A Good Head For Business
Part I
F/f, f-self, slavery, nc, bondage, blackmail, lingerie, teen
Please don't hurt me, Master.
Look at me. I'm tied up and helpless. I'm at your mercy. You can do anything to
me. You can rape me, abuse me, make me do anything.
Please don't hurt me.
Please don't rape me.
I'll do anything you want...
---------
Kim stopped the tape, struggling for inspiration. As much as she tried to think
of something appropriate to say, she just couldn't. She'd had trouble before,
but this seemed harder than normal. She was already past her normal seven day
deadline for replying to a letter.
It was just so... crude. Unimaginative. Normally her clients tried to dress
everything up, make it more romantic, or interesting. They put in fantasy or
historical themes. They took on a persona she could respond to. There was...
something.
But not this.
Sighing, she picked up the letter again. The handwriting was appalling, the
spelling dreadful and...
lissen bitch you are mine now I took you off the street with a nife and tied you
up in my sellar I am goin to fuck you hard until you scream for mercy
tell me y I shuld not rape you slut hor lke you disserve I no you will skreem
like a bitch wen I stick my cok in your tight rse
rite back soon or I will rilly fuck you hard
Normally she wouldn't have even bothered. It wasn't as it she was choosy with
the clients, but she did have limits. But this one had sent in the fee with the
first letter, and so she felt she had to reply.
It had seemed such a good idea to start with. A cash-strapped student with
neither the time nor the inclination to find a part-time job to fund herself.
She had been staring between the two options of failing her course or living on
beans on toast, until an ex-boyfriend unwittingly helped her out.
He had left behind some of his porno magazines after they had split up.
Actually, that was largely why they had split up. It wasn't that Kim disliked
sex, but she drew the line at some of the disgusting things he kept wanting her
to do. When she protested, he kept showing her the magazines and claiming that
anal sex and bondage and play-rape was normal and she was a frigid bitch for
refusing him.
He must have left some of them behind after she had thrown him out. She had been
on the verge of binning them when she noticed some of the adverts at the back.
Mostly phonelines or escort services (no doubt fake) but there was one thing.
Writers wanted for fantasies. This is not a vanity publisher.
Kim was sceptical, but what the Hell? Worth a try, even if it was fake, and by
that time she was running very low on income. She was doing English Language and
fancied herself quite the writer. She'd heard about all these great writers
getting their first stories published in porno mags.
It turned out not to be what she expected. It wasn't from magazine publishers
wanting stories, rather it was from a mail order service. Some bright spark had
taken a idea from phonelines and adaped it to letters.
The theory went that men would write to her with detals of their fantasies, and
Kim would write back pretending to be whatever they wanted her to be. Innocent
schoolgirl abducted and about to be raped. Dominatrix and sadist. Slutty
teacher. Anything.
At first, Kim wanted to refuse, but then she got a very depressing bank
statement through and decided to give it a try. She wrote a sample letter to the
company, pretending to be a kidnapped schoolgirl.
They liked it so much they offered her a job. Kim saw the paycheque and her eyes
boggled. She accepted instantly. That had been almost a year ago, and her
financial problems were long gone. Indeed, she had earned so much, she had been
able to branch out a little upon finishing her course (a 2.2 in the end.)
She had always had a keen mind, and thought about other ideas. Why not photos to
go with the letters? Why not tape recordings? Props?
Why not go into business for herself?
She, in order, paid off her overdraft, bought a computer with digital camera and
very sophisticated photoshop programme, bought several fancy dress costumes, and
started her own company. She even had to fill in her own tax forms and
everything.
She was making money, had several regular clients who wrote to her with
progressive, ongoing fantasies she could help them fulfil. And just as
important, she was writing.
Admittedly, this wasn't the sort of thing she had wanted to write. Her plans had
been for the great feminist novel, but she realised early on that there was no
point writing anything if no one read it. Her novel had gone through so many
stops and starts that all it remained was an idea. At least this way people were
reading her ideas, and, by the responses she got, liking them.
Since she had started doing this, she hadn't written a word of her novel. She
planned to, she set aside time to, but all her ideas had just gone...
Eventually, she had come to a decision. She would continue this until she had
enough money in the bank. Then she would stop, and do nothing but write her
novel for a whole year. She would be able to look back on this later with a
smile. If nothing else, it had given her experience in writing for different
female roles.
