Ginger takes an unwilling Janice to a sex club where she strips on stage and the has a gangbang with seven men plus Ginger.
I gave her a thread of thought into her sleeping mind, one small instruction planted at the edge of her memory — today is going to be a big day. She hummed iwhile she washed the cups. She could not remember who had told her. Nobody had. I had. That is the whole craft, right there: a woman singing in her own kitchen, certain the thought is hers.
Stephen left for work. David left for university. She stood at the front door with her key in her hand, and the instruction I had laid down on Monday leave it unlocked rose in her like her own habit. She frowned at the lock. She left it. I felt the tiny wrongness of it tickle her, and I enjoyed that. The lock was for me.
She walked into the front room and I stopped her there. Feet planted, arms loose, eyes open. Frozen.
From across the street, through her front window, I watched it take her. The key still in her fingers. The little jerks of effort as she tried to lift one foot, then the other, her weight shifting a millimetre and settling back. Then the memories came back I released those on a delay, exactly as designed Monday and Tuesday, all of it, arriving behind her eyes in a flood. I watched her chest start to heave. Her mouth stretched into a scream with no sound in it; I had her voice. Her eyes went glassy, then wet, then wide. The naked walk down her street. The garage. The boys. And me, bending her over her own dining table, opening her arse with my cock while she lay there blank. I watched her remember that one specifically her whole body shuddered, a single violent ripple from shoulders to knees, the only movement she had left.
She heard my key in her front door I let her hear it, I wanted her to hear it and she tried to scream again. Nothing. Lovely.
I came into the front room and stood in front of her. Sweat had gathered at her temples. Her eyes tracked me, furious and terrified, and I smiled at her.
"Undress. Fully."
Her hands went to the hem of her t-shirt and pulled it up over her head. Her fingers found the clasp of her bra behind her back, unhooked it, and both garments dropped. Jeans unfastened, pushed down over her hips, stepped out of. Knickers last, slid down her thighs, and she stood in her own front room in daylight, naked, unmoving, her face burning. Inside she was fighting it I could feel the struggle like heat off skin her mind hauling on her own arms, shouting stop, and her body not even listening. Her body was mine. Her mind was an audience, strapped to its seat, watching.
I took the clothes out of the bag and laid them across her arm. "Put them on."
Black thong, matching black bra. Black hold-ups. A silver skirt so tight she had to shimmy it over her hips, and I made her enjoy the wiggle as she did it, made her feel the pull of the fabric on her arse. A black blouse. Slip-on shoes. She dressed in front of the window, and when she caught sight of herself in the mantelpiece mirror, presented, dressed like a woman going out to be looked at her face crumpled and rebuilt itself into nothing, because I would not let her cry yet.
"Come on."
She followed me to the car. She got in when I opened the door. She sat with her hands in her lap the whole way, and I watched her in the mirror between glances at the road the rapid blink, the swallow, the jaw tightening and tightening. Outskirts of Bradford. Down a narrow road between brick terraces, and there it was: the old mill, windows filthy, paint peeled off the blue door. Cars along both kerbs, a good sign at half past nine in the morning. The club pays me well for fresh stock, and I pay them in quality. Everyone is happy. Especially me.
Inside, three bouncers in the corridor nodded me through. Past the bar, through the dim of the main room two hundred heads at least turning as she passed in her tight skirt, wolf whistles following her the length of the room and through the door beside the stage.
"You go on next," I told her. "Strip. Give the audience a good time."
Her mind recoiled so hard I felt it like a knock. Two hundred strangers, and her body already stepping into the wings. The two dancers came off glistening with sweat, and the MC took the microphone.
"—new to this club, new to stripping, so give her plenty of encouragement. I give you — Janice Goodall!"
I stood at the side of the stage in the dark and watched her walk out into the light.
