. I love it when it all comes together like this. She was such a good looking woman. What I mean is that god! I am such a good seducer and they can't see it coming.

I could see in her eyes and demeanour that she was happily interested in the prospect of quick good money. Large money. Maybe three four or even five thousand. The sex would be easy for her. She would be in control.

"Now look Sue. You will have to be discreet. Extremely. Well in fact TOTALLY discreet. All of them have families, associates...

"Here. Let me get some money out for you and show you what we are talking about."

Oh I loved this part. It was like showing the sentenced, firmly captured individual the instruments of their soon-to-be torture. Though not real torture of course.

And they didn't even know the money was the torture device.

I turned and opened a small panel on the darkly polished Jarrah wood, long cabinet, and fiddled inside for a good few minutes.

At last I managed to get out an armful of note stacks.

"This, Sue, is twenty million dollars. And it is all yours for not running away from this office right now very fast. You can have this just for talking some more and stepping further along into this little spider-web trap of mine. Because that's what it really is you know."

I'm sure she froze on the spot. She certainly was not moving. And not running away of course, either. Which was good.

"Here. Here. Take it." I gave it to her. Couldn't really put it in her hands or arms and placed it mostly down on the floor next to her reasonably nice quality high-heel shoed feet.

"They're not billionaires, Sue. They are well beyond that. The two older guys are um, not mean, exactly, but let's say, capable of dealing fairly vigorously, I mean physically – you know? The woman is a very nice lady, not overly beautiful in any movieland way, but okay. Sort of average-looking. Salt-and-pepper graying hair too. Not young. Drives a Ferrari though. Very dynamic and active. And they're all very highly-sexed."

I looked at her. And shook a finger at her for emphasis: "I mean it! They want sex and they can do it big time too. Even at their age. And there are kinky things involved."

She just stood there blinking. And then she gulped a lot of the wine down. "You really mean this don't you." She stared at the money.

"Oh yes."

She shut her eyes and shook her head. But not in a way to say 'no.' 

"And there's more though, Sue. There are standards you will have to be able to reach. Let's call it 'in the bedroom,' but I don't think there will be much sleeping going on or even that much actually 'being in the bed' to be honest."

"You mean fucking. They want to fuck. Fuck a lot!"

"Actually Sue. It's time I got a bit serious. Fuck yes sure but for these people they are beyond just a little simple fucking you know. They've been there, done that kind of, you know, what young people do fucking thing. They are into a lot of high quality, not damage. So you needn't get too frightened about what's likely to be expected, but it will be challenging all the same."

"I need to sit down." She said. 

"So what I am being expected to be able to do here? Is that a fair question though... Given there's so much money involved? Maybe I'm expected not to ask any questions at all?"

"The money, is just not important in any other way than it is a token to you – an earnest in expectation that you will behave in certain ways that will be explained to you."

She sat down heavily into a wool-twill-covered dark navy coloured, and dark polished Jarrah wood armchair.

"Now look wait on just a minute. This is a lot of money here. What is the expectation? Is there something dangerous involved."

"No nothing at all dangerous but you have the right attitude in asking this. I don't want to ask you to do anything you're uncomfortable with doing."

"Well what then. I can do just about anything you've seen in any porn film. Though probably not as well, necessarily, or in as slick a fashion because I'm not a real actress in that perfected a kind of way. If you know what I mean. But I am real. I'll be real."

"Well that's what's going to be important, dear. They don't want an act. They can afford to pay for an act. If they wanted that. For this kind of money they want the real thing. They will want to know you are enjoying yourself. And they are going to want to enjoy themselves. And there's other psychology involved too, Sue. For instance, it's going to be sort of impersonal in a way – just about sex. Not about relationships, respect, decency, family, children. 

"And by the way – are you not married? I thought you had kids. Two kids?"

"Yup. Two. And a fucking great husband who loves me."

"How does that work?!"

"I respect him and how we have both looked after the children and all that. I mean we're almost broke really. But we manage and everyone has what they need plus even a little bit extra."

"But -?"

"I like sex, John. But not in the way my husband likes it though. He would be quite shocked if he knew what I was really like. And he thinks he knows and I'm not going to shake that up because he certainly can't do things for me the way that I need."

"Hmn. This is going to be a possibility, Sue. I think so, anyway."

I pointed with one finger down to the floor with the glass still in hand. "Look at it, Sue. That's real money. And a lot of it. It's a way to ask you to be really discreet, not too time-demanding, or quirky about scheduling – you'll have to be available when you're wanted. At least within reason. You know, real tragedies or crises aside, you'll have to be available. 

