12 comments/ 24542 views/ 8 favorites A Study in Scarlett Ch. 02 By: AMoveableBeast It was almost frightening how quickly Scarlett took my life from me. She kept me in bed for two days after I kicked Mandy out. We got up only to shower, use the bathroom, and order food--the last of which we ate in bed. Mandy phoned many times that next morning. Her voice pleaded at me to reconsider from the answering machine in the next room, telling me that she still loved me, that we had made a life together, and that we were supposed to get married. Eventually, Scarlett got up briefly from the bed to erase the bundle of messages my ex had left. She dallied only long enough to change the recording, a joint message Mandy and I had made together where we took turns saying our names in the beginning, before returning to me and taking me into her warm mouth. Mandy called again while the stripper was blowing me, triggering the new message. It was a sinister piece, breathless and full of mocking laughter. "Hi! You've reached Scarlett and William. I'm sorry, *giggle* we can't come to the phone right now, ohhh, because we're in bed. *giggle* Well, I shouldn't fib. I'm in bed. William is actually in my mouth, mmmmm, and he seems very, very happy about it. If this is Mandy, thank you for your concern, but William is just fine. We both wish you the very best of luck. Ooops! *moan* There I go fibbing again! *giggle* I'm so bad. And since we're being so honest, I lied about being sorry earlier, too. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have something...pressing to attend to. Tah-Tah!" After the beep, there was a moment of silence on the line--where the only sound in the house was Scarlett happily slurping away at my cock--followed by a soft, strangled noise then the receiver being hung-up. So complete was my corruption, that the idea of my ex-fiancée heart-broken and disgusted by my betrayal only increased my arousal, and I came quickly after, releasing into Scarlett's mouth in a series of whimpers, before letting out a contented sigh. Mandy never called again. When we did finally emerge from the bedroom, it was with purpose. Scarlett told me she was moving in. There was no request in her voice, no prolonged discussion or debate, just the stating of a fact, a courteous heads-up to let me know her plans. Her place--a small apartment on the other side of town, she said-- was apparently a dump and there was no sense in wasting all this (newly) available room. She initiated a rearranging of the house almost immediately, telling me what went where with the same implacable tone. It started in the bedroom with the closet. Taking out all of Mandy's clothes, she sorted them into two piles, those she liked, and would keep, and those she didn't, and needed to be pitched. Scarlett, apparently fond of somewhat skanky clothing, found most of my ex's attire, what most would refer to as tasteful or even elegant, boring and without flair. Even with the items she kept (which were few), she made alterations, using scissors or just ripping with her hands to deepen necklines and shorten skirts and dresses. More outrageously, when she found an outfit she especially despised--such as Mandy's yellow-flowered sun dress, or cream pants-suit--she would put it on, parading about the room for me and speaking in a derogatory imitation of my ex-fiancée. This inevitably led to us fucking, during which, she would continue the parody, bitching at me in a shrill, belittling voice, all the while encouraging me to direct disparaging remarks at her, or rather, at whom she pretended to be. It was heartless, an unnecessary victory celebration from someone who had, by now, lapped the competition. Nonetheless, I went with it, a willing accomplice to her self-serving nastiness. I told her I didn't love her, that I had never loved her, that she was ugly, that I only wished I could have hurt her more, and that I was so, so very grateful to Scarlett for saving me from a life with her disgusting ass. My new roommate enjoyed this, and she had several orgasms as she insulted me in mocking tones. When we were done, she would strip off the outfit and throw it on the pitch-pile, and after she'd had her fill of fun (and cum), she made me carry the entire mess, save the few things she had "personalized", out to the garbage. Though her actions couldn't be called mature, I couldn't help but get the sense that she had aged, grown somehow. She definitely didn't look the same, with her black nails and long hair, but it was more than that, as if, in shedding the childish clothing she had also shed that personality. The air of confidence about her was off-putting, like she had blossomed into something that I could no longer control. A teenager: that's what she reminded me of, aggressive and demanding, with an undirected anger brimming beneath the surface. It troubled me, this command she seemed to have gained over herself, and even more so, the commanded she had over me. The pictures were next to go. Smashing out the glass, she took a sharpie and drew grotesque things over photos of Mandy and me. A dick shooting into Mandy's mouth, a mustached on me, and words like, "slut", and, "dumb bitch", she showed them to me and laughed--as if it were the cleverest thing anyone had ever done. On to the kitchen then, she broke dishes and mocked the paisley towels. She went about the whole house like this, destroying what she didn't like. She made me toss out furniture, knick-knacks. Even my study--sacred ground to a writer--wasn't safe as she tore pages from books in my collection that she found "stupid" or "boring". It was a power trip; she was pushing me to see how far I would bend, and I let her. She was a seductive squall, a whirlwind of curves and attitude, and I let her storm about my home changing it as she saw fit. I felt helpless, as if--in giving up my fiancée--I had cast my die, and no longer had any say in the matter. Something had been taken from me in that session with Mandy, a section of my spine, a solid piece that had held up my morals and supported my beliefs. Without it I could not object. Like a sparrow forcing out a martin, she came into the nest Mandy and I had built and made it her own, and I watched. As soon as she had finished removing, she started adding. She asked me for five thousand dollars. I balked at first, that being almost the entire amount I had left in savings after buying Mandy's ring. It only took two blowjobs before I was driving her to my bank. (Scarlett had no means of transportation, as she told me her own vehicle--a black mustang that normally sat outside Sparkles, which I had become quite familiar with over the course of our affair, even bending her over the hood of it on one occasion--had been repossessed after she had missed too many payments.) Tits jiggling, she bounced up and down with exaggerated excitement at the bank counter--her arm interlaced with mine, head on my shoulder, like a high school kid during an especially tense part of a movie--as I withdrew the funds, cash, smiling broadly when I handed it over as the open-mouthed teller looked on. Thereafter, she made me drive to a motel, called, unoriginally, The Crossroads Motel, a dingy place in an area of town much seedier that I usually frequented that advertised its HBO cable package on a sign as if it were something impressive. I protested when she tried to make me rent a room after telling me that she had a surprise planned for me and that I couldn't come with her or I would ruin it, but she took advantage of my weakness for her once more, stroking my dick in the parking lot until I agreed. HBO was even less interesting than I had