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![]() .:: Daddy Stories » BDSM Stories » Prize winner suffers
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Prize winner suffers
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Congratulations! The letter began. It then went on to tell them they had won just over £12,000, no strings attached, no time-share sales to endure. However, they would be expected to go along to a certain hotel/restaurant complex for the publicity photos and presentation of the cheque.
So they walked across the car park toward the hotel door, arms around each other like young lovers. Lovers they were, young they were not. She was 40, her husband 7 years younger. That seven years was important and she had always felt it deeply so she had looked after herself, eating a healthy diet, exercising regularly; walking, cycling and aerobics at the local gym, and finally, colouring her hair when the first strands of grey had begun to show through.
It had paid off. Her figure, although not quite hour-glass was trim, her small breasts firm and her waist curving in above the swell of her hips and bottom. He belly was slightly rounded after two pregnancies but it was counterbalanced by the firm rounded buttocks that topped her slender legs. Her body was a combination of soft flesh and firm muscle that had kept her husband’s attention so that, even after eight years of marriage she did not worry about him looking for a younger lover. She wore a close fitting top, accentuating her breasts and an ankle length, loose fitting cotton skirt that hung close over her bottom.
As they left the car she had felt her husband’s eyes resting on her, inspecting her, caressing her and she experienced that first shiver of arousal that added delightfully to the expectation of the prize they had won. His fingertips had brushed across her buttocks when he put his arm around her, adding to her excitement and she had responded, pressing in to his side, nestling under his arm where she had always fit perfectly.
He held the door open for her and they crossed to the desk, explained their business and were directed toward a door on the left of the lobby. It was opened for them and when they had given their names, they were led along a carpeted corridor to a small area with tables and seating which branched off from the hallway. There was no-one else sitting there but they were ushered to seats and ordered drinks.
Something odd was going on. They sat, sipping their drinks and watched as, now and then uniformed waiters passed in the hallway, walking closely with a variety of men, some around their age, most younger. In a way that wasn’t odd but the way the men walked was. It was although the waiters were leading or even forcing the men to walk with them. Suddenly a door opposite them opened, some kind of service door, and a man stood there. He was tall with reddish hair and beard and in his hand he held a dagger, a sharp double-edged knife! He strode toward them and they noticed the look on his face, a demonic, savage look. His lips curled back in a smile that was more a grimace as he moved around the table toward the husband.
Her husband was on his feet in a moment, his dinner knife gripped in his hand, ready to defend them. She cried out, fearful, and in that instant the dagger flashed down. In the moment of silence that followed she heard the clatter as the dinner knife fell from her husband’s grasp and clattered on the arm of the chair. She saw the blood beginning to flow from the gash on her husband’s hand and she got up to go to his aid. The man moved quickly, pulling the husband toward him, the dagger up against his throat. “Sit down lady, and don’t move from that chair”, he commanded, then, knife at the ready he led her husband away, drops of blood falling silently to the carpet.
A few moments passed while her heart hammered and her breathing gradually slowed. What could she do? She was a brave woman but there was nothing her against which to direct her bravery. Then a waiter appeared and spoke to her, “Come with me, your husband needs you”.
She got up and went with the man, stepping quickly in her high heels along the carpeted corridor. What had they done to him? Had he tried to fight and been hurt worse? The thoughts rushed through her head as she followed the waiter through a set of fire doors. There they stopped, he because he waiter for her, she because her gaze was caught by the body of a man lying, sprawled half on his back against the wall. The man lay, peaceful, eyes and mouth open, unmoving, the front of his shirt soaked with blood. She realised he was dead.
The waiter stepped closer to her and spoke quietly, urgently in her ear. “Through that door some men are waiting for you,” he gestured toward another set of fire doors a few metres ahead. “If you want to see your husband alive and well you must do whatever they want you to do.”
You must do whatever they want you to do – men waiting for her? The words spun in her head setting her heart pounding. Her husband had been kidnapped, injured, and she would have to do something if she wanted to get him back! She wanted to ask questions, seek some comfort, but the waiter was already walking ahead of her toward the second set of doors.
The doors opened and they entered another seating area. Directly ahead was a bar along which men were standing. Every one of them turned to look at her, eyes roving over her, examining her. She shuddered as unpleasant thoughts crossed her mind. One man looked at his companions, said something she could not hear, then started across the carpet toward her, a cigarette smoking between his fingers.
She went with him – along a long hallway, silent, deserted. He said nothing. She wanted to scream, to cry out for help but the thought of her husband drove her on. She loved him, she must save him, whatever the cost. They stopped outside a hotel room door which the man opened with a key from his pocket, ushering her ahead of him, past the en-suite bathroom, into the room proper. There was a dresser, a desk and a double bed with a bed-spread covering it. The man walked past her and stubbed out his cigarette in an ashtray on the desk.
She needed to pee. In her nervous state the drinks they’d had earlier had worked through her. The man directed her to the bathroom and sat down to wait for her. In the bathroom she urinated then stopped to think. She could get out of there, run down the corridor, escape from this man. They had passed a fire exit on the way along the corridor. But what drove her back through that door was her love for her husband.
