XP

When I was at secondary school, my friends were always telling me that I could be a model. I thought I wasn’t tall enough, despite being pretty and having a slender figure and a very small waist. I was particularly proud of my long, thick, black hair. I often covered my breasts with it as I tried to look sexy in the mirror. I came to live in London when I was 17. I got a job as a secretary and found a room in a shared house in Lewisham. It wasn’t as exciting as I’d expected life to be in the big city. My job was boring and didn’t pay that well, although it was enough to live on. I made no friends apart from a few of the girls at work and my flatmates. The latter were a couple and a single man quite a bit older than me. The couple were really boring people and the man, John, was definitely not the biggest user of soap in the area. I considered going back home to Wales.

I decided that I ought to, at least, have a go at the modelling idea before giving up on the Smoke. I sent the portfolio, that a friend of my father’s had done for me, off to all the agencies that I could find in the Yellow Pages. Dad’s friend did weddings mostly, but the shots of me were flattering. I waited for a response but nothing but polite acknowledgements arrived through the letterbox.

One Sunday night, John suggested a drink in the local pub. As long as I didn’t have to get too close to him, John was all right. He had quite a good sense of humour. I was bored so I agreed and even brought the first round – to show that this wasn’t a date or anything. We sat at a table in the corner and John told me about his work. He was a warehouseman. His job sounded even more boring than mine. As I sipped my white wine, a really good-looking bloke came into the pub and went to the bar. He was about 25 and had on a tee shirt and jeans. He looked very fit and I caught myself staring at his small bum as he stood at the bar. To my embarrassment, he turned and came over with his pint. I blushed but he spoke to John.

‘How’re yer doing, John?’

‘All right, mate; how’s yerself? This is Emma. Emma this is Tony. He’s a photographer.’

‘Girlfriend?’ enquired Tony.

‘No, worse luck, she’s just a flatmate,’ replied John, swigging down most of his beer.

‘Emma wants to be a model. Do you know anyone in the trade, Tone?’

Tony grimaced; he evidently didn’t like being called Tone.

John finished his beer and stood up. ‘I’ll get this one. That’s best, right? Same again, Em?’

It was my turn to be a little irritated. ‘No, I think I’d like a vodka and tonic this time,’ I said.

John went to the bar.

‘So you want to do modelling,’ Tony said. ‘You’re certainly pretty enough. Have you got a portfolio?’

I explained about my father’s friend and my lack of success.

‘I’m freelance and I have to use the models the agency sends me usually. But sometimes they can’t find the right girl. If you could let me have some snaps, I could put you forward if you like’

It was sweet of him, but I’d sent off every photo I possessed. He said he could take some shots if I’d come to his studio one day.

John came back with the drinks and the two men started telling joke after joke. Tony was very funny and we all laughed. Some of his jokes were quite crude but the way he told them made it seem all right. I said I was a good Welsh Chapel girl and I didn’t want to be corrupted. Tony laughed and bought another round. For the first time since I got to London I was enjoying myself, so I accepted another Vodka: my waistline could take it this once.

When the first bell rang, I said I needed my beauty sleep and would have to go. Tony gave me his business card and asked me to ring him when I was free. ‘Cheerio Em,’ said John as I left. As I walked the short distance home, I thought: ‘Hmmm. Tony. I wonder if he’s got a girlfriend. Must do, with all those models around all the time. He’s probably married.’

I called Tony the next day from work and arranged a session with him for next Saturday afternoon – I couldn’t really afford to take a day off work. He worked from a studio in Covent Garden. I took loads of clothes with me to change into. I also took some make up, though I rarely wore any, in the normal way of things. Tony let me in to his office block when I rang the bell and led me upstairs to the studio. ‘Right! Let’s have a look at you. Good, no make up. We’ll do those shots first.’

He set up the lights and took some pictures of me in the jeans and top that I had arrived in. ‘Got anything else to wear?’

I pointed at my bag and he got the clothes out and sorted them on a table. ‘This looks good,’ he said, holding out a skimpy backless minidress.

‘Where can I change?’ I asked.

‘Change here. I’ll close my eyes. I’ve seen it all before anyway.’ He closed his eyes.

I thought I might seem childish if I insisted on changing in the toilets, so I changed, checking occasionally to see if his eyes were still shut. They were. He took more shots and we repeated the performance through several costume and make up changes, as I smiled, pouted, twirled and flung my hair about to his command. When we were finished, I started to change back into my street clothes. His eyes were open as I pulled my top on.

‘God, you are gorgeous, Emma,’ he said, as I tried to cover myself by grabbing my jeans. I had no pants on and he was staring at my groin. He shut his eyes again and I dressed quickly, trying to seem matter of fact about it.

‘Have you got a boyfriend?’ Tony asked as we went downstairs. I said I hadn’t.

‘May I kiss you,’ he said, taking my hand.

He had seen me naked; why not kiss him?

‘Are you married?’ I blurted out.