expected, and the night seemed to drag on unfairly. In the morning, I caught a "continental breakfast"--stale Frosted Flakes and black coffee--that made me wish I was on an island. To my dismay, Scarlett was nowhere to be found at the eleven o'clock checkout time and wouldn't answer my calls, so I was forced to pay for another day--although, thankfully, the rates were pathetically low--which entitled me to more boring cable and a "FREE LUNCH!!!" comprised of a badly bruised banana and a soggy peanut butter and jelly sandwich. I spent much of the afternoon staring out of my window at the parking lot, which was full of weather-beaten cars, some of which looked like they hadn't moved in ages. A tall, skinny hooker plied her trade on the sidewalk nearby. In the span of four hours she lured two different men into an old, green van with a missing tire, for a short romp of some sort that shook the sides of the automobile. Neither encounter lasted longer than five minutes or so. Still, it brought me at least a modicum of entertainment. That is until she noticed me watching her through the blinds and started waving and walking her way toward my room. Even from a distance of about sixty feet, I could see that her arms were peppered with needle marks, and the smile she flashed me as she got within range was a bit maniacal and missing a tooth. I quit my peering and backed away from the blinds, settled onto the bed and ignored her knocking while King Kong played in the background. I was really beginning to become concerned when evening rolled around and was on the brink of phoning a cab when my blue truck pulled into the lot. Scarlett--now poured into a red velvet-dress (one of Mandy's, I thought, a former ball gown, now sleeveless, creatively slashed to suit the redhead's curvier body) so constraining that I thought her breasts might tumble out the top at any moment, and skimpy enough at the bottom that I knew her labia had to be touching the leather seat--sat behind the wheel with an I-know-something-you-don't-know expression on her face when I entered the vehicle. Without saying anything, she proceeded to blindfold me with a strip of fabric--red velvet, like the dress, so she must have been planning it since the day after Mandy left--and then started driving. It was nerve-wracking, sitting sightlessly next to her while she drove me God-knew-where. She didn't even turn on the radio, knowing the silence would intensify my anxiety. We drove for some time. I couldn't say how long. There was a rush as a highway hummed beneath us, then a stretch where we stopped every few minutes, sometimes short quick things for signs, and others, longer for lights. I tried to keep track but it was beyond me. Finally, the car came to a smooth stop and I could hear her move the gearshift to PARK. Still saying nothing, she got out and moved around to open my door. After being helped out I went to remove my blindfold and got a sharp slap on my face and a hiss from my stripper turned seeing-eye-dog. She guided me, one hand at the small of my back the other reaching out to deal with obstacles. "Steps," she said, talking for the first time, "two of them." I negotiated them carefully. I heard a door open, letting out a ruckus of loud, thumping music, and had the distinct awareness of entering a building. I reached out to feel my way with my hands but they too were quickly slapped. I could feel heat and see shadows beneath my blindfold, as if the building were filled with tiny fires, and a smell like burning tobacco and musk filled my nostrils. There was a hostile quality here, foreboding, yet, something familiar as well. She pushed me, a blind rat, through a small maze before opening another door and nudging me inside. This room, too, reverberated with music, and had the strong, smoky stench. "Where are we? I don't like this." My words were utterly drowned by the music and I got no answer. I was pushed onward, more roughly this time. She wove about with me, driving me like a cart. It seemed almost as if we were going in circles. Combined with the blindfold, the acrid air and blaring music robbed me of all but two of my senses. Scarlett's slapping hand had taken touch from me, leaving me with only taste, and it did me little good. I was absolutely lost, and beginning to get scared. I tried to take the blindfold off again, but my guide--though, she seemed more like a captor with every passing second--sternly prevented it by grabbing my wrist. With a growl, she propelled me up what felt like a little ramp onto a platform of some kind before spinning me about to face her. Grabbing my other wrist, she stepped quickly behind me and brought both my hands together at my back with a clicking noise. When she released, my hands still wouldn't completely separate and sharp edges dug into my wrists. It took me a second, standing there dumbfounded, to realized that I'd been handcuffed. As soon as I did, I panicked, flailing about desperately. What had she done? What was this? What had that evil woman done? My struggles proved useless, as I was held fast by something hard against my back, something slender and cold. It was a pole. Oh my God, I thought, I'm at the club. The music, the smoke smell, it all made sense. She'd taken me to Sparkles. I was onstage, arms behind me, handcuffed to the fucking stripper pole. "Scarlett! Scarlett! Let me go! This isn't fucking funny, Scarlett!" That's when I felt hands fiddling with my jeans. I was still dressed in my clothes from yesterday--casual since I didn't go to work--sneakers, a t-shirt, and loose-fitting jeans with a brown belt. It dawned on me; she was going to strip me in front of everyone, the patrons, the other strippers, hell, big-breasted Lorraine was probably back there watching. I wouldn't allow it. I may have left my fiancée for her, but this was too much. I wasn't going to be humiliated. I kicked out, but, me being blind and bound, she easily avoided my attacks. She undid my belt with a practiced motion and pulled it from my waist. With that out of the way, my pants and underwear were soon to follow. As quickly as that, I was naked on the stage, my bare ass, dick, and balls on display for anyone to see. I could feel my face, and who knew what else, flush bright with embarrassment. "Please, Scarlett." I tried begging. "Please don't do this, baby. Let's just go home. Thank you for the surprise, but I'm done now. That's enough." My only acknowledgement was a patronizing pat on the butt followed by a mortifying squeeze that grew into a jiggle. I thrashed in an attempted to break free but, held securely by the pole, succeeded only in painfully tweaking my right wrist. She kissed me softly on the cheek, tender little pecks, before her tongue slithered across my lips. The game had begun, it seemed, and she was in no hurry to end it prematurely. Walking about me--I could only imagine her spinning about, playing to the crowd--she continued her teasing assault, licking and kissing, spanking and pinching. I raged against it, kicking, jerking, and even--at one point--biting in frustration, but I was helpless. I'd never felt so impotent. The feeling settled over me like a killing frost, causing goose bumps to erupt across my exposed skin. Slowly, squeeze-by-squeeze, she milked me of my confidence for all who wanted to see. She was disrespectful and rough, unimpressed by my discomfort. Though she didn't speak--no matter how much I begged her to--it was clear in the way she touched me: she intended to humiliate me. Her hands receded for a moment before reappearing, wet and slippery with some kind of oil. Starting with my ass, she rubbed it into my skin, making it feel