"And there's these other aspects: the psychology of sexually experienced people is that they prefer sexual object-ness. You are just going to be a sex object to them, and they are going to be just a sex object to you. No questions, no judgements, no respect, no attention-seeking or relationship outside of the sex-time. And performance. Experienced people understand things that young people just don't at all until they themselves become steeped in it all, and that's even if they ever had a glimpse of it at all – which tends to take years and by the time young people 'get it' they are not that young any more, really."

"I understand all of that so far." She said.

When I looked at her face, trying to observe the micro-muscles, and scan her eyes – into her eyes – I always thought, even on other occasions, earlier occasions, that she was possibly attracted to me personally and just – just - capable of hiding it. Now was the time to ask and to go one way or the other in how I spoke to her depending on her actual answer.

"Sue... Can I ask if you are attracted to me? I can't guess at the answer to the question so I have to ask you in case from this point on we have to talk in certain ways, I mean when I start dealing with the actual phsyical requirements."

"Yes. Since you ask. I think you are potentially the most horridly cock-suckable thing ever. I want to see your dick, man, I want to see you whack off and then I want to stick my finger up your arse too. You sexy man." She was breathing heavily and her face was suddenly totally flushed but she wasn't wavering in her voice in any way. She got up from the chair and stood up straight. She was wearing a black-and-grey shark-tooth woollen skirt that was just to knee length, and a plain but low-cut blouse and a short satin-lined jacket of similar fabric to the skirt.

I raised a hand to still her. "Wait on, wait on. We haven't finished yet with what we need to talk about."

"The money has done all the talking I'm starting to realise. My god. It hasn't even sunk in yet. My god. Look at all that cash..."

"Sue, I want to tell you something about truffles that not many people know about... And I mean, really not many people know about." I wondered if suddenly appearing to change the subject would get get a reaction from her at this point.

I stepped back a little so that she couldn't suddenly jump me, at least not quite yet anyway.

"What about them. Expensive tasteless things that snobs talk a lot about."

"Yes, that's largely right. Actually, in spite of the way all the so-called food experts talk about them, they have little real noticeable odour – even when you cook them. But... ...when you soak them just a little in absinth, they start to give off this amazing smell. Only then. Only then. It's like hospital-strength disinfectant and some other thing that no one has ever fully or adequately been able to describe. That's the secret of how to use truffles, Sue. I personally think there are quite a number of other types of alcohol that liberate the odour of truffles too – vodka, Sauternes like we're having... Chartreuse. But with Chartreuse, the truffle is already in the recipe to begin with, in fact."


Whore Squat



She looked upwards at me frowning quizzically. 

"And that's the only real time you can detect the 'big' truffle smell. And if you eat these soaked truffles, your whole body will reek of the stuff for hours and hours afterwards."

"I didn't know that."

"But you knew specially trained dogs and pigs hunt for them."

"Yeah. I knew that."

"Do you know, that no matter what a woman's fanny smells like, Sue, after eating a large number truffles, she smells like there's hospital-strength disinfectant down there where her cunt odour is coming from."

"You're getting a bit rude now. But do go on. I like it."

"Well, I mean, with respect to the woman who is interested in you – that is the woman interested in having sex with you – she is going to want you to go down on her. Do you know what that is going to be like? It doesn't sound like you've done that kind of thing before, have you."

"No. I never have done it. It worries me a little and I don't know how I'll cope but the money is going to motivate me. Is motivating me, at least into thinking about it."

"Oh don't worry. She'll know how to bring you around to it. You won't be forced into anything, more seduced into things really. Even though you can't imagine how such a thing will be possible from where you are right now. All I'm asking is that you try your best to keep an open mind about it and approach it at least open to the possibility - as time passes you will be brought along slowly into it without your realising that you're already even there."

"Okay. But I can't guarantee anything spectacular. I might end up still not being able to do it."

"That's all right. I mean, first of all I want you to think about what a wonderful person she is, how she made her fortune entirely by herself, no family inheritance or anything like that, at least not in the material sense. Think about her as a successful human being. A wonderful and a good person. Who doesn't wish you any harm or injury for one thing. And she certainly doesn't want you to be so repulsed that it would be a horrible thing to ask you or force you to do.

"I can guarantee you that you will be taken out to a top class restaurant and taken through a few orders of mussels, oysters, maybe baked Alaskan crab – with the idea in mind of the smell and taste and tongue sensation of a woman's fanny. A decent large lipped New Zealand mussel is certainly not too terribly different they say – well, and also it's so in my personal experience too."

"I like salt and pepper squid, if that's any help!" She laughed.

"Just keep looking at the money," I retorted also laughing.

"And Sue can I ask you now to take off your panties for me."