‘No, Emma, there’s no one in my life.’ As he said this, he took me in his strong arms and kissed me. I melted. I kissed him back. I felt shivers run down my back. He was feeling my breasts and caressing then gently. I could feel his hardness pressing into my tummy through his jeans. I pulled away. I was determined to not go too far with a man until I was married and didn’t want to lead him on.

We made a date for next weekend and he took me out to dinner and then to the movies. We kissed in the back row and he felt my breasts. I wouldn’t let him put his hand up my skirt though. When I went to the ladies, my knickers were soaked. I really liked him.

Two weeks later, Tony called. He had found me a modelling assignment. I should come to the studio on Wednesday. All the clothes would be provided. I would be paid £750. I was over the moon. I imagined myself on the cover of Vogue or in a perfume ad. I booked a day off work. I went out to dinner with Tony that night and he took me back to his flat. He asked me to sleep with him but, much as I wanted to, I refused and went home feeling sexy but also, somehow, afraid. I was afraid that sex would hurt – at least the first time. I dreamt that Tony was my husband. He was lying on me and holding me. I felt his pert bottom as he thrust into me. I woke feeling warm and loved.

When I got to the studios for the shoot, there was another man there: older than Tony but quite dishy. He introduced himself and said ‘I’ll go downstairs while you change, my dear.’

I started to put on the clothes that were to be worn. It was a girl’s school uniform. I thought it odd but Tony just said ‘I just take the pictures. Who know what their campaign is about.’

I dressed and Tony kissed me. ‘You look very sexy like that,’ he said, as the other man returned.

‘Yes, she does look the very picture of a naughty schoolgirl. Well done, Tony!’

Tony fixed the lighting and asked me to lie face down across a leather-topped desk. Puzzled I arranged myself.

‘Try to look frightened,’ he said.

I tried and he took some shots.

‘No, no, no, Emma,’ he said, ‘that won’t do at all. Perhaps we need to really frighten you to get the emotion right.’

I looked round. The older man was holding a cane. This wasn’t my scene at all. I decided to go home. As I got up, Tony forced my arm up my back and pinned me to the desk. There was no one to hear if I screamed but I shouted anyway. ‘Help!’

‘Don’t make me gag you, Dear,’ said the older man.

Tony lifted my skirt up. As I struggled to get free of his firm grip, I felt hands pulling my knickers down.

‘Hey, stop that you dirty old pervert,’ I cried as panic swept through me. What was going on? I thought I’d go straight to the police when I got away. If I got away . . . I suddenly felt terrified.

The older man took Tony’s place and Tony started taking shots again.

‘She looks really scared now, Sir. Tell her what you’re going to do to her.’

The man said, very slowly ‘Emma, you’ve been a very naughty girl. Tony offered himself to you and you refused. As a result, I am going to cane you severely. Your naughty arse will get six strokes and you will count each one out loud and thank me for delivering it. After the first stroke you will therefore say ‘One. Thank you, Master,’ and so on. Do you understand?’

‘In your dreams,’ I muttered, but I was scared stiff.

I heard the cane whiz through the air before the pain exploded across my backside.

‘Ouch. How dare you–’

The man interrupted me. ‘I will repeat the first stroke until you count properly, Miss.’

He caned me again, harder this time. I screamed but managed a frightened ‘One. Thank you.’

He hit me again shouting ‘Master!’

‘One. Thank you, Master’ I cried out, desperate.

I managed to get out the words on each stroke after that. Tony’s flash was going off all through my beating.

My torturer still didn’t let me go. He started feeling my sex. I was wet, and this embarrassed me even more. He kept on rubbing me and I started to feel waves of sensation sweep through my body. Suddenly, all my muscles contracted at once and I experienced a fantastic feeling of release and, yes, ecstasy. My sex ached. I felt as though I wanted to push something in it.

‘You were right, Tony; she’s a horny little bitch. She loved coming on her Master’s fingers.

‘So, that’s what an orgasm feels like,’ I thought, as I finally realized what had happened . . . been done to me.

‘Now, Emma, will you coöperate for the rest of the shoot? Or do I have to give you six more?’

I said that I’d do anything, as long as they didn’t beat me any more. I was crying.

They made me strip naked and photographed me throughout. The older man gave me an envelope, which I put in my bag without thinking. Eventually, the horrid man left and Tony hugged me as I cried. How could he let me be used this way? Still, somehow, I felt like it wasn’t his fault.

‘Let me take you home. I’ve got some cream that will do wonders for that sore bottom,’ he said.

I got dressed. My bottom was sore. I would run away as soon as we got to the street. When it came to it, Tony gripped my arm and led me to his car. I was still too shocked to think of screaming. There weren’t that many people around anyway. Tony put me in the car and handcuffed me to the door before closing it on me. He drove me to his flat and frogmarched me inside. He undressed me gently and told me to lie on his bed. I knew he was going to rape me but all my fight had gone. I laid down. He turned me over and rubbed a soothing ointment into my bottom. I found myself becoming aroused by his massage.

Tony turned me over and said ‘This time you won’t refuse me, Darling, will you?’

