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The idea changed my whimper into a pitiful moan, and the moan became little noises I emitted with each breath as my master moved his cock up and down gently between my private lips, pushed it in a little and pulled it out again.
“You only have to say two words, Leah. I know you can do it.”
His patronizing tone brought a humiliating new wave of arousal. I thought I knew what words he meant, but my brain refused to function properly.
“Wh-what words?” I asked, my voice sounding small and pleading to my ears. I could hear the desperation, the yearning for pleasure. The thought that Christian must hear it too, and that he clearly had enough experience disciplining and enjoying wayward young women to know even better than I did what it meant, only redoubled the heat between my thighs.
“Yes,” he said softly, “andsir. So, Rebel… do you want me to sponsor you? Your apartment’s computer system is listening. It will take care of the rest.”
I looked at myself in the picture window, and I could see the lights of LA through the reflection, too. The lights meant that anyone could watch what my sponsor was doing to me: in fact they might already have watched him strip me and punish me. Soon they would watch him take my virginity.
Because he wanted it that way: he wanted as much of Los Angeles to know he kept a nineteen-year-old fuck toy as cared to possess the information. Like the Oscar statuette somewhere on a shelf, in his office probably, I represented a trophy—one that would hopefully provide him with even more pleasure than the statuette did.
The surge of degrading pride I felt at that idea took me by surprise. My mind tried to compensate, as if some part of me wanted to make it up to myself: really, said this second thought, to be a trophy girlfriend just meant that I would have a place in this glittering city—in Christian’s glamorous business.
Sure, that place had a level of shame attached to it, but they didn’t talk about the casting couch for no reason, did they? I didn’t think I could make it as an actress, nor did I even want to try, but I knew I could write, and Christian seemed to find me an engaging conversation partner as well as a responsive…
A responsive what? Lover…No: that word didn’t represent the function I would serve for Christian, if I uttered those fateful words.
Trophy.Yes.
Fuck toy.Lightning seemed to crawl across my skin.
Trainee. Fuck toy trainee… trophy kept bed girl.
Whore.
My whole body shuddered and I saw a crease that looked in the dark reflection like a chasm appear on my forehead.
“Yes, sir,” I whispered.
A sweet, disembodied feminine voice said from somewhere near the ceiling, “Sponsorship agreement recognized. Apartment control shared with…” A very slight pause indicated that perhaps a computer system somewhere had to wait a millisecond to access a file, and then the voice of Selecta continued, “Christian… Guzman… platinum level. Priority control assigned to sponsor.”
I had no idea how such a clinical declaration from a digital algorithm could harmonize, lewdly, with the pressure of a rigid cock against the sopping entrance to my vagina. I clenched nonetheless at the Selecta voice’s final sentence. Christian Guzman, whose name of course I instantly recognized from a zillion credit rolls at the beginning and end of movies and shows, had priority control: of my apartment… of my body… of my pussy and my bottom and my mouth… ofme.
“Apartment,” Christian said, “pay Leah’s allowance through an additional month, please.”
My breath surged in and out of my mouth. Gratitude filled my chest, but the dirtiest word for what I had just become rose urgently into my brain.
Whore.
My whole body shook. I felt Christian’s hand stroking me, soothing me, and then…
Pressing down to hold me in place. Between my thighs, the soft thing that had gone up and down, in and out, went in—only in, and much more firmly.
I let out a cry of fear and discomfort as my master’s hardness came up against the virgin barrier. I squirmed over the back of the couch, struggling against the pressing hand.
“Shh, Rebel,” he said, holding me in place. “It’s time.”
My next cry, as my back arched hard and my head jerked upward, came from pain. As I felt Christian thrust himself through my virginity and bury his hardness inside my vagina I had another bizarre moment of gratitude: I thanked my keeper, inwardly and above all secretly, for claiming me while I still had that final bit of resistance inside me.
More than any of my other wayward thoughts, that one made me think I had probably actually started to lose my mind. But it had risen to the surface of a consciousness that had traveled even farther out into the galaxy by then. I could tell that that dark craving, that insane yearning to have a man like Christian Guzman take me against my will—and to have him keep doing it until he had trained me as his perfect whore and submissive bed girl—existed in the no-place to which his dominance sent me.
The huge cock rushed into the sheath nature had made for it, until I felt the denim of Christian’s jeans come up against the thoroughly spanked cheeks of my ass. The heavy fabric that covered the muscular strength of his upper thighs pressed on my fingers. Only then did I become aware that despite my final small rebellion I had nevertheless continued to spread myself for my master’s use.
I whimpered: it started as a noise of pain and over-filling, of the terrible, utterly new discomfort of having a man inside me, stretching the most sensitive part of my body—as nature had intended, yes, fine, but also much too hard and much too fast for a young woman who had never been fucked before.
The whimper changed, though, even as it emerged from my mouth. Yes, no man had ever had his rigid penis inside my pussy—but hadn’t Christian made very clear to me that if any girl needed to have her virginity taken hard and fast and rough, I was that girl? I felt myself clench on his cock at the very thought, and then to my complicated surprise and delight he grunted, low in his chest. His hand atop my back convulsed just a little, the fingertips moving with a jerk across my skin.