“Get undressed! Take off your skirt and your top.”
She stood there, irresolute for a moment, her subconscious screaming a warning while another voice inside argued that surely such a thing could not be happening to her. He kept looking at her, waiting for her to obey and the seconds ticked by as they stood there, waiting for the future to begin.
In the end, she broke. “Do whatever these men want”, she had been told and the thought of her husband, captive, wounded, made up her mind. She reached down to the waistband of her skirt and eased it down over her hips, letting it drop to the floor, stepping out of it, suddenly feeling dreadfully naked and vulnerable. She straightened up, met his eyes for a second, and knew she had to do more. Now she grasped the hem of her top and eased it up, over her breasts, up around her head, then she was easing her arms out of the sleeves and shaking the hair out of her eyes.
She stood there in the strange room, in front of this complete stranger, wearing only a black bra and the tiniest slip of black thong, not because she wanted to but because she had no choice. She kept her head down, unable to look up and meet his eyes but still she could feel his eyes on her body, examining her, resting on her breasts, travelling over her legs, focusing on her groin. Suddenly she was absurdly grateful that her bikini line was well trimmed and her legs smooth and hair free.
In fact, it had only been the night before that her husband had taken care of her, ‘grooming her’ as they jokingly called it. Early on in their relationship her husband had suggested she should keep her pubic hair trimmed rather more than she had up until then and, one thing had led to another until he was now in charge of keeping her bikini line in order. In fact, when he had suggested that the quick, convenient electric lady shaver she used left her legs too rough, he had also been made responsible for depilating her legs as well. The whole procedure had become something they looked forward to, an act of love. She, naked on the bed, passive in the presence of the man she most loved and respected, while he worked on her with cream and cloth, leaving her legs smooth and soft before turning his attention to her more private parts, working with care and attention to remove every trace of hair from her body except for a well trimmed, narrow fringe along the lips of her vagina.
After a trim to the bathroom to wash away all traces of the cream she had returned to the bedroom feeling, as always, slightly exposed and embarrassed without even her natural hair to cover her most intimate parts. Despite the years of marriage, she still felt uneasy about her sex, preferring to keep her legs together during foreplay to avoid her man seeing a part of her she could never be proud of. She had opened the bedroom door to find that the lights had been dimmed and the next part of the ritual was about to begin. On the pretence that her newly depilated skin might become sore, her husband had massaged her with moisturising cream, starting with her legs then moving to her upper body before the last stage of the ritual was enacted.
Last night, as always, her husband, her lover, had massaged copious quantities of cream into her genitals before gently penetrating her. As the love making progressed he broke off frequently to rub yet more cream into her, stimulating her to orgasm over and over before finally climaxing himself. Afterward they had laid together, his body over hers, and whispered their love to each other. And now she stood, motionless, almost naked in the presence of a stranger.
She broke out of her reverie as he spoke, “very nice, very nice indeed”, he murmured, speaking to himself rather than for her benefit. She looked up, but his eyes didn’t meet hers, his gaze was directed exactly as she had expected – at her groin. Suddenly the suspense was too much for her. “What do you want me to do?” she cried, her voice cracking with nervousness.
He looked up at her, a smile crossing his face. “I thought you’d never ask.”
He undid his belt and pulled off his trousers. She dared not look at him but stared at the pattern of the carpet while he unbuttoned his shirt. As the shirt joined his trousers on the floor she glanced up, just in time to see him hook his fingers into his underpants and pull them down exposing himself fully to her. She felt suddenly cold yet at the same time hot, her heart pounding as all doubt was swept from her mind. She could no longer avoid facing up to exactly what this man intended to do to her.
He crossed to the bed and sat down on it, his back against the headboard, one leg hanging over the side of the bed, the other spread wide so that his penis stood up alone. He said nothing but simply beckoned to her. Numbly she walked toward the bed and her execution. He patted the bedspread between his thighs and she, interpreting the sign, climbed shakily onto the bed.
“You just suck on this, pretty lady,” he said, manipulating his penis with one had so that it jutted toward her. “I want to see what kind of blow job you give”!
“No”, she gasped. She had never even done that for her husband, certainly not for anyone else.
“Oh dear”, he swung his legs past her and got up from the bed. He crossed to the phone and dialled a number. She heard the tone as it rang then an indistinct voice as the call was answered. “Room 107 here, how is the lady’s husband?”
“I’ll do it”, she cried, her voice catching in her throat. She understood fully the threat implied in that phone call.
“Wait a sec,” he looked across at her for a long moment then replaced the receiver without saying anything more. “Sure you will”, he drawled, “but a lady needs a little discipline at times like these”.
He bent down, lifted his trousers and began to pull the leather belt from the belt loops. He doubled it, gripping the free ends in his huge hand. “Get yourself face down on that bed”, he commanded and she obeyed. He pulled her arms up above her head, telling her to grip on to the lower edge of the headboard and not to let go. She had pressed her legs together instinctively but now he pulled them apart so that her body made an inverted letter Y on the bed. Then he lifted the doubled belt and brought it down across her trembling buttocks.