Sometimes, though, ideas just didn't come for her.
Sighing, she decided to try something else. She promised her customers photos,
which is what marked her out as different from her (admittedly, few)
competitors. She might be worried about pictures of her in sexually revealing
positions getting around, but she managed to photoshop them all so that her face
was different.
This writer hadn't specified what he wanted her to be, so she decided on a
schoolgirl. At twenty, Kim was (just) young enough to pass for a genuine
schoolgirl with the right clothing and editing. She liked dressing up in the
schoolgirl outfit.
Stripping naked, she looked at herself in the mirror. She had definitely changed
in the year she had been doing this, she knew. There was something about her,
some air of confidence and sexuality. She had not been in a relationship at all
in that time, not since she had dumped her boyfriend, but she had certainly
developed her sexual boundaries. All the things her boyfriend had insisted she
do, that she had once found revolting, she was now incredibly excited by.
It was funny the way things worked out.
No underwear, she knew that. Instead, she pulled on the high white socks that
went up to her knee. A short, pleated grey skirt that came down to her
mid-thigh. Not as obscenely short as some she had, but just short enough to
reveal hints when she was lying down. A girlish white blouse she left
deliberately half-open, revealing pale and delightful cleavage. She bound her
long brown hair into two pigtails, tying them off with a pink ribbon. No
make-up, but she practiced her most innocent, terrified expressions in the
mirror. They were second nature to her by now.
She would be lying on the bed for now, editing out any of the background of her
room. Setting up the digital camera didn't take long. She was old hat at using
it by now.
Next came the instruments of her bondage. She laid out on the bed and pair of
handcuffs, a belt and some plain white panties.
First, the gag. She stuffed the panties into her mouth, making absolutely sure
she could breathe through her nose. She had almost accidentally asphyxiated
herself one time. Then, the belt wrapped around her face, holding the panties
into her mouth.
She had other, more sophisticated gags, but sometimes simplicity worked best.
This customer certainly sounded simple.
Then, her hands. Placing the keys to the handcuffs beside the camera, she
arranged her hands behind her back, and clicked them shut. The clicking sound
was at once both definitely final and indescribably sexy.
You are a schoolgirl, she told herself. Someone has kidnapped you. It is dark.
He is out there somewhere, and he could come and get you at any time.
He is going to rape you.
She lay down on the bed, waiting for the ten minute countdown to run out and the
camera to begin.
You are going to be raped.
Her heart was pounding. He was out there somewhere. He would come for her and
rape her. She was sixteen. A virgin. Untouched.
She was going to be raped.
Even though the room was well-lit, there were plenty of her possessions around,
everything was familiar and safe, a terrible feeling of dread came over her. She
was convinced that there was a man here, that he would rape her, that she was
helpless and a prisoner and...
The first photo was taken, a light from the camera alerting her to it.
She began to writhe about, staring at the camera with wide and terrified eyes.
She stretched out her smooth legs, parting them subtly. She arched her back. She
leaned forward, almost falling out of her blouse. She forced herself against the
wall.
You are going to be raped.
Fear began to run through her, her heart pounding. He was going to come for her
and he would rape her and there was nothing she could do to stop him. He would
hurt her and make her scream and...
The skirt rose up her legs as she parted them wider. Her arse would be clearly
visible.
He would hurt her...
Please don't hurt me!
He would force her legs apart, rising above her...
She shook in terror that was only part-pretend. One pale, round breast fell free
of the blouse.
He would rape her...
The camera took the final picture, and the light died. Kim sank back wearily to
the bed, trying to calm the pounding of her heart.
The fear was not unusual. She often felt like this. This one was a little
cruder, more visceral, more frightening, but the general feeling was the same.
Between her legs, a dampness was beginning to form.
She knew she should lie there, calming herself, letting her heartbeat return to
normal, draw herself away from the fantasy she had crafted, but she still had
the tape to complete. Rising from the bed, she walked awkwardly to the table,
picking up the key to her handcuffs with practiced skill. She only bothered
undoing one manacle, liking the feel of the other around her wrist. She pulled
out her gag, leaving the belt draped around her neck.