She hesitated one beautiful second, blinking in the spotlight, and then I fired the instructions I had built for her, and the flash of them going in made her gasp and she smiled. That was mine too. To the room she looked delighted. Underneath, I could feel her clawing at the inside of her own skull, screaming at her hips to stop swinging.
She kicked off her shoes. The music came up loud, and her fingers went to her blouse and began to unbutton it.
I watched her fight it. Truly fight it her mind throwing everything it had at her hands, and her hands going button by button down her front regardless, patient, unstoppable, hers and not hers. Last button. The blouse hung open on her black bra, and the room roared. She shrugged it off her shoulders, spun it once around her fist, and threw it into the crowd. Men lunged for it.
Her face was scarlet. Her body arched, hips rolling to the beat, breasts thrust out at the front rows as if she were proud of them. She turned her back to unzip the skirt I had ***********ed that, the tease of it and dragged the zip down slow, and the silver skirt dropped, and two hundred voices cheered her bare arse in the thong. She walked to the edge of the stage and beckoned a man in the front row my instruction, his luck and he rolled each stocking down her leg with shaking hands, and she draped them around his neck like a garland and he went back to his seat a blessed man.
Bra next, to a roar. She unclasped it, held it a moment over her chest, and flung it, and stood swaying her bare tits side to side for the room, nipples hard in the cool air, her blush spreading down her throat onto them. Then the thong, peeled down over her hips, stepped out of, held up in one hand like a trophy while the room stamped and whistled. And then the slow turn, full circle, arms out, everything shown cunt, arse, belly, all of it to two hundred strangers at half past ten in the morning, while behind her fixed smile her mind howled.
The spotlight cut. She came to me at the side of the stage, naked, sweating lightly, chest heaving.
"They'll have you back next week," I said. "Come on."
"What about my clothes? I'm still naked" Her voice cracked on it.
"Leave them. You won't need clothes again today."
I took her through the back door into the red room.
Seven men, all naked, waiting. Big ones, fat ones, built like furniture, every shade of brown and white, and in the middle of it all the largest bed I have ever supplied to a client. They turned as she came in, and one of them crossed the floor and kissed her, his hand closing on her breast, and I watched the tremor go through her seven of them, her mind said, never, never and then I gave her body its instructions for the room, and her pussy answered before her mind could vote. Wet, instantly, hotly, dripping down her inner thigh. She looked down at herself, astonished and revolted, and I enjoyed that most of all.
She knelt in front of the first man and took his cock in her mouth.
I stood by the wall and watched everything. Her head bobbing, cheeks hollowing, one hand around the base of his shaft, the other braced on his thigh. He groaned and fed her deeper, and she took it, gagging softly, eyes watering, and when he came she swallowed around him, throat working, and some of it escaped down her chin because he was too fast for her. The second man was enormous in every dimension, a fat man with a fat cock, and she had to stretch her jaw to take him, her lips whitening around his girth, drool stringing off her chin onto her tits. Hands wandered over her while she worked her breasts, her back, the curves of her arse, fingers sliding into the wet slit between her legs and every touch lit her up the way I had wired her, her skin flushing, her hips starting to press back against the fingers.
The men were different and that was the pleasure of it for them and for me. Different cocks thin, thick, one with a head like a plum different bellies above her face, different hands. Some rested theirs on her head and pushed. Some stroked her hair like she was precious. One bent and kissed her mouth before she started, and thanked her. One fucked her face in short hard jabs while she gripped his thighs. She breathed them in cock and sweat and skin and her body rocked between them, knees bruising on the carpet, jaw aching after the fourth, until I let one of them pass her a glass of water and she knelt there sipping it, cum on her chin, cum drying on her tits, her chest rising and falling.
I read her from across the room, the way I always can. Fear, still. Panic under everything, a small animal beating at a window. And underneath the panic, soaked through it, arousal her pussy engorged and slick, her nipples rigid, her whole body tuned and humming. She was ashamed of how wet she was. She was wetter because she was ashamed. I had built that loop myself and it is my finest work.
