Vicky couldn’t bring herself to take off the costume. She knew that, when she did, the feelings of remorse, of guilt, of self-loathing would make her sad and depressed. She didn’t want to feel that way. When she wore the costume, let Slutty Vicky be in charge, she didn’t need to feel that way, because it was like acting. Each time she was aroused from the danger, or she orgasmed as she was treated like nothing more than a useful cumhole, she could blame those things on Slutty Vicky.
The real Vicky, meanwhile, could just wait, safely tucked away in a place that was guarded by values and ideals. While her task was complete, she still needed to wear the costume for her meeting with the old man, the following day. He’d want to see that she was acceptable, and so she’d need Slutty Vicky to convince him of that fact. Her father would want to slap her and see her become wet because of it. He’d need to be convinced that her bald twat and jiggling melons were the defining characteristics of her worth, those things that a man had a right to. The real Vicky could not convince him of those things, because the real Vicky knew that they were lies.
Slutty Vicky, though, knew what was needed to play his game. Slutty Vicky got off on the danger and the rough fucking, the way they called her names and took what they were entitled to. The slut got wet at the mere idea that her will might be overborne, that she would be forced into submissiveness and made to service the desires of men with hard cocks. That was the girl that her father expected and, until she was named his heir, the costume would be necessary.
Vicky wanted to wash the anonymous man’s cum from her cunt the moment she returned home. In fact, she wanted to report the rape to the police, but Slutty Vicky was having none of that. She’d cum from it, the slut told her, she’d been wet and horny. She’d spread her legs in the parking lot and masturbated to the memory of it, and she’d done it using her rapist’s semen as a masturbatory aid. She’d even filmed herself doing it, knowing that her own father was going to watch the video. That kind of slut doesn’t go to the police, she’d said. That kind of slut gets laughed at and told that she deserves it for dressing like a whore and cockteasing her betters.
Vicky knew that the slut was right, and so she stayed behind her walls and hummed happily to herself, making a checklist of all the good things she’d do with her inheritance. Slutty Vicky, instead, took a nap, fed herself, and then spent two more hours touching her cunt as she watched a series of porn videos, themed around girls being molested and fucked by security guards for shoplifting or cockteasing.
When her pussy was good and hot, and Slutty Vicky felt like she couldn’t go another minute without an orgasm, she put on a new outfit and left the house. Vicky, safely behind her walls, making her list, daydreaming of the accolades and the recognition from her future good works, was no longer paying attention. Slutty Vicky, after all, knew what she was doing. Besides, if she became overly concerned with Slutty Vicky’s activities, the mean bitch would just slap her or kick her in the cunt and tell her to stop whining. It was best to just ignore her, let her drive, and when it was time, real Vicky could take her off and put her away for good.
***
Slutty Vicky knew that fucking another strange man wasn’t necessary. She’d successfully fulfilled the edict by being raped by the security guard, and she’d obtained the proof. Still, when dealing with an enemy like the wily old man, it was best to be sure of these things. The raping, also, had only lasted a couple of minutes, and he hadn’t slapped her, spanked her, or said one filthy word to her. The single orgasm wasn’t even fulfilling. The sense of danger, though, of being overpowered and taken had been a rush. It was a rush she wanted to feel again.
She parked Vicky’s car in a lot at the edge of downtown and then took up walking down the street toward Majestic Boulevard, colloquially known as “Whore Street,” for reasons that were apparent as she rounded the corner. The working girls were already out, displaying their wares, enticing their clientele. A few of them cast hateful glances at the new girl with her giant melons and, while Slutty Vicky’s stomach fluttered from the sense of danger, craved it even, she didn’t go near them.
Alone, on the end of a corner, she waited, unsure of the protocol for this sort of thing, only knowing that at any moment a car might pull up and proposition her. A man would offer her money for her pussy, and she’d take it, but she had no plan beyond this. Given that she was new, and that her tits were like a neon sign illuminating her sluttiness, it did not take long for exactly that to happen.
The car was a faded blue sedan, missing a hubcap, and the man behind the wheel wore a cut-off shirt that displayed a long, black tattoo that wound its way down his arm. He looked rough and he looked mean. Vicky’s pussy gushed at the sight of him.
“You look a little out of place here, bitch,” the man said, “You must be new.”
“I… Are you… looking for some fun?” Vicky asked.
“Get in,” he said, reaching across to open the passenger side door for her, as any true gentleman would. Vicky rounded the car, her heart hammering at giving up her control to this stranger. The man drove off once she was in the seat.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“I’m… does it matter?”
He chuckled and said, “Girl like you? If you’re gonna do this kinda thing, you’re gonna be popular. Guys’ll wanna know who to ask for. You really are new at this, aren’t you?”
She nodded.
“I’ll just call you Funbags. That’s cute. What’s your rate for full service, Funbags?”
Vicky hadn’t actually considered this, because Vicky wasn’t actually interested in money.
“$300,” she answered, having no idea what pussy sold for.
The man nodded and said, “That’s fair for a set of jugs like those. That include anal?”
Vicky had never been fucked in the ass, despite being heavily used by five strange men the past few days. Still, the thought of having her ass violated wasn’t something she wanted to take off the table.
“Can I see how I feel?” she asked.
The man laughed, saying, “Yeah. Sure. No ass, though, for that rate, I’m gonna wanna slap you around a bit.”
“Okay,” she readily agreed, “but… I’d like to… to record it.”
He laughed again and said, “Sure. Sure. Everyone should have a good home video of their first time at Disneyland, eh?”