heavy and slick. Leaving me no dignity, she went so far as to spread me open and work the greasy liquid over my crack. It felt cold and alien but surprisingly good on my sensitive skin and I shivered and puckered as she touched. I hung my head in shame as she caressed my spread bottom for the amusement of the entire club. Just as I had come to terms with this indignity, her assault intensified. Her middle finger began to slide up and down over my lubricated asshole, then--before I could protest--in one quick motion, slipped inside. I'd never even had a woman touch me there, much less finger me. The feeling was an excruciating mix of pressure and delight. A sharp breath exploded through my gritted teeth as she penetrated me. Giving me only a second to grow accustomed, she initiated my violation with vigor, exploring now, curling her finger inside my virgin ass, filling my delicate nerves with exhilaration and flecks of pain. "No, no, no, no, no. Not that Scarlett. Stop! I don't do this." This, like all my previous attempts at communication, went unheeded. Her free hand, still dressed in oil, slid up and down the inside of my thighs. Deprived of all my senses, the slick of her hand was molten on my flesh as it spread its belittling coating. I could feel the oil as it rolled down my legs, tiny tickles of humiliation claiming my skin, highlighting my dishonor. Her oily hand, warmed now by the friction of our contact, moved to my balls and she fondled without gentleness. After a prolonged period of groping, her hand retreated again only to re-emerge an instant later further soaked with lube, which she applied generously to my limp cock. After it was thoroughly slicked, Scarlett proceeded to jerk my dick for the club's patrons. I pictured them, sitting in their chairs, smoking and drinking, laughing as my red-haired captor turned me out for their enjoyment. My degradation only increased when my sex hardened in answer to the stripper's manipulation, and deepened again when she plunged a second finger into my now readied ass, causing me to gasp and tremble as I was worked from both sides. I was shocked to discover that I was moaning. Not being able to hear the sound, I knew it to be true only in the way that one knows that someone has been in their home even without supporting evidence. I must have been a sight, standing there, mouth agape, knees trembling, while this young girl played my body like a cheap guitar, aggressively and with no concern as to if it were damaged. My cock grew and I slumped slightly forward letting the handcuffs support some of my weight. I wanted it to be over. I wanted to be somewhere else. I thought of Scarlett, of how she had tricked me with her little-girl smell and her cutesy pig-tails. When this ended, if it ended, I would kill her, that life-ruining little slut. I hated her. I hated her. I repeated it to myself. I repeated it so that I wouldn't have to think about my dick growing, wouldn't have to think about how I was now pushing my ass back against her fingers like some sort of wanton bitch. I hated her. I didn't want this. What kind of man would get off on being humiliated in front of a bunch of strangers? Not me, certainly not me. I almost had myself convinced when the third finger probed into my, by that point, fuck-loosened ass. After that, I was all ecstasy and openness, nodding and screaming into the loudness, as she defiled me in front of the whole room. Her hands were lightning, one hammering my ass piston-like and without conscience, while the other must have been a blur on my rock-hard, oily dick. I was thankful now for the noise of the stereo, so that at least I, and the others, couldn't hear the rude, wet sounds my body was no doubt making. I almost fell from the force of it but, thanks to the handcuffs, barely kept my footing. The music beat through me and pounded me from existence, until I was afloat on its rhythm, solitary and separate from everything except for the burning agonizing euphoria of my sexual torture. Instead of coming in a rush, my orgasm squeezed from me, like heavy cream passing through mesh, for what felt like eons. I came, and came, and came. I felt tears brim my eyes, damp against the cloth of the blindfold. After I had emptied my balls into the darkness--I imagined it dropping in thick blobs on the stage--I collapsed onto the hardwood, my knees sliding in the mess of jizz and oil that had fallen beneath me, where Scarlett left me, disgraced and panting, for the better part of five minutes. Even still, I hadn't yet caught my breath when I felt her grab me by the hair and pull me forward into the moistness of her pussy. Rather than waiting for me to lick, she just fucked my face, adjusting only slightly when I opened my mouth so that she could take full advantage of the contours of my tongue. I protested, forgetting briefly the uselessness of such action, but even if the room had been silent, my complaints would have been drowned in the juices of her bucking cunt. Finding it difficult to breathe, I pulled back to grab a sliver of air but she wouldn't allow it, instead holding me tightly against her soaked lips. Suffocating within her folds, I battled her grip, rampaging about as effectively as I could while so restrained. When I finally did earn a quick gasp, I was rewarded with a stinging full-handed slap to the face, so hard that it turned my head sharply to one side. A Study in Scarlett Ch. 02 Humiliation burned in my cheeks. She had fucking slapped me, like a disobedient child, in front of a goddamned audience. I might not have had much self-respect left after abandoning both my morals and my fiancée for her seductive charm, then being fingered like a cheap tramp, but I was still a fucking man. I wasn't going to be slapped like a bitch. When she pressed her pussy to my mouth once more, I snapped at it with my teeth. This earned me slap on the other side of my face, harder this time, which left my face hot and my ears ringing. She grabbed a fistful of my hair. I resisted. She struck again, then again, smacking me time after time. I took it proudly for a time, presenting my cheeks defiantly, expecting her to balk, for her will and arm to tire, but neither did, and after a dozen or so blows, I found that I was the one wilting. Dodging now, I tried to evade her attacks but it was no use, my hair firmly wound around her fingers, she used me like a whipping post. I asked her to stop, hoping she could read my lips even if she couldn't hear my words, but if she understood she made no attempt to acquiesce. She was without mercy, without compassion. There was no end to her pugnacity. It wasn't until my face was swollen and bruised, that my lips were busted, and--to my absolute abashment--tears ran freely down my face, that she returned the wetness of her pussy to my mouth. There was no defiance this time, and I lapped at her clit obediently, the salt and sour taste of her mixing with the iron-tinged taste of blood from my injured lips. She caressed my burning face momentarily--as if to say, you're a good boy, now just do what you're told--before starting to harshly fuck my face once again. Her gyrations were painful against the broken-skin, but, being grateful for the end of her attack, I let her use my mouth as she saw fit. I was vaguely aware that they were all still there, the people of the club, and that they had watched as she had crushed me, and were watching still as she enjoyed the spoils of her victory. Some small aspect of me railed against it, seeking to stir my self-respect, to rally me in another rebellion, but I buried it and kept licking, breathing when Scarlett let me, choking when she