Then she picked up the tape recorder. She did not need to rehearse. She never
did when she was feeling like this. She had heard of writers who sometimes were
taken over by the story. They simply wrote, page after page, without a thought,
without a moment to stop and think about the plot. Everything just poured forth
naturally. She had never felt that before, and had thought it impossible.
It came every time she did this now.
She put on her best little girl voice, and began recording.
"Please don't hurt me, Master. Please..."
A few sobs.
"I'll do anything you want. My parents will pay anything. Just don't hurt me.
"I'm only sixteen. I've never even been kissed.
"Please don't hurt me, Master..."
More sobs.
Between her legs, the dampness was spreading.
"I won't tell anyone who you are. I won't tell anyone anything. You can believe
me, Master. I won't tell.
"Please don't hurt me...
"Please..."
That continued on and on, for almost half an hour. As she spoke, the fear was
growing again, and she genuinely began to believe she was trapped in a cellar at
the mercy of a kidnapper and a rapist, precisely as she had when the photos were
being taken.
She even came up with a history for herself. Her name was Genevieve Crichton,
sixteen, daughter to a rich media mogul. She had been spoiled and brattish, but
sensitive beneath it all, and very lonely. Now she was scared out of her mind,
afraid that this was revenge for her behaviour.
Finally, she ended with an anguished scream that was not remotely fake. She lay
on the bed, panting and sobbing, and allowed herself slowly to rise out of the
fantasy. She was falling deeper and deeper into them these days. Early on it had
just been a joke, an easy way to make money, and then it had just been a chance
to write and explore different types of characters.
Now, it was as if she was becoming those characters, reliving their ordeals with
a vividness and empathy she had never experienced with her serious creations.
It was probably best she was stopping soon. She almost had enough money to give
this a rest. Just a little bit more, and she would be able to stop and be
herself once more.
To be herself...
There was still more work to do on this one, but she put it off. She showered
herself clean, changed back into mundane clothing, read yesterday's newspaper,
spent an hour and a half flicking between various music channels, and went to
the cinema to watch a fluffy and unfunny romantic comedy.
Only then, did she turn to editing the pictures she had taken.
Most of them were fine. She looked the part, especially the terrified look in
her eyes. Imposing the pictures of her onto a dark cellar background was easy
enough. Changing her features to make her look younger and less like herself was
also straightforward. Out of the thirty pictures she had taken, twenty-one were
suitable for sending.
She would post ten, along with the tape, and the sodden panties she had used as
a gag. That would meet the forty-five pounds her client had already sent. She
would wait to see how he replied before deciding where to go next. She hoped he
wouldn't - many of them didn't. This one was just too creepy, too crude or her.
She preferred those with a little more imagination.
Putting the tape, photos and panties into a plain brown envelope, she carefully
wrote the address of the customer and the PO Box she used as a return address,
and arranged for it to be posted.
Another satisfied customer.
Only then did she use her vibrator to bring herself to the orgasm she had been
holding in since she had begun taking the photos. Doing it now was just normal
masturbation.
Doing it then would have been creepy.
----------
Two weeks later, she received a phone call to her private mobile, the one only
her few friends knew the answer to, the one she had bought to communicate with
her former employers but hardly used.
The incoming call had no number.
"Hello?"
"Hello. Is this Kimberley Bradley?"
"Yes. Who is this?"
Click.
----------
A week after that, she had a visitor.
"Miss Bradley?" asked the woman. Kim looked at her. She was tall, perhaps
thirty-ish, with long dark hair and plumply pretty features in a false smile.
"May I come in?"
"And you are?" Kim had never seen her before.
"How rude of me," the woman said, in a tone so falsely polite it went out the
other side of etiquette and into rudeness. "I'm sorry. My name is Alice Evans.
I'm from the Inland Revenue. I did write to tell you I would be coming."
Kim hadn't seen anything, but it was possible. The postmen seemed to miss her
out quite often. She hadn't had a bank statement in months. If it wasn't for the
fact that her business mail went through a PO Box, she might be very unhappy
with them.
"Of course," she said. "Come in."
She admitted Alice ("Ms. Evans.") into her living room and offered her a coffee.
By the time she returned with the drinks, the tax officer had removed her long
coat to reveal a very low-cut black top and a very fine pair of C-cup breasts.
"I'll get right to the point, Kimberley." Kim hated being called her full name.