One man came on her face, thick ropes across her cheek and into her hair. Another spent over her tits, painting her nipples. She knelt there and took it, and her mouth said nothing, and her mind said everything.
Then the bed.
They laid her on her back in the middle of it and three of them took turns going down on her, tongues on her clit, fingers curling inside her cunt, and I watched her first climax of the session break over her — her back bowing off the mattress, a moan torn out of her that she'd have given anything to swallow, her thighs clamping around a stranger's head. The second orgasm came faster. The third faster still. Her mind was losing the argument.
She grabbed the next man herself. Pulled him down by the shoulders, moaning, "please " and I noted the please, her first voluntary word of the day, and the shame she'd feel about it later. He lifted her legs over his arms, ran a finger down her slit, and slid into her to the root. Her mouth opened wide. The room watched him fuck her long, heavy strokes, her tits bouncing with each one, her ankles locking behind his back and she moaned like a woman being paid for it, loud and unashamed, because I had taken her shame volume down to a murmur and turned her need up full.
They took turns after that. One after another, cocks sliding into her used, sloppy cunt, each man adding his cum to the last man's, her pussy stretched and dripping, the wet slap of it filling the red room. While they waited their turn they cared for her hands kneading her feet, rubbing her shoulders, four mouths and twelve hands on her body like a spa and one of them fucked her slowly, deeply, until she couldn't think, until her eyes rolled and her voice broke down to a single repeated sound. New cock. New face above her. New hands. Her body adjusting around each of them, gripping, spasming, milking them dry, and her mind floating somewhere near the ceiling watching her own cunt be passed around like a jug of cream.
She pulled one of them to her mouth while another fucked her mouthing him clumsily, bouncing out of rhythm on the cock inside her, trying, wanting it, and the wanting was the ruin of her. She took a cock between her tits, pressed them around it with her own hands, another in her mouth, another hammering her cunt, all of them on her and in her at once, and she came so hard the man in her mouth had to hold her head steady.
They asked politely, these are polite men if they could try her other ways. She nodded, glassy-eyed. They sat her up, knelt her, bent her, spread her, and used her in every configuration seven inventive men could devise. She bent over the edge of the bed and sucked a man sitting there while another took her from behind, and she climaxed on his cock the first time he buried it. Twice more that afternoon she took a man in her arse, and by the second time she was pushing back onto him, grunting, her ring stretched wide around him, because I had rewritten what her body did with fullness. They filled her mouth, her cunt, her arse. Cum in her hair, across her face, down her buttocks. She lost count of her orgasms somewhere past a dozen; I did not.
She was soaked, flushed, wrecked, and glowing like a lamp, and when I judged the tank empty I called it. The men dressed and drifted out, patting her, thanking me.
She lay on her back on the huge bed, cum pooling in her navel, hair matted, thighs shiny to the knee, breathing like a runner. I was hard from two hours of watching, so I helped myself. I pulled her to the edge of the bed, hooked her legs over my shoulders, and looked down at her gaping, red, overflowing and drove my cock into her in one stroke. She was loose and boiling and slick with four men's cum, and she still clenched on me and moaned, because her body knows its master. I fucked her steadily, watching her face, and came deep inside her with the rest of them.
"Home," I said.
She lifted her head. "Like this?" Naked, dripping, gesturing at herself with a shaky hand.
I nodded.
We walked out through the main room, past the bar, every head turning, and I stopped her under the big screen above the optics. They were already playing the recording of the back room my camera work, their licensing fee Janice at full scale, on her knees, seven men around her, her mouth stuffed, her cunt stuffed, her face ecstatic. She stood beneath her own enormous face and watched herself swallow, and her blush came up her neck like a tide, and I let her watch a full minute before I walked her out the blue door into the daylight, naked, and drove her home to wait for me to come back.
She would not remember tonight. But her body would. It always does. That is what I own.
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