"Now. Right now?" Her hand was already under her skirt though before I needed to say anything more.

"Yes," I added, pretty much as an afterword to what was going on.

"I'll need to know that you are at least more or less prepared to work with this lady about this thing..."

"What do you want me to do?" She asked, holding the sides of her black lace panties half-way down her thighs.

"We-ll, now..." I said, starting to take a much more earnest note. "You're going to have to perform just a little for this kind of money. You want the money don't you?"

"I need the money."

I touched the 'start' button on the big audio system and Liquid Child began loudly pulsing out out their techno-ambient trance hit 'Diving Deeply.'

"Well do it then. Touch yourself and bring your fingers back up."

She lowered her panties all the down way to the floor, releasing them to fall gracefully onto one side of the pile of money. And stuck her right hand and fingers onto her vulva, which was hairy and likely probably slick and wet inside. As her first two fingers entered inside the lips, and slightly pulling the inner labia apart, I could see clearly that little tiny strands of glistening wet slick lubrication were sticking to her fingers. 

She brought her hand back up and made to show me her fingers.

"No, no. You smell them. I want you to think about what might be the smell from another woman's fanny and ask yourself what you would feel like with that sort of smell on your fingers from another woman..."

I took her hand away from her face then and lifted it to near my nose. It was a fairly light scent, really. A little urine, a little clean ocean, and only a tiny bit of dirty urchin!

"Do you use baby wipes a lot?" I asked out of sheer experience with these types of women. I mean hey, we're not talking more than five or eight, but I knew what they tended to be like, especially nowadays.

"How did you know? Do I smell of baby-wipes?!" She seemed incredulous. 

"No. You just don't smell of fanny enough. So keep it down with the wipes, okay. No one wants to lick a cake of soap. Maybe you think she should buy you a bowl of boiled baby-wipes instead of chilli mussels. What do you think?"

"Actually I can handle raw oysters. Plenty of tabasco with them though. And parsley. My father taught me to eat oysters. Took years and years and I thought they were plenty disgusting to begin with. And then one day – wham! I really began to like them. Not love them, mind you, but could handle them in front of people who said they literally hated the things. It was cool to be able to do that!"

"Sue. I hope you don't mind but for the sake of this exercise from time to time I'll need to use some fairly derogatory language. Don't take it personally because not only do I understand the needs and motivation to do with money but also the sheer attactiveness of sex itself. To those of us, like you and me, for instance, who really like it a lot. You told me you were fairly highly-sexed, or did I misunderstand that?"

"Oh no, no. You're quite correct. I'm very highly-sexed in the right contexts."

"And is this, the right context?"

"Yes. Yes, it is."

"Okay then. Do you know then, Sue, what a whore squat is?"

"I gue-ss," she replied hesitatingly. "Kind of thing the dancers behind the rap-singers are doing all the time."

"Uh-huh."

"Sure. I can do that. Let's see now..." She lifted her skirt to around her waist and squatted down, knees wide apart, but up on the balls of her feet inside her elegant high-heeled shoes. Now, her inner labia lips were jutting out and splitting slightly open and apart and displaying the pink inside of her cunt.

"Do you feel like a slut, Sue?"

"Well I am a slut but I don't feel bad about it if that's what you're asking."

"Good good. All right." I took another long slurp of the wine glass and drained it temporarily.

"Well if that all they're going to want. This kind of thing. I can do this. That's no problem."

"Well, no. Not quite. They're going to have you wound up pretty tight first. And then when you're all sexed up the men are going to cane your bottom until you cry pretty meaningfully, girl. But you won't be crying as a young girl, you'll be crying as a mature grown woman. Which means it'll be pretty seriously painful. Do you think you'll be able to handle that or is this the bridge too far?"

"I thought you said these were nice men?!"

"They are. They're absolutely wonderful. Very gentle. Kind people. But sexually they will want to beat you really, until you break down and cry, so my advice to you is that you get to crying as soon as possible. And the more pleading and begging you can do the better. They'll listen. It's just about the domination and your submission – it's not about hurting you as such. If they could avoid it they would. And you'll meet them a lot beforehand to see whether you're prepared to go through with it all, see whether you like them or can get along with them, and slowly get to the point where you feel you are able to go ahead."

She was biting her lip now suddenly, and looking straight at me, straight in the eye.

"You don't understand. I have to tell you. I'm totally a masochist. It's the only real way I can get off. I desperately need it. I'm too afraid to tell the wrong people. You're just so perverted and depraved. I want to tell you. Tell you the truth."

"Good good."

"I really need it."

"I know. I know." At last I put down the wine glass. "Would you like to be caned now?" I asked her matter-of-factly.