"You must have thought your little scam would go unnoticed, but you're wrong."
"I'm sorry?"
"This little mail order business of yours. Your tax declaration was grossly low.
You've been evading your full payments."
"What?" That couldn't be right! Could it? Kim tried to think over the
self-assessment form she had sent in. It had been the first time she had had to
do one. It had been fairly complicated. She'd got some help, but still...
"Have you been readng the papers lately, Kimberley? The Chancellor has recently
announced a crackdown on sole traders who try and avoid paying all their taxes."
"There must be a mistake," Kim said, but there was something nagging at the back
of her mind. "I've got a copy of my records here..." Her heart was pounding, in
a scary way, not unlike the fear she induced in herself when she was
play-acting.
She'd done one recently where she was in jail, being made the bitch of a lesbian
murdereress. She had been able to hear the bars clanging shut.
They didn't send people to jail for getting their tax forms wrong, did they? Not
by accident? Then again, she had heard something in the paper. Clamping down on
tax fraud.
This wasn't fraud, though. It was just a mistake...
"There's no mistake, Kimberley," Ms. Evans said. "We do not make mistakes. You
are looking at a very large fine, all the taxes owed, plus punitive interest."
She took a sip of her coffee. "Plus at least three years in jail."
Kim's mouth went dry. "What?" she breathed. "But that's..."
"There might..." another sip... "be an alternative."
Kim didn't say a word.
"You are a very attractive girl, Kimberley. Has anyone ever told you that?"
Well, one or two people... "I am sure you will be... appreciated in prison. What
with over-crowding and all that, it's quite hard to separate white collar
fraudsters from more violent female offenders." Another sip. "Of course, a
criminal is a criminal, right? They don't deserve preferential treatment."
Kim was still silent.
"Take off your clothes."
Silence.
"Did you not hear me, Kimberley? You are looking at years in jail, not to
mention a very large bill for unpaid taxes. If you want to avoid that, you will
do what I say. Now, take off your clothes."
Kim broke her silence.
By laughing.
Not a disbelieving, manic laugh, like that of a desperate person finally allowed
a lifeline. Not a relieved laugh.
No, it was the laugh of someone who has finally gotten the joke.
"You think this is funny, Kimberley?"
Kim didn't tend to laugh much. "Yes," she said. "Yes, actually."
"You find tax evasion amusing?"
"No..." With a great effort of will, she brought herself under control. "I
didn't evade any tax. I even took the form to an accountant. I paid every penny.
You're not from the Inland Revenue. You didn't write to me. What is this, some
sort of cheap blackmail stunt?"
"You..." She looked like she had trouble maintaining her own composure. The look
on her face was almost enough to get Kim laughing again. "You pretend to be a...
to be a slave..."
"What does that matter? Sure, I'm not ashamed of what I do. I've role-played a
few blackmail / slavery matters, and believe me, they're more realistic than
that was."
"You..." She was almost apoplectic. The expression on her face... "But you're
a... a whore..."
"No," Kim said, deathly serious. "I'm not. I create fantasies, that's all. I'm
no different than being an actor or a writer. In fact, that's exactly what I am.
I don't sleep around for money, and if that's what you wanted, you're mistaken.
Now, finish your drink, and get out of here."
"Listen to me, Kimberley." Alice was breathing hard, in and out. "I came here to
talk to you. I've been trying to find you for months. I've been writing to you
for ages. I was the teacher who enslaved you, the male kidnapper, that was me.
The... the vampire mistress... I did work at the Inland Revenue, in admin. I've
been trying to track you down. I found your phone number and...
"I've got a business proposal for you, Kimberley..."
"I'm not interested, and stop fucking calling me Kimberley! Now, get out, or do
I have to call the police?"
Her eyes dark, Alice finished her drink, and set the cup aside. "I don't
appreciate being interrupted," she said, coldly.
"I don't like being blackmailed, especially when it's done that ineptly."
She left. Kim made very sure the door was bolted and chained before she went
upstairs.
She had done a blackmail fantasy recently. A woman enslaved by a tax officer who
threatened to send her to jail otherwise. She really should have remembered that
earlier, but for a moment there, she had actually believed...
Well, she had heard writers acquired strange fans. She supposed she should be
flattered. Besides, from what Alice had said, Kim had gotten enough money from
her.