didn't. When she came--a mouth-filling squirt that more than flooded my mouth--I swallowed as much as I could, letting the rest wash over me, drenching my t-shirt, before I fell back onto my butt before finally slumping over, eyes closed, on my side. I waited for her to release me, to undo my handcuffs and take the blindfold off as a treat for listening, but it didn't happen. Content to just lay, I waited, exposed, for her to let me go. Imagine my shock, when I was once again hauled to my knees by the hair and thrust into her shaved pussy. No, not her pussy! This one was clean, no trace of orgasm, and it smelled differently not like fake strawberries, but a sweet, creamy smell like fresh sugar cookies, still, the kind of smell a stripper would wear. My fucking God, realization came to me, she was letting the other strippers use me, as well. She had tied me up here, not just for her pleasure, but the pleasure of any girl who wanted a lick. I warred against my new owner and received a backhand--nowhere near as hard as before, but still unpleasant--for my sass. Only two more and I had folded to this woman as well. It seemed that being dominated was something that stayed with a person, as if, in being broken before, it were now something I slid into easily. Cookie (as I called her in my head) was much gentler than Scarlett had been, but her orgasm also took longer, as a result, my tongue was aching by the time she finally discharged in my mouth. Any thought of rest was dashed when, after only a couple minutes, a new cunt began humping my face; this one wore crotch-less panties, I could feel the lace against my skin, smelled like roses, and was the roughest yet, controlling my neck so forcibly that I feared she would give me whiplash. It went on like this, as woman after woman made me eat her out. To keep some semblance of awareness, I came up with names for them and compared them in my head. I thought Panties came the hardest but Nails had to be a close second. Cream had felt cool on my mouth and Stockings had rubbed my cheeks pink. Chocolate Sauce was easy to please but difficult to swallow. Feathers had tickled something awful. By the end, I was no longer upright but had collapsed down in exhaustion, half on my side, half on my stomach, arms held awkwardly behind me. My jaw was aflame and I worried that my tongue was rubbed raw. Pain, burning and vibrant, overcame any concerns of pride I had once possessed. It seemed as if it had been hours that I had been used, that I had licked and sucked, cried and blubbered into the genitals of strange women. My shirt, drenched with the product of their excitement, stuck to my skin and I, still held fast around the pole, panted in a pool of sweat and juices. It was then that a pair of powerful hands grabbed me, turning my head so that I faced up, before lowering a sopping wet, wide-lipped cunt onto my face. It was a big pussy, fat and thick, rough with what felt like trimmed bristly hair, and it descended over me like a mask, stifling my breathing and covering my face with a sheet of gooey excitement. I could tell it was Lorraine by the legs, by the way the flesh of her big thighs enveloped my entire head as she sat on my face, but mostly I knew because of how she moved against me. It wasn't that she was rough, though she was, or even that she was heavier than the rest, though she was this, too, but because of the way she grinded her sloppy cunt on me. It was the disrespectfulness of it that gave her away. She didn't fuck my mouth so much as my entire face, moving her pussy like a paintbrush, making long, hard strokes, up and down, side to side, almost pulling the blindfold off at several points. The other girls had wanted to cum. Sure, they'd liked having a willing slave, but it was the release they really sought. Not so with Lorraine, it was the subjugation she was after. She trembled with excitement when I gagged and tensed excitedly when I gasped for breath. The dyke had come for revenge on me for touching the object of her obsession, and she was going to get it. Lorraine rode my face hard, purposely bouncing my head off of the hard wood, digging down into my mouth, smashing my nose with her writhing pussy, and filling my nostrils with her strong, musky odor. She even reached back to pinch my nipples, no doubt showing those in the audience that my shame knew no limit. I would like to say that I fought, that I tried valiantly to push her from me, that if not for the cuffs I would have sent her flying and stormed from that place in defiance, but it would all be a lie. By this point, my backbone had been snapped. No longer sure of where, or even who, I was, I wanted only to please. I wanted Lorrain to be happy, wanted her to hurt me, to degrade me, if it brought her satisfaction. When she came the first time, a thick creamy load that stuck in my throat even after I'd swallowed, I almost cried from the joy of bringing her there. The second time left me ecstatic. And by her third, and final, orgasm, I had, so great were my delusions, almost come to love her. This devotion was so powerful, that when she slid up so that her ass was in my face--both it and my face a glazed mess from her frothy discharge--I whispered "thank you" over and over as I greedily speared her asshole with my tongue. I was sufficiently out of it that even after she had gotten up--after giving me a condescending pat on the cheek, of course--I lapped at the air with my overworked tongue, seeking phantom pussies to please. I stayed that way until the music carried me away and sleep claimed me. *** I awoke to find that the music gone and Scarlett, completely naked with her dark make-up spread across her face, kneeling beside me, shaking me softly. "Are you all right?" I groggily stared back into her blue eyes for a few moments before realizing that my blindfold had been removed. I sat up quickly, pain shooting up my wrist as I did, letting me know I was still cuffed. "Hold on," Scarlett said, scooting around behind me and unlocking the handcuffs with a small silver key. "Wha-?" She helped me stand, my knees stiff from my ordeal. We were in some kind of dark, almost dungeon-like room. The windows had been boarded up and painted over in black, over which, someone had hung velvety purple curtains that seemed to fuse with the black paint of the walls, and the only light came from a dozen or so candles, from which the musky smoke smell seemed to emanate. The room was separated into two sides. One side, the side that we were on, housed only a single object--a raised platform surrounding a striping pole that had been mounted between the ceiling and floor. The other side was virtually covered in all manner of sexual devices: a swing, fastened into the ceiling by long sturdy looking cords; a metal table and matching trunk, the first bragged an assortment of whips and implements of pleasure and pain, while the second, left open and spilling over, boasted a menagerie of different costumes and bottles of various liquid; what could only be described as a weapons rack, stocked with all manner of different sized vibrators and dildos; and, set near an oak door, a four-post purple satin-sheeted bed, to which several different kinds of straps, chains, and bonds had been attached. It was the bed, however, that drew my attention, mostly, because it was mine, more precisely, mine and Mandy's, though, it was almost unrecognizable with the new spread and "accessories": a darker more macabre version, but my bed, nonetheless. With this landmark in place, I re-examined the room and was shocked by what I discovered. The windows were right, the dimensions correct. I was in my own