I couldn’t speak. His cock was pressing into me. It hurt a bit as my hymen broke, but the pain was soon overwhelmed by the sensation of him filling me up. It was what my body needed. It was perfect. I hugged him and felt his bottom, just as I had in my dream. He started pumping in and out, filling me completely on each stroke. When he pulled right out, I begged him to put it back inside me. He was rubbing my clitoris with his fingers. He thrust into me and I exploded with joy. I seemed to climax over and over again. Eventually, he stopped and lay beside me kissing my breasts and tummy. I could feel his juices and my virgin’s blood running out of me. I fell asleep.

Next morning, Tony made breakfast and took me home. I still considered going to the police but couldn’t face the ordeal. Also, I didn’t want to get Tony into trouble, only that awful man. I found the envelope in my bag. It contained £750 in cash. As the awfulness of what had happened sunk in, I began to worry about getting pregnant: not the best start to a modelling career. I made an appointment with the doctor and he prescribed the pill for me without batting an eyelid.

By the end of the week, I was missing Tony. I phoned. He said he was busy but did I want another modelling job. There would be no beating this time but I would have to take my clothes off. I refused of course. I kept ringing him but the answer was always the same: if I wouldn’t model for him then he couldn’t see me. I puzzled at his use of the word ‘couldn’t’. Eventually, my need for him got the better of me. I agreed to do a shoot. This was to be in the country, in an outdoor setting. Tony collected me and took me to dinner. We went back to his flat and made love all night. It was lovely. He suggested that I move in with him. The flat was big enough. I said I’d think it over.

As Tony had promised, I wasn’t beaten on the shoot in the country, but I had to watch whilst an older woman was flogged. I just got very cold, standing naked in the woods, holding the reins of the horses that the two other woman had ridden up on. Soon after I moved in with Tony, he started spanking me before we made love. I found that it turned me on and enhanced our loving. I did more shoots and was spanked during a couple of them, though I never saw that man again. The money was certainly useful. I was now normally paid £1,500 per shoot. We ate out a lot and Tony took me to Paris several times. I had forgotten my girlish dreams of marriage. I was happy.

One evening in winter, Tony invited a woman round for dinner. She was about 40 and severely dressed. I didn’t like her. After dinner, she complained about my cooking, which was the last straw. I told her she’d better leave.

‘Tony, do you have a cane?’

‘No, Mistress,’ he replied.

I was stunned into silence as they went on.

‘The impudent little bitch needs a good spanking then. Do you spank her Tony?’

‘Yes, Mistress, regularly’

‘Obviously not hard enough! Over my knee bitch!’ she shouted.

When I didn’t move, Tony forced me over the woman’s knee. She pulled up my tight skirt and pulled down my tights and knickers. She spanked me much harder than Tony ever had, even when I scorched one of his favourite shirts when ironing it. In no time, I was in tears and begging for mercy. She just spanked on. When she had had enough, she just pushed my limp, aching body off her lap and onto the floor.

‘Tony, you are not strict enough. I will take this insolent girl to my house for correction. She will be my slave from now on.’

‘Of course, Mistress,’ was Tony’s only reply.

I protested, saying that she couldn’t make me. She silenced me with a slap.

‘You have been fiddling the Inland Revenue for ages Emma. Do you want me to report that fact to them? My husband has ample evidence that he has paid you cash sums for your so-called modelling services.’

I never thought of the advantages of being paid in cash, but now the implications began to sink in. Could I go to gaol? I’d certainly have to find a big fine. My will evaporated.

Tony and Mistress led me to her car and she drove me to her house.

As soon as we got there she introduced me to the riding crop and to the strange fact that a girl can come just from having her bum cropped by a severe enough master or mistress. She touched my sex and cropped me. Then touched me; then cropped me. It was me that begged for the extra strokes in the end; the strokes that made me scream out my pleasure for her. Me that begged to kiss Mistress’s beautiful feet. Me that endured regular severe bondage in the knowledge that she loved me.

Of course, she made me write down how I felt ─ about Tony, about her, about the men and women she gives me to. I think it’s a real turn on to think of all those people out there reading my stories: men with hard penises, women with their hands down their knickers. Yes, being a writer excites me.

If I’m lucky, Mistress beats me every day. I love it when she gives me away, especially to men with big dicks. I was never allowed to make love with Tony again, though.

It’s worth it. Mistress says that I’m her model slave. I hope I am.

*****

Emma leant back in her chair. Everyone applauded, following Mrs Prentice’s lead.

‘Thank you, my dear faithful little thing,’ said Mrs Prentice, looking at her husband, at the far end of the dinner table. ‘You choose the next one, Darling. Who do you want to tell their story next?’

He smiled. ‘Colin’s already made me hard once this evening. Why doesn’t he go next? Tell us your story Colin.’

Colin sipped his brandy and began. ‘My books are written for the gay market, mostly . . .’

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Disclaimer: All posted stories include descriptions of sex scenes that could cause offence to some people. Please do not read this story if you are offended by perverse sexual material, or if you are under the legal age of consent for your own country. These stories are pure fiction and are not based on anyone living or deceased.