Thread: What a Girl Wants

The video-feed showed Nina had slept curled in a tiny ball, one small hand buried between her thighs. Once or twice, bruised lips muttered in her sleep incomprehensible snatches of distressed words, ... no, no, want to go home. She woke oh-so slowly, tugging the simple white down pillow tightly over her blond head, refusing to acknowledge that she was no longer asleep. When she finally sat up, she stretched her arms above her head and looked around with a dazed start. This wasnt her room? A wave of apprehension crashed into her as bits and pieces of last night littered her memory like broken planks washed up on shore after a shipwreck. Her sleep filled eyes stared out into her space, a room not much bigger than her walk in closet at home. Two of the walls were bare cement, the others unpainted plaster board. It looked like--and she would later learn was--a portion of an unfinished basement walled off into a private room. Her own room at home was furnished in pink and white with a beautiful, antique canopy bed. Although overflowing with stuffed animals and dolls and other relics of an indulgent childhood, it was always meticulously neat, dusted, everything in its place thanks to the daily maid service her father employed. It contrasted starkly with her present room, utilitarian and frighteningly bare. Someone had installed a white Wellworth toilet in one concrete floored corner. The cheapest toilet available through Amazon, it was clean and worked. Not far from there, she saw a water tap near the floor above an inset drain. It was the kind you might attach a hose too or a washing machine perhaps. Standing up, she realized she had slept on more a cot than a bed. She had to have been exhausted to sleep for if she bounced on the thin mattress, she would feel the wire frame below her. Her hand crept wonderingly up to her mouth, the gag was gone. She shuddered and fell back onto the bed, recalling last night, the horror and fear and disgust. Glancing at one slender leg, she saw in thick black marker the words Swedish Whore. She began to cry as she remembered, Fucking A! The voice sounded young, his words slurred from alcohol. Whered this bitch come from? Some Swedish whore who came over here for the summer, another voice said with a laugh. I guess she wanted the full American experience. Seconds later, a hard cock slid into the warmth of her mouth and began to probe within, his male hips sliding back and forth as he did his best to get that soft friction stimulating it. It didnt take long before he shuddered and more sperm began to run out the side of her mouth. Well, shes sure getting it, he laughed. Hands had then reached under the stall and grabbed at her leg. She felt someone draw or write on her. She had wanted to scream and kick, but she could only endure the next strange cock in her mouth and the acrid, bitterness of more sperm flooding down her throat and washing over her lips. As this particular man pulled out, she remembered him laughing cruelly. Hell Skeeter, the man sneered to someone. You could do a better job sucking me off than this lame bitch. There was more laughter and her leg had been freed. With each cock, the mental number she was keeping track of had gone up. Her mind flashed back to the present. Her legs pressed tight together and she held herself as if she was providing a child with comfort. It was cruel. She bitterly hated the words on her leg. She wasn't a whore anything she had done wasnt for money. She might be stupid, but not a whore. Looking closer at her body, she saw that someone had dressed her in a girlishly gorgeous silk baby doll pajamas, pink with a scoop neck and bow at the center. It was sleeveless with three tiers of ruffles accenting it. Since the pajama bottoms didn't quite clear her hips, she also wore lace panties that had their own ruffled accents. She noted the word, Juicy was scripted along the right side of the panties. She had always been able to block out the darkness and already, the horror of last night was receding a bit. There was a dresser, very simple and plain along one short wall. She spotted something on it. A blindfold style mask, thick headphones, and handcuffs, there was also a stack of dirty, wrinkled one dollar bills. Slowly, hands shaking, she counted them out. The exact number she had told the man when he took her away last night, the number of cocks that had enjoyed her mouth. No, she screamed and threw the bills on the floor. Looking up at one of the video cameras so visible, she used her childishly lisping voice with tears shimmering on her lashes, I want to go home. Few men had ever resisted her helpless appearance and she was putting everything into it. Pleathe, she said. I dont want to be a slave anymore. What had happened was so far removed from her fantasies and dreams, Nina wanted back in her safe, comfortable bedroom where money came from a trust fund, not a stack of dirty bills. Was she testing the unknown man?