bedroom! I shot a bewildered look at Scarlett, who, understanding my confusion, only giggled and pointed to the metal trunk. I looked again, more closely this time, and my eyes widened even more. Upon further examination, I recognized a few articles of clothing. "Recognize" wasn't the best choice of words; more accurately, I recalled the feel of them--a pair of crotchless panties, rough spider-web patterned stockings, a pink feather-boa-- against my face and mouth. Furthermore, the bottles I had assessed earlier took on a new life, too, as I noticed them for what they were: scented oils and various perfumes, even a bottle of chocolate syrup and some whipped cream. Beside them, sat a bucket of soapy-looking water and several wet wash cloths and towels. "It was all you!? But how!? I felt...I was so sure!" Visions of blurry faced strippers raced through my mind, women, apparently, forged in my imagination alone. They twisted about, like wraiths of smoke, before dissipating in the light of truth. Even fat Lorraine, with her big thighs and short muff had been a product of my sex-muddled mind. It was understandable. Sense-deprived and oxygen starved, paranoid and discombobulated even before exhaustion had set in, I would have been prepared to believe any sort of terrible conclusion. The loud music and the smell and heat of the candles had been enough to nudge me, and the pole and various disguises had pushed me over the edge into delusion. My scrutiny returned once more to Scarlett, who was by now trying unsuccessfully to stifle her laughter, taking her in as if for the first time. She was still in her "Goth aspect", but her pale body was shiny with sweat. Her hair was frizzy with the humidity, and the gloom of her mascara ran down her cheeks in purple streaks, making her look like some sinister porcelain doll. Below the streams of sweat and color, her pubic area was flushed pink, engorged and raw from overuse. Once again, I felt decidedly ensnared and was both in awe of and repelled by the deviousness she had shown in carrying out this façade. My befuddlement was rapidly wearing off, however, as the indignity and humiliation of what she had done to me resurfaced in my consciousness. The desire to kill her, to strangle her with my bare hands, I had felt while held to the pole coiled about inside me with renewed vitality. It slithered out from my chest, tightening my muscles as it went, balling my fists and setting my jaw, before eventually coming to stare out at the stripper through narrowed eyes. Sensing the gathering storm, she raised her hands in deference and backed away, her face showing real fear for the first time since I had known her. Off-guard, she looked as young as she was, an innocent girl playing at grown-up games, and I felt my anger subsiding. Instantly, she noticed my deflation and her frightened cast morphed into a snicker. "Is that the extent of your rage, little boy?" I sprang at her, intent on throttling her, but she was too fast, tumbling back to place the platform--the one with the pole to which I had been cuffed--between us. I dashed to one side, then the other, but she was agile and, with deft movements, managed to effectively block me off, giggling gleefully as she did. With no other option, I jumped onto the dais and came at her with a roar, but this too she countered, rolling across the platform, avoiding my outstretched arms and tripping me in the process, which sent me lurching to the ground where I lay, bruised and winded. When I scrambled back to my feet, murder beaming from my face, she was standing against the pole, that fucking finger of hers wagging away. "Wow. That was embarrassing. Maybe we should have kept the blindfold on. You wouldn't have to see how stupid you look. Perhaps I should have pity on you and make this a little easier" I was stupefied when she dangled the handcuffs, produced as if by magic, in front of her face, and proceeded to cuff herself to the pole while wearing an expression of overblown dismay. "Oopsie!" Then, as I walked toward her, my body shuddering with fury, "that's it! Show your little bitch that you're in charge. Punish me for all the wicked things I've done to you. Hurt me!" I did. I punished her until my arms ached and my lungs burned, until my face dripped with sweat and her voice had gone hoarse from screaming. Then I unbound her, carried her swollen flesh to the bed, and fell swiftly asleep with her wrapped in my arms. *** After that night, I lost any claim to independence. My vacation ran out and the reality of life returned, but my demand for Scarlett had come into its full power, and I did whatever was required to satisfy my need. She subjugated my mind, brought it under the dominion of her swaying hips and full breasts. I thought of her constantly, no longer able to give consideration to anything else. At work, visions of her interrupted me at each turn. My productivity slumped. I ceased interacting with coworkers. I barely kept my job. At home, our sex life only intensified, becoming increasingly violent and twisted. It became everything. We had no hobbies. We watched no TV. There was only our lust, ever more consuming. We made extensive use of the trunk and the table, the whips tasted our skin and we took turns violating each other with all manner of objects. We tore one of the support cables for the swing from the ceiling. Nearly all of the costumes were stained with the colors of our love-- banded with blood-red and yellow sweat, speckled with drops of cream--inside of a week. It was fucking in a way I'd never experienced. It was physical--so much so that it made me feel that all my past dalliances were unworthy of the word--almost animalistic. We came until it hurt, until the pleasure and pain of release became indistinguishable, and we ripped and spanked until our skin pinked and our muscles failed. Yet, it was the psychological aspect--like we were tapping into something primal and inescapable, something primitive and true--that was most addictive. It was as if I were a beast who had, through guilt and social programming, been pacified and taught to sit pretty and say please and thank you and fuck in the way deemed most acceptable to people who thought of sex like food--that it was OK for you in moderation, and healthier the less exciting it was. But Scarlett, herself being the same kind of creature, had awakened me to my real self, made me remember the hunger lurking beneath the thin-veneer of appropriateness. Scarlett encouraged this awakening as much as possible, pushing our sessions, particularly those where she was submissive, increasingly further into erotic torture. She told me how to hurt her, directing my movements across her body like a master tutoring an apprentice, going so far at times as to place her hands, when they weren't bound, over my own to lead me in the application of clamps or the tying of knots. As had become our pattern, she propelled me beyond my comfort and I resisted. There was rough sex, and then there was something else, and what Scarlett wanted from me didn't seem legal, let alone ethical. In the beginning, she reassured me, attempting to assuage my fears with calming words. When that failed to illicit a response, she jabbed at my vulnerabilities in an attempt to incite my aggressiveness. She attacked my intelligence, my appearance, even my manhood, calling my value into question then dismissing it with callous words. When I held strong, even in the face of such debasement, she started telling me about other men: how she had done all of this before, how I wasn't the best or even one of the most enjoyable affairs she had started since working at