At her computer, she brought up the images of the blackmail fantasy. She had
been a young businesswoman, threatened between going to jail for tax evasion.
Her blackmailer had told her to strip naked.
She had been dressed very conservatively at first, in a plain business suit.
Beneath it, though, had been racy lingerie. She had slowly and awkwardly removed
the top layer of her clothing, dropping it, and standing there in her lingerie,
before she started to take it off...
That had made her hot. She had really been able to feel her blackmailer standing
over her, watching. In her eyes, the woman had not looked anything like Alice,
but she supposed that was what fantasies were for. Now that she thought about
it, she could easily see Alice Evans in that role. Even if her actual attempt at
doing it had been laughably inept.
Kim supposed Alice might continue to write to her, keep on using her services.
She thought about it, and then shrugged. What of it? It was almost nice to have
such a fan.
Besides she would be done soon. Not too much longer and she could quit this
business and get to work on her novel.
She looked at the picture on screen. It was the unedited version. She was just
unclipping her red bra, revealing almost all of her breasts. She was looking
down, biting her lower lip, an expression of remorse and shame and fear on her
face, mingling with a very slight delight that someone was finding her
attractive. She couldn't have faked that expression. She had hardly needed to
edit those pictures.
She would be finished soon.
She wouldn't miss this at all.
She could be done with it soon.
Soon.
----------
For the next few weeks, she was very careful about her security, making sure all
her doors and windows were locked, leaving her lights on if she was out late at
night.
Nothing suspicious happened. She continued working.
She pretended to be a lap dancer turned prostitute; a sunbathing college student
taught some manners by an older woman; a helplessly brainwashed rich girl; a
powerful dominatrix; a long-term maid / slave; and a young Goth girl abducted
from a nightclub and threatened with lesbian rape.
She wasn't sure if any of them were from Alice, but it was the last one that
turned her on the most.
----------
That was the one she was doing that night. There had been a reply to her first
letter, which was always nice. A lot of them only wanted the first report, and
Kim enjoyed a recurring story.
She was sixteen, and had snuck into a local Goth nightclub using a fake ID. A
few drinks and a few dances later, and she had been spotted. She had been
detained by one of the bouncers there and taken upstairs, where she had been
'arrested' by a fake policewoman and taken away to her house.
Kim supposed there was a conspiracy between the bouncers and the police officer,
perhaps operating a slave ring, abducting a few young girls from the club. Maybe
the club had a reputation for admitting underage girls, and so no one would know
they had gone. She hadn't gone into detail on this - the details of the capture
were for the customers to create, not her - but the idea had excited her.
It was nice to act so young and naive. The dawning of her realisation that she
was in for more than a simple telling off from her parents had been a thrilling
moment for her to role play.
The second letter had arrived, depicting how the young Kim would be bound and
secured, locked in an attic, gagged and drugged. Her captor would be returning
soon, threatening her with all sorts of hideous fates.
Kim had a large number of stored images for attics and cellars - they were quite
common fantasies. She tried to personalise them as much as possible. In her own
mind, she had already visualised this one.
Dark, but not too untidy. Used regularly, to hold other abducted girls. There
would be remnants of them scattered around. Not too many, but some. A pair of
panties in a corner, ripped from her in an act of rape. A small blood stain on
the carpet. Tear stains on the mattress.
And Kim was a prisoner there. Sixteen years old. A young girl who had foolishly
tried to sneak into a nightclub, and was about to be punished.
She was dressed. She had Goth clothing. It was not an especially popular
fantasy, but there were some who liked it. A short black skirt. Knee-high boots
with high sharp stiletto heels. A tight black corset pushing up her breasts,
revealing deep cleavage. An Ankh necklace. A spiked collar.
Her hands were cuffed behind her, and her mouth was secured by thick, duct tape.
She did not like using that, but her customer had specified it, and she did not
like faking anything she could do properly.
The tape recorder was nearby, ready for her inspired plea for mercy after she
had finished the pictures.
The camera was ready, ticking down the timer to the first picture.
There it was, of her lying on her side, facing her abductor, her legs spread
wide.
As it always did, her persona took over from that point, as she writhed and
shook and trembled her way through an ordeal. She imagined a whip striking her
bare legs, jerking her around in pain. She imagined long-nailed fingers
caressing her face and she flinched in revulsion. She imagined her legs being
forced apart, and a hoarse scream filled her throat, swallowed by her gag.
