Nursing her hangover, Vicky felt like a disgusting whore. She’d invited a strange man into her bed, a man who had gone from gentleman to fuck happy abuser in a matter of minutes. And it was her fault. She’d encouraged it. She’d asked for it. The details were hazy, but the memory of the sensations, the orgasms, the painful slapping of her cunt and groping of her tits, she remembered.
Lying in bed, cradling a mug of broth, Vicky sniffled at her own shameful actions. Her phone had died, sometime during the night. Now, it was charging. She sipped the broth, her blinds pulled shut against the invading sunlight, and tried not to think about what she’d done.
She napped, fitfully through the day, but she couldn’t not think about it. She couldn’t not think about the fact that she was going to do it again, tonight, because there was too much at stake. Some time in the early afternoon, after a good shower and some food, her headache receded. She hydrated, rested, napped, then ate again.
Periodically, her eyes would fall on the phone. It sat on the bedside table, taunting her, daring her to look at the video, to replay the events and confirm that, yes, she had been a slut. It wasn’t until late in the afternoon that a perverse curiosity made her pick it up.
Looking around the room, as though she might be caught, she unlocked the phone and went to the video. She played it. The angle showed the bed, but at the start of the video, they had not been on the bed. The sounds of her own moaning, the smacking of her lips against Luke’s, the occasional glimpse of and arm, were all that she could see. She heard a squeal of pained pleasure from herself, followed by another.
After some minutes of these sounds, Vicky saw herself falling backwards onto the bed, her large udders wobbling sluttily as she groped them and moaned. Luke was out of the shot, licking her cunt, but then she watched herself say, “Not like that. Harder. You can… you can spank it. My cunt.”
The sound of Luke’s hand striking her wet cunt sent a shiver of perverted pleasure through her body and she felt her pussy getting warm at the memory, the image of herself enjoying that slap. The next one came, then the next. Vicky took one hand off of the phone and touched her pussy. It was wet.
Was this who she really was? Was she the kind of slut that brought home drunk men and told them to slap her cunt? She must be, because the proof was right here. She saw herself orgasm from having her cunt slapped by a stranger. Then, she watched that stranger push his cock into her and she began to masturbate. The half-lidded, open-mouthed look of pure bliss on her own face, the way Luke held onto her tits as he used her like a wet hole for his pleasure, the way she squealed and purred as she was ravished, had Vicky’s pussy clenching around her fingers each time she pushed them into it.
She orgasmed when Luke mounted her chest and squeezed her tits together, pushing his cock into the valley of her chest, his hard shaft vanishing between the lewd mountains of titflesh, while his fingers squeezed her nipples. The Vicky on the screen yelped loudly at the rough treatment and, when Luke told her to, “Shut the fuck up, slut,” and slapped her across the face, Vicky came again, sniffling in humiliated confusion.
Vicky watched the entire, degrading video, which lasted for nearly two hours. She did it to punish herself, she thought, to remind herself that it was not who she was, that it was not really what she wanted. She was like an actress, throwing herself into the role for the benefit of her evil benefactor, doing it for his approval, so that she’d be named heir to his massive fortune. She would use that fortune for good, she thought, so that other women would never have to experience the pain of having their tits slapped and pulled on. She’d do it so that they’d be able to live in a world where unkind men, like her father, like Luke, wouldn’t view them as fuck dolls that were only useful as vessels for their semen. She’d do it, she decided, after she watched the part where she’d struggled, Luke’s cock blocking her airway as she came, just one more time.
***
Vicky did not want to develop some sort of reputation as a neighborhood slut, and so she drove, tonight, to another bar she’d found online, one that catered to a more blue-collar crowd. It wasn’t that she wanted to find a man that was a little rougher than Luke, she thought. Luke had been very rough with her, after all, and Vicky hadn’t liked it at all. The Vicky in the video had been a drunken slut, uninhibited and powerless, deprived of rationality because of the alcohol.
The real Vicky, the one that was posing as a slut in order to win this game with her patriarchal nemesis, did not want to be roughly treated like a sex toy by unkind men. That Vicky was sober, going into this place in order to find the kind of man she knew would be easy, the kind that would know how to be a little rough with her, in order to make another video of the kind her father would approve of. It was disgusting and it was twisted, but she would come out of this thing a hero, having suffered at the hands of degenerates, just like her idols, in order to give other women a brighter future. It was not because she liked it, and it was not because her bare, pantiless pussy was wet.
From the moment she entered, Vicky knew that it was a mistake to stay. The place was crowded with tradesmen, rather than the white collar office workers at Ace’s. These men worked construction or skilled labor, as evidenced by their faded and dirty jeans, grimy shirts, the evidence of a hard day’s work in the sun apparent. Here and there sat a few women, none of which Vicky would have considered associating with in the course of normal life. This wasn’t normal life, though.
Conversations died away and drinks, half lifted toward mouths, paused in their course as the rowdy patrons quieted. Vicky was not the kind of girl that came through these doors, unless she was selling pussy, and she could immediately see the men mentally checking their bank accounts, wondering if they had enough for an hour between her giant jugs and supple thighs. She blushed as the eyes looked her over, devoured her, and her nerve faltered. She took a step back toward the door.
One man, bolder than the rest, quickly made his way to her. He was, like most of them, gruff, muscular, his tanned skin flecked with bits of dirt. He wore faded jeans and heavy boots, his cut-off brown tee, similarly, streaked with dirt. Clearly he was a man who’d come in for a good drink, straight off the worksite. He touched her arm, gently.
“You lost, honey?” he asked.
“What? No. I just… came in for a drink,” Vicky said.
“Come and have a seat,” he suggested, “We’ll take care of that for you. Pretty girl like you shouldn’t be alone in this kinda place.”
Vicky allowed the man to lead her to a nearby table, where he pulled out a chair across from his companion, another man in similar attire, who held a glass mug of beer. Two shot glasses, filled with something brown, sat in front of him. While many eyes remained trained on her, now that someone had laid claim to the slutty eye candy, conversations began to resume.
“I’m Ron. This here’s Bill,” the man said, and waved a hand toward his companion.
“Like the shirt,” Bill said, quaffing his beer.
Ron took one of the shot glasses from Bill and slid it across the table to Vicky.