the club. There were others, she said, so many others, that had been better, bigger, smarter, and it was only a matter of time until she moved on to a new plaything. Unless, of course, I could show her that I was strong enough to keep her, to hold her to me and break her urge to wander. This tactic proved supremely effective, though I questioned the truth of her claims, and soon I was a study in maliciousness. I marched deeper into damnation with each bruise that marred her ivory skin. She drained the compassion from me with the squeezing of her milky thighs, shook it free with the quivering of her muscles, and bled it from me with rakes of her long nails. Without it, I was untempered and I caused her harm without compunction or remorse. I took to it with unsettling ease, and after a week or so I no longer required the teasing, In fact, instead of becoming something I had to be pushed to, it became something I had trouble holding back from. Understanding this, Scarlett began to act differently during her bondage. Rather than gently encouraging or insulting me, she now pleaded with me to stop. Knowing that I had passed beyond hesitation, she would beg me to release her, screaming and crying--the conviction and fear in her voice startlingly believable--as I persecuted her body and pleasured her sex. In my lust, I relished her tears, and I would hold my cell phone camera close to her face so that I captured every anguished detail. It turned out that Scarlett hadn't been showing off for the cameras at the club entirely for Lorraine's benefit and that she had a thing for being recorded during sex whether someone was watching or not. She said it made her feel dirty but proud, like now the whole world could see just how much of a slut she truly was. I was happy to indulge her, anything to make her cum. I even saved the videos and watched them during breaks at work, or, increasingly, even when I should have been working, whipping my dick out in desperation before shooting a hot load into a handful of tissues while sitting at my desk. She liked it even more when I played games with the camera, using it like a prop in elaborate mini-movies where we would pretend to be different people. Once, when we were feeling especially creative, she was a princess (the trunk had a pink dress that served nicely for this) and I an evil jailer who kept her imprisoned in my dungeon. On another occasion, when she was in charge, she was a rape victim taking revenge on me, the man who had stolen her innocence. Her favorite fantasy, however, and the one we used most often, was a scenario where I was a kidnapper holding her for ransom. She would beg for this one, then, when the camera was on, sob pitifully as I used her body without mercy. We both played our parts to the hilt, her the picture of a terrified, broken victim, and me her obsessed captor, stalking about, threatening her, speaking into the camera in demanding tones about awful things that would happen if I didn't get my money. Truthfully, I found it silly at first, all the dress-up and make-believe, but Scarlett never came harder than she did after the kidnapping bit, and I wanted--no, needed--to please her. A Study in Scarlett Ch. 02 It became the only time where I truly felt alive, when I was hurting and in turn being hurt by her. It was freeing, to have her life pulsating against my hands while I choked her, to know that I could snuff it out if I so desired. I felt powerful, kinetic. In turn, when she was in control, her fingers plucking at the depths of my psyche, I felt free in another way, free from the pressure of being anything, a person, a being that thought and made decisions. Instead, I became her toy, an extension of her will, like a mannequin that danced to her lurid tune, a dirge for the flimsy creature I had thought myself previously. She had opened me up to myself, and I had fallen into the blackness of my own soul. More prevalent even than this mental fascination, was an emotion. I hesitate to call it love, though, at this point, I would have had to admit to being in love with Scarlett. Still, there was something different, something more and something less than what most would refer to as love. Love can end, and what I felt contained no waning, no ebb and flow, just a molten burning in my chest that could not be doused. What's more, love was supposed to be benevolent, gentle and reassuring, and this churning I felt was painful. I hated the air that separated us and tried to smash it when I could, pulling her skin to me when possible. I was jealous of the food that she ate, of the things (other than me) that brought her joy, and, most of all, of the time we spent apart. As Scarlett had returned to work, as well, there was more of this time than I sometimes felt I could stand. Worse, she no longer wanted me at the club, as it was both unnecessary and detrimental: the first because instead of paying her per service, I now cashed my checks and handed them over to her almost in their entirety, keeping only a little emergency cash in my desk drawer; and the second, due to the fact that my possessiveness had increased to the point where I couldn't bear to share her with others and sought to dominate her attention, keeping her from making money off of other patrons. I fought her on my exclusion from Sparkles, but she effortlessly brushed my objections aside. It may seem strange that I folded so easily, but as I became more and more dominant in the bedroom, I lost more and more ground outside of it. I would punish her, of course, when she finally came in from the club smelling of sweat and other men, make her apologize and beg forgiveness for daring to keep me waiting, but, in truth, she held the real power. Not only did she control the money, both hers and mine, and the house, with which she did anything she wanted, but my need and jealousy had blended until it now formed something entirely unexpected: fear. Each day I pined for her, ached for contact with her. I text messaged her throughout the day while I was at work, knowing full-well that she would be sleeping the sunlight away in preparation for a night dancing. The texts would start inquisitive and playful, then become increasingly demanding and sharp as I began to worry she was ignoring me, that she no longer desired me. Finally, my words would turn desperate and apologetic, terrified that in my intensity I had frightened her away, that she had left, moved out. When I would come home, almost hysterical with worry of what I would find, she would greet me warmly, and often sleepily as she sometimes stayed in bed right up until I returned, making no reference to the mercurial nature of my messages. We would eat dinner together, something I threw together or a bite ordered-in as she refused to cook, like a normal couple. There was laughter and talking and smiling, and no sign of whips or chains, no echo of screams, no salty mix of sweat and tears. Had a passerby looked through the kitchen window, they would have thought us two regular people, not a couple of monsters playing at being human while picking over moo goo gai pan. After a quick kiss, usually on the cheek, she would leave--in my truck--for Sparkles, a gray petticoat concealing which ever pulse-raising outfit she had chosen for the night, and I would wait. I don't mean that I would pass the time leisurely or that I would busy myself with chores until she returned; I mean, that I would wait. I would sit on the couch with the television off, paused, inanimate, with fear. I was frozen with it, incapable of movement, all except my mind, which raced. I would conjure all manner of appalling scenarios, horrid