She imagined a woman standing above her prone body, and she wept with fear.
She thought she was imagining the hand in her hair at first, until it gripped
and pulled tightly, wrenching her head back. Another hand pulled up the hem of
her skirt, revealing her pale buttocks.
She was still the sixteen-year old Goth girl, about to be raped. The thought
processes of the twenty-year old businesswoman and writer were still submerged,
but eventually they realised that she was about to be raped as well.
Something was dropped down onto the bed beside her face. It was her tape
recorder, and it was switched on.
The tape across her mouth was roughly ripped away, and she cried out with the
sudden pain tearing across her mouth.
Then, something long and hard and cold was thrust into her pussy, and her cry
became a scream. It was big, and it tore at her, forcing her lips apart. She was
damp, lost in the eroticism of the fantasy, but this was no fantasy.
Unless she was imagining this as well. Unless she had become so involved in the
scenario that she had begun to lose her mind and this sensation was nothing more
than an elaborate daydream.
There was another thrust, and another scream, and she knew, on whatever
conscious level that was capable of thought, that this was real. It had to be.
It hurt too much to be her imagination.
She was moaning, and crying, and screaming, and calling out for mercy.
"No... Mistress! Please! I'm sorry! I didn't... I... mean to... Oh no! Please!
I'm a... I'm a virgin... Please... Who are you...? No! Stop it!"
Kimberley Bradley the twenty year old businesswoman and erotic writer...
Kimberley Bradley the sixteen year old Goth girl and prisoner...
The two existed simultaneously in her mind, and in her words. She said some
things that were entirely hers, and others that was the other hers...
"Stop!" she cried. "Who are...?"
And:
"Mistress, please!"
This had to be a woman. The item penetrating her was obviously a dildo. The hand
that stroked back Kim's hair was clearly female. The voice that whispered
seductive empty words in her ear was a woman's.
Kim - neither Kim - knew nothing more.
"No!"
That was both of them.
"No! No! Nonononononono!"
"Yes," whispered her rapist, the first words that Kim actually heard.
"Stop!"
"Mistress!"
Her screams became moans, and her moans became pants. Kim the woman knew what
was happening and she tried to fight it, tried to struggle even more, tried to
protest and fight off the woman. Kim the girl did not know, and it was as
exciting and as thrilling as it was painful and terrifying.
"No!" Kim the woman said, but it was weak, and only barely audible. She wondered
absurdly if the tape would have caught that.
Then she came, and both woman and girl cried out. They said different things,
but the meaning was the same.
Both of them had been raped.
Her body was still slackening, the tension in her muscles fading, the desire in
her heart disappearing and the fear returning, when her rapist pushed her head,
not ungently, down to the bed.
"Did you enjoy that, my sweet?" purred the silken voice of her violator.
"Yes, Mistress," replied one of them, but Kim did not know which.
Kim did not resist - did not have the energy to resist - as her ankles were
pulled together and bound with the duct tape she had left out on the table. Her
mouth was taped over again. A hood, one of her hoods, one she had discarded on
the chair after using it yesterday, was then pulled over her head, and she was
left there, alone in darkness, her body shaking with the aftereffects of her
rape and orgasm.
She simply lay there, trying to re-order the focus of her mind. She was trying
to re-assert control now. She understood what had happened, that this was not
just some fantasy, that she really had been attacked and raped, and was now
helpless, that her attacker could do so again, or worse. She had to hold down
her fear and come up with some plan. This was her house, she knew this place.
She could try to escape.
But on the other hand, the Goth girl was still there. Kim's personae had often
remained strong in her mind. There was a ritual to re-orient herself, to remove
whichever identity she had assumed for the time, and bring back herself. Shower,
food, a walk. She could do none of those things, and so the teenage abductee was
still inside her, holding back her attempt to plan.
The war in her own mind was still continuing when her hood was removed, and then
her gag.
"Sorry about the delay," said a voice, one she now recognised, and was not
surprised by.
Alice Evans rolled Kim over, and sat down just before the table. She was still
wearing the strap-on dildo she had fucked Kim with, and she was stroking it
appreciatively.
"I have a business proposition to put to you."
To Be Continued...