She cried out, first with the shock of the blow, then with pain. A second blow landed but she buried her face in the pillow, biting down onto the fabric and did not cry out again while he whipped her. She did not count how many times he struck her but at last it ended and she lay, trembling, her body heaving as she gasped for breath.
He caught hold of her hip, almost gently, and rolled her over so that she lay on her side then he resumed his original position on the bed spread, legs wide apart and penis jutting toward the roof, only now that penis was swollen and hard, much larger than before and much larger than what her husband usually presented her with, she thought as she crawled across the bed toward it.
She paused, frozen for a moment, not only had she never done this before, she didn’t even have any idea what to do. He seemed to read her mind as she looked up at him, panic stricken. “Just get it in your mouth and suck on it”, he advised.
She leaned forward and opened her mouth wide. A moment later his hand was on the back of her head, fingers twisted into her hair, forcing her down onto himself. She felt the head of it slip between her lips and registered that it really wasn’t so bad, no taste, no real sensation, she could have been opening her mouth to bite off a piece of sausage.
“Move your tongue, lick it like ice-cream”, he directed her, his hand in her hair keeping her head moving around his swollen tool. Once or twice he forced her down too far and she feared she would choke but overall she was not really in any distress. Suddenly he relaxed his grip on her head and she felt his penis thrust up toward her then gagged as his emission spurted into her mouth.
She pulled back, off him, but not before receiving a mouthful. As she pulled away more of his juices sprayed onto her face while the rest spattered onto the bedspread. She reached up and wiped away what was on her face but what had gone into her mouth she had instinctively swallowed and now she felt sick.
She sat back on her feet, her buttocks throbbing, gasping for breath with the foul taste of him in her mouth. One though rang through her head – perhaps it was over now, they could go home safe.
He was smiling: looking at her and smiling. “You sure are a quick learner lady, you sure are”. He broke off and laughed at his own joke then leaned toward her. Before she could react he had his hands behind her and with one quick movement had unclipped her bra. She pressed her arms against her sides but then thought about the phone call he had made when she last displeased him, and instead let her arms hang limply as he slid the shoulder straps of the bra forward over her shoulders.
She kept her eyes down as he examined her, reaching out to lift her breast, squeezing it gently between fingers and thumb. “Oh”, he said, “that’s are a bit of a disappointment. I guess the secret is in the padding.” He was looking at the bra lying on the bed between them. She felt mortified.
“Still”, he continued, “lets have a look at the rest of you. Get out of those pretty panties will you”.
She had no choice she knew, so, face reddening with embarrassment she slipped the waistband of the panties, the thong her husband had bought her as a present, down over her buttocks then eased the scrap of fabric down her legs and off. He took them from her and lifted them to his face, straightening out the crumpled fabric and twisted straps before pressing the garment to his nose and taking a long sniff. “Oh yes”, he murmured.
He pushed her gently away from him so that she fell back onto the bed then, slipping his hands between her knees, he parted her legs and gazed at her vagina. “Oh yes”, he repeated, “forget the tits, that is lovely. Nothing better than a woman who looks after herself!”
She looked down between her legs at his large but flaccid penis and wondered what on earth was going to happen next.
He stood up and walked over to a cupboard by the wall. She moved to the edge of the bed and sat shivering slightly, legs pressed together, arms hugging her breasts, while he took a cigarette from the packet and lit it with a silver lighter. He turned back toward her, exhaling smoke as he looked at her sitting there. Neither of them spoke.
She jumped when the door opened and was on her feet in an instant as another large man stepped into the room and closed the door behind him. She glanced back at the first man and saw him smile. Dread filled her as the two exchanged greetings.
“How is she?” Man number two asked. His crass accent identified him as another American.
“An excellent choice”, the first man replied.
“You wish you’d held out for something younger?”
“No way, age don’t matter, it’s condition that counts! Look at this!”
Man one stepped toward her and with a shove pushed her back so that she lay with her buttocks on the edge of the bed and her feet in the floor. He gestured toward her groin with his cigarette and she watched mesmerized as flecks of ash drifted down and settled on her legs.
“Nice,” the second man opined, “lets get busy then”.
He pulled off his trousers and pants in a second, exposing a penis that grew larger as she watched until it stood, long and thick as the man looked down at her naked and vulnerable body. The first man handed him a condom and she watched, heart pounding as he tore off the packet and rolled it down over his penis. Then he moved toward her and caught her hips in powerful hands, tossing her into the centre of the bed before climbing after her. He forced her legs apart, covering her with his body. She reached down and, in an act of desperate self-preservation, opened herself and guided him in as he thrust.
She cried out in pain and disbelief at that first thrust: Pain as he filled her and stretched her wider than she was used to and disbelief that his thrust could go on so long as he drove deeper and deeper into her. She closed her eyes as he thrust again and again, driving shafts of pain deep into her abdomen. She tried to focus her mind elsewhere, to pretend this wasn’t happening but every thrust brought her back to this room, this man, and his powerful body covering her, overpowering her, raping her...
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