Slutty Vicky wasn’t necessary to her recovery the following morning, so the real Vicky made her go away. This made her horribly ashamed by what Slutty Vicky had done the night before, even though she realized that it was necessary. It was better this way, she thought, better to pretend that it was not really her doing those things, but rather a costume she could put on and take off at will, just like an actress.
The thoughts in her head were a jumble, a confusing twist of difficult emotions and contradictory feelings. For the bulk of the day, Vicky lay in bed, napping, sipping soup, alternating between intense arousal at the memories of what Slutty Vicky had done and overwhelming self-loathing at the betrayal of the real Vicky’s ideals. By the time the afternoon came, and Vicky contemplated another encounter with a strange man, she had wholly convinced herself that this was the best way forward.
Slutty Vicky would be the necessary evil, the façade that she would put on when it was time to perform those tasks that were required, in order to meet her father’s approval. The real Vicky, the one that hated the idea of strange men fucking her like a sex doll, she could safely keep inside, until she had her inheritance. Then, she’d let her out, let her begin the work of righting the wrongs that her father wrought on the world. Until that time, though, Slutty Vicky would need to do the work, to stay in charge, so that the real Vicky wouldn’t have to feel bad about the degrading things, the things that made her wet, the things that made her cum.
Two nights of hard drinking had taken their toll on Vicky’s body, though, which was unused to consuming alcohol in large quantities. She spent most of that day resting, but finally allowed Slutty Vicky to watch the video of her encounter with Ron, while she masturbated, in order to ready herself for the night to come. This time, whenever she felt that she was about to orgasm, watching the girl in the video get her fuckhole battered by a randy construction worker, Slutty Vicky did not allow herself to cum.
If she was going to avoid getting drunk, in order to lower her inhibitions, then she needed to work herself up into a whorish lust. The best way to do that, she figured, was to ensure that she hadn’t orgasmed. The video from the night before, though, was not a long one. Ron had been intent on getting himself off, rather than enjoying his good fortune at finding a reluctant sex toy to use, and so, he’d cum fairly quickly into her, before pushing her roughly out the door.
The real Vicky did not watch porno. Her first encounter with porn had been the videos she’d watched in the clinic, the videos that trained Slutty Vicky’s mind and body to associate the feelings of pain in her cunt and tits, the slapping of her face and the degrading words, with the feelings of heightened arousal and pleasure. These same videos, and the accompanying days of punishment to her cunt, had begun the process of deterring that same pleasure when she was confronted with images or scenarios promoting female empowerment. Those things, Slutty Vicky didn’t like, because those things made her pussy hurt in a bad way.
Slutty Vicky, now, turned to porno in order to get her fix, to keep herself wet, to get aroused in order to go out on the hunt tonight, for another man to fuck her. Then, there would only be two left before her task was complete, and she could return to her father, show him the videos, and win his approval. She’d be named heir, and then Slutty Vicky could go away.
Since Slutty Vicky, likewise, had not watched porno before, she did not know what to look up. What kind of things would keep her aroused? Watching the videos of herself had been arousing. The videos in the clinic had been arousing.
She searched, “Porno of girls getting slapped,” and millions of results flooded the search engine. The real Vicky didn’t want to watch girls being slapped, but the real Vicky’s wants didn’t matter right now. In order to do what needed to be done, the real Vicky needed to shut up. Slutty Vicky imagined herself slapping the real Vicky, telling her to, “shut the fuck up, slut,” as Luke had done, and she was rewarded with a pleasant tingle in her cunt and a feeling of rightness.
She clicked the first video and watched, rubbing her twat as the video played. The girl in the video had small tits. As a man slapped her face and her cheek turned red, Slutty Vicky moaned and pushed her fingers into her cunt. The girl squealed as the man pulled on one of her tits, which Vicky couldn’t help but think were disappointing. The man bent the girl over a desk and began to fuck her, pounding her wet hole as he rained down harsh slaps on her ass, making her yelp. The girl had an orgasm anyway, and as Slutty Vicky watched it happen, she felt that it was good, it was the girl doing what she was supposed to.
Vicky watched the videos, even as she made herself a small dinner of noodles, keeping her hand between her legs as her mind soaked in the humiliating, erotic imagery of young women having their mouths, assholes, and pussies stuffed with the cocks of mean men, who treated them as little more than toys for their momentary amusement. She watched them as she ate at her table, the phone propped on its stand. In the shower, she listened to the sounds of them, the girls crying, squealing, orgasming loudly as they were slapped, spanked and fucked.
Slutty Vicky pulled her car into the crowded parking lot of a dance club, which she’d looked up online. The place was known for playing racy hip hop, and Vicky’s short skirt and tight top wouldn’t be all that out of place in a club like this. She knew it was true as she made her way into the club, with its blacked out windows, along with other girls, in small groups or with men, all of whom were dressed in equally skimpy attire. The real Vicky had tried to tell her that this was another bad idea, but Slutty Vicky slapped her until she cried and shut her mouth, then made her sit in a corner, so that Slutty Vicky could do what needed to be done.
Vicky, the one who did not want to be slapped around or fucked roughly by anonymous men, thought that going to a dance club, alone, dressed like a cocktease, was going to get her raped. Slutty Vicky, though, wanted to push things a little further, because the manhandling she’d received, the dominant fucking she’d gotten, had made her cum very hard. Slutty Vicky liked the feeling of danger and uncertainty, not knowing how or when she might be molested or even violated. The danger was like an aphrodisiac, heightening her arousal, the fear both knotting her stomach and making her bare pussy wet.
Thumping bass and trashy rhymes reverberated off the walls of the crowded club as Vicky was let through the door. A large dancefloor, crowded with people grinding against each other, the strobes and lights playing over their writhing forms, took up the bulk of the first floor. Vicky stood in line for a cocktail, determined to go easy on the liquor tonight. The real Vicky wasn’t certain about this idea, because the real Vicky wanted there to be a reason, some external influence that she could blame for the things she was doing. The liquor was good for that. If she was drunk, it wasn’t completely her fault when she liked it.
Slutty Vicky, though, wanted to experiment, to see what it would feel like when she didn’t have the alcohol to blame. She wanted a clear head and a wet pussy guiding her actions. Her pussy became wetter, as she stood in the crowded line, whenever people passing by or mingling around her would cop a feel of the sides of her tits, or brush their fingers against her legs, some even bold enough to get a quick poke under her skirt.
This particular action kept the attention of a man who stood behind her, when he gave her pussy a little brush under her skirt, found it bare and wet, and then placed a hand on her hip.
“Why don’t you let me get that drink for you?” he said into her ear, nearly shouting over the loud music.
Vicky nodded, her hair brushing his nose as she leaned back against him. She ground her ass on his crotch and swayed with the music as they waited in line, allowing the stranger to rest his hands on her hips. The strange man bought drinks for the both of them, then took Vicky’s hand and led her across the room to a table, which was occupied by his friend. He slid into the booth, passed his friend a drink, and then pulled Vicky down onto his lap.
“Damn! You made a new friend,” his chum said, ogling Vicky’s enormous tits.