"Yes. Definitely."

"Is it all right with you that I video record one or two strokes for the old men who want to fuck you as well?"

"Yes okay. What do you mean 'as well?'"

"Well I'd like to fuck you myself. And probably in just about twenty minutes from right now."

"And you're going to give me the money really? I don't care about the money right now but I will later!"

"Yes. Of course. The money is already yours. You can leave right now if you like."

"No! I want to be caned. I want to be fucked now. How do you want me? Should I bend over now?"

I could see that she was actually desperate and the tone of her voice urgent.

"Just hold your skirt raised right up with both hands at the front – hold the skirt right there. That's it. Now just spread your legs a little. A little wider. Thank you. Bend your knees, head up. That's right."

I already had the thin whippy tan-coloured cane in my hands. She hadn't seen me extract it from the top of the long side cabinet while I was talking from where it had been under a long midnight blue velvetine piece of cloth. 

"Good girl. Actually I should say 'woman.' Because girls try to be tough and not show their deepest feelings, don't they? Because it seems shameful to them. Is this shameful to you?"

"No sir."

...Well and there it was. The 'sir' bit. These girls were pretty much all the same. Anyway this type of girl at least. I'm still forgetting - 'woman.' She was a forty year old woman. Polite. Respectful. Genuinely submissive. Strong body though, you could see that.

I raised the cane high behind my right shoulder and swished it with merciless full-force down hard across her exposed buttocks, raising an instant loud screech from her. Luckily the room was completely soundproofed.

Second cut and the following scream was deafening. "Calm down, you bitch. Dirty bitches like you need the kind of thrashing you're going to get. Calm down, and bend over, and take your medicine. This medicine -" Another vicious cut. This time the right leg flinched and raised itself involuntarily up off the ground at the cane tip's biting into her bottom's right side. "- is good for you. Isn't it?"

"Well?" I chided. Another severe whipping stroke right across the whole length, perfectly centred, a long cut across the whole bottom. 

"Isn't it?" I shouted harshly at her. 

"Yes sir," she whispered. 

"But you like this, don't you, you dirty little bitch?"

"Yessir. I like it sir."

I wasn't going to execute the mindless unnecessary and uncaring violence that too many idiots carried out on trusting submissives. This girl had been telling the truth. She probably couldn't genuinely get off without a caning. Already it was clear that now at last her vagina was exuding that totally different odour from previously – this was a funky, sexual smell that was more than the ordinary smell of piss or sweat, although there was definitely strong-smelling sweat from her underarms too now; it had that characteristic salty, rusty-for-redheads, acrid and ever so slightly fishy PEA scent... Now, she was starting to get off. She was only just now really getting fully aroused!

"Now bend over properly. Get your bottom out. Give me your bottom properly." You could see her straining to comply explicitly in every detail. She was raising her tail as high up as she possibly could given her position of - legs apart, and in now rather uncomfortably high heels, hands held in front of her and holding her skirt up. Tottering. Very little balance. "Crack!!"

"Now I'm going to put the cane away and you're going to stay in that position because I'm going to sniff around your vulva. Is that pee I can see dribbling out by the way? I want you to rub it all around your vulva with your hand so I can smell it properly around your slash. Do it!" She did precisely as ordered. I leant forward and had a good long sniff. "Now, you have a nice smelly crack for a womanslut. For a whoreslut. Just like a slut is supposed to have that gets fucked by three men and licked by a woman as well."

She was whispering something but I couldn't make it out and then the next thing you know she was blathering with heavily flowing tears and blustering something about wanting to suck daddy's cock and being sorry for it. When I pushed my stiff hard penis into her it was all open and soft and slushy at the entry and clenching and flexing deep inside like some other different was there animal inside with a mind and will all of its own.

What guarantee did I have that she would be back again and again, even after or in between when the others had fun with her? The money? It wasn't my money afterall.

Maybe it was that I served her Dom Perignon afterwards. And let her wipe my arsehole with baby wipes before she stuck her finger up it while I masturbated myself, with her standing behind me and holding my bum and grabbing it all over as she tried to fuck me herself shoving her hairy groin into the side of her hand behind my bottom with its middle finger impaled deeply inside me and playing inside over the man-clit spot behind the prostate, getting me ready for a cum explosion, flicking the end of a finger back and forward over it as it swelled inside, flicking, flicking. Flicking. Spurt spurt cum cum cum everywhere. I could still smell her fishy smelly little cunt. Well it actually wasn't that smelly frankly and nor did it have anything wrong with it, it's just that's how your brain goes thinking about things like that and certainly that's how I liked to think about her. She's coming back again tonight. Late. Deep in the night.