movies that would play in my head while she was away. They all involved her with other people. Sometimes, it would be a dream of her fucking Russ, the big man with the mustache, or even Lorraine--but usually these terrors involved her being with a great multitude of almost inhuman men. In my most common delusion, I imagined her at the club, wearing only panties, surrounded by such men. I would watch her dancing for them, all of them at once, laughing, letting them place their hands--probing at first, just to see how far she would let them go--on her thighs, across her bare shoulders. These men--leering, awful creatures with bug-like eyes widened past possibility and searching too-long hands--would paw at her greedily. They were wretched and filthy with elongated, gray faces and long tongues that hung down out of their mouths, like a dog's, and like dogs, they packed around her, circling her like a scavenged meal, until she was thronged by them. In the fantasy, Scarlett would grin happily at the attention, and wave more and more of the contemptible things to her, allowing them to touch her, wanting them to, letting them run their unwashed fingers across her body, wrapping gangly arms around her, under her, until they blotted out the floor beneath her and began to lift her up, like a living yeast, until she floated on top, held aloft by the groping of hands. For her part, my love laid contently atop their sea, lounging as if on a raft in the middle of a pool, a willing participant in her own exploitation. She gasped when they removed her panties, and moaned amorously as innumerable fingers crawled over her nipples and dipped between the lips of her pussy. Their grotesque tongues would slither out next, trailing up and down her, flicking about, tasting her, bringing giggles and "ooooh" and "ahhs" from her smiling lips. Then, their clothes would be removed as well, practically torn off with haste, revealing withered-looking bodies, stretched thin and--like the faces--ashen in color. As skinny as they were, however, each sported a massive dick, already hard, thick and long and crisscrossed with bulging veins. As a mass, they would take turns, some holding her up while others took breaks to jerk-off and rub against her. In my nightmare, her body moved to meet this contact, reveling in it, trailing her fingers across any cock she could reach, pouting her lips into soft kisses. Then, as if they were all some large-mouthed creature, they would devour her as one, a many-bodied entity with a single mind, letting her sink amid them then swarming over her like ants over a carcass, drowning her in lewdness. The almost-men, disgusting embodiments of paranoia and jealousy made flesh, moved with the speed of my fear. Dozens of hands pulled at her hips and suckled at her big tits, shoving and fighting among themselves for a chance to defile my Scarlett. Mouths appeared at her crotch; those long tongues, nearly prehensile, speared into her, stabbing and seeking, attacking her mound like anteaters. She cried out as they overtook her, a sound more pleasurable than any I had ever wrung from her, and spread her legs and arms out wide, presenting herself to them. And then, in an instant, they were in her. They entered her mouth, her pussy, her ass, forcing those huge cocks in any place they could, and in each case, she was opened further than I would have believed feasible. They ruined her, distended her jaw well past comfort, stretched her pussy until the skin seemed thin and taut, and her ass, already round and thick, looked stuffed past capacity. After she had adjusted, as best she could, my nightmare truly began. It was slow at first, the rhythm of their thrusting. They staggered themselves so that her body jiggled about, pushed and pulled in different directions as they used her. Those not lucky enough to find an orifice, which was the majority of them, continued to paw and stroke their dicks, though some of the more aggressive ones now clamored to slide their rods between her tits or against the outside of her thighs. Some even beat themselves against her, clubbing her face and stomach with their rigid cocks. Steadily, the ones fucking her began to pick up the pace. Like a train just leaving the station, they chugged along at first, causing her to bounce in a jerky, mechanical fashion, but gained speed with every passing second. The others seemed to masturbate in time, making the entire group operate like a kind of vulgar machine, an automation whose sole function was to despoil the object of my obsession. At maximum velocity, they were a scramble of thrusting and limbs, and they pounded into Scarlett so powerfully and with such regularity that she seemed to tremble instead of bounce, suspended above the ground in the middle of them by the consistency of her ravaging. And she loved it. Her eyes had rolled back in her head and her shrieks of enjoyment, even muffled by the cock in her mouth, pierced through the general layer of lustful noise created by her defilers. They were a contagion, and she welcomed their disease, writhing with pleasure as they pumped their infection into her, injecting her with as much as she could hold. Then, almost in response, to show she could contain no more, it came seeping out: cum. Her throat worked hard but the load from that huge dick was just as impressive as the source and it flooded out of her mouth, running across her cheek in a milky river. Still she sucked, stopping only to drawn in a sharp jizz-laced breath before pulling the rod back into her hot mouth. The wretch fucking her throat shuddered and grunted his approval. Moments later, the other two, the one in her ass and the one pounding her pussy, did the same, and their seed dripped from her in cloudy dollops when they withdrew from her now gaping holes. Not to be outdone, several of the men around her erupted, as well, showering her with cum that dappled her body. She tried to catch what she could, like raindrops on her tongue, and what she missed--which was a lot--she collected on her fingers and scooped into her mouth or massaged into her skin with whorish glee. Those that had climaxed shuffled off, leaving others to pick over the leftovers. They were only too eager to do so and she had only a moment to bask in her accomplishments before new partners rotated to take advantage of the vacancies in Scarlett's body. It would persist like this for hours in my fearful imagination, as man after man contaminated my lover, working like an assembly line, each of them adding their disgrace to her until she was completely ruined, her ass and cunt wrecked and seeping, her skin plastered white with cum, left broken and alone on the dance floor. Often, I would find myself masturbating on the couch when the daydream had run its course, angry and disgusted, but unable to dissipate the arousal generated by the thought of her behaving like such a tramp. I hated her for making me so fearful, so weak and needy, but I came nonetheless. In the brief period afterward, when I was temporarily free from the sexual pressure, the throbbing ache for her, I always thought about leaving, of getting away from her and the terrible grasp she had over me, but it never lasted long enough, and the desire would return, crushing down my resistance to such a point that I would frequently have to jerk-off again before she even made it home. When she did get home, our ritual would start immediately. We would pounce on each other, falling into walls, ripping at each other's clothes and attacking one another with kisses as we stumbled our way into the dark of the bedroom and the sanctuary of pain and pleasure contained within, where we would hurl ourselves against each other--physically, mentally, and emotionally--then collapse into a short, at least for me, sleep before I would wake-up, red-eyed with exhaustion, and head off to work only to count the hours before it would all start again. The entire period only lasted a month and a half, though, by the end, it felt as if it were the only life I had ever known, our frenetic nights, the only reason for living. As jealous and unstable as I had become, I had found a degree of reliability in our mad routine. That all changed, however, the night Scarlett came home with bruises that I didn't cause. *** I knew something was wrong before I ever saw the dark circle swelling around her left eye, knew it without seeing the tattered state of her dress, a cream satin number that had once come down almost to her knee but now barely covered her ass. I could hear it in the whine of the engine as the truck pulled into the drive, could tell it by the excessive amount of time it took her to make it from the car to the front door, by the weak, uncertain way she turned the knob. The night air rushed in ahead of her unsteady footsteps, spreading into the house like a whispered word, carrying the news of her fear, telling me that everything had changed. Scarlett took two erratic steps then half-fell against the wall, leaning heavily on one shoulder, before turning so that her back braced her and sliding to the floor where she sobbed soundlessly, eyes closed and mouth open, fresh tears sliding down skin already drawn tight with earlier crying. I was off the couch and kneeling beside her in seconds. One hand cupped her reddened cheek and stroked away at her damp face. The other lighted on her shoulder, rising and falling with her sobs. Despite the contact, her eyelids remained tightly shut, squeezed down so hard that they wrinkled noticeably, and she did nothing to acknowledge my presence. In addition to a black eye, her lip was split in several places and a bit of dried blood clung to the skin under one of her nostrils. Savaged and irritated, the color of her throat matched her name save for several blue stripes, spaced apart like fingers, that seemed to darken as I watched. The front of the dress hung loose, the fabric flared out and strained, exposing a multitude of scratches and abrasions. Furthermore, during the collapse, her legs had pushed open, giving me a clear look at what was left of her white lace panties. One entire side of them had been shredded so that they clung uselessly to her remaining thigh, leaving her pussy--turgid and wet--openly displayed. A chilly sensation had come over me, and my breath left my lungs in stilted bursts. "Scarlett?" There was no response. She just shook, quiet and quaking like the last tragic scene in a silent film. I tried her name again with similar results. Distant and uncommunicative, she reminded me of a ghost, a wordless echo of herself trapped in some unreachable plane of existence. It was only a small stretch, as the depths of her suffering had made her body appear nearly spectral. Her porcelain skin seemed even paler than usual, almost translucent, set against the creamy remnants of her outfit. It was as if the pigment had retreated, overwhelmed by what it had witness, from the surface of her skin. She had pulled herself in tight where she could, tucking her chin, drawing her knees and arms about her in an attempt to cover any bare flesh, like she was trying to suck all the vulnerable areas inside of her. Even her voice, it seemed, had withdrawn. "What happened? Who did this to you? " I shook her gently and spoke into her ear. I called to her but she was a hole, a deep, empty cave that had once been a woman, and all I heard back was the echo of my own voice. Rubbing my hands over her softly, I tried to calm her, to coax her down from the ether, lead her back into the shell she had abandoned, yet she only continued to silently cry. I had seen Scarlett pushed to her limits, seen her cry while I whipped her, made her beg for the release of orgasm after I had teased her for hours, but I had never witnessed her like this. She had broken loose of herself, fled from her own consciousness, leaving me with only a husk, a discarded piece of her, like a lizard losing its tail. Desperate, I increased the ferocity of my shaking, causing her dark hair, black against the pallor of her body, to thrash about her face and neck. Screaming now, I yelled to her. "Scarlett! Scarlett! Wake up, honey! Tell me what happened. Scarlett! Listen to me, Scarlett." When these pleas, too, went unanswered, I started to feel panic bubbling in me, as well. What if she didn't come back? What if this was the way she was now. Had her brain been damaged? Desperate, I grabbed her firmly behind the neck and brought her mouth to mine. Her lips were lifeless, lax and unresponsive, but I pressed forward, forcing my tongue past them and kissing passionately despite her lack of response. I pulled the rest of her to me and she sagged into my arms with no opposition. I poured myself into her in hopes of reviving her. My tongue sought the center of her, hoping to find a fragment of her still intact. I tried to feel for her, breathe for her, feed her my warmth. Minutes passed with no result. It was only when I was about to cease her resuscitation and give her up for lost that I felt the smallest of answers, only the barest of acknowledgments, the almost imperceptible pressure of her finger tips on the back of my arms. It spread from there, like a ripple through flesh. Her hands clasped weakly at first then fiercely as life returned first to the muscles of her forearm then those of her upper arm. Shoulders and chest followed, bending me, re-enforced an instant later as the pulling power of her back crushed me against her, legs joining in, clamping me down, strong with panic. Finally, as life returned to her mouth, she met my kiss with fervor, sucking and drawing me in so vehemently that I struggled to find air. I was reminded of the old warning about trying to save someone from drowning, that, if you were not an exceptionally strong swimmer, they were, in their terror, just as likely to bring you beneath the waves as you were to get them to safety. Scarlett threatened to do much the same with me. Already strong for a woman, her fear had turned her to iron, and she was heavy and solid in her attempts to drag me into her psychosis. Pain, sharp and bright sang out from my arms as her fingernails dug grooves into my skin, and her mouth, suddenly full of teeth, drew the breath from my lungs and blood from my lips. Like a crocodile she thrashed, trying to roll this way and that, clamping, ripping and tearing in her death roll. Her hands formed fists and she began to pound them against my chest, awkwardly due to the close proximity but with enough power that it stung and I could feel the blood rushing to the surface to nourish new bruises. Like a wild thing, she lashed out. I grabbed her gently by the shoulders and tried to steady her, to push her back, but she would have none of it, and she slung her head forward, crashing it against my nose and bringing water to my eyes. Finally, I used the full extent of my strength and clutched her, vise-like, by her upper arms and forcefully created a bit of space between us. Her eyes were open now, bloodshot and electric, they met mine and, for the briefest of moments, promised violence and bloodshed, the ferocity of a wounded animal, before the recognition started to slowly trickle in, softening her stare from the center out, until her blue pools were empty of malice and filled with tears and a deep, stirring panic.