My hair is raven black.
Once it had been blonde. I had tried to transform myself since the events of last
winter. My hair had fallen well past my shoulders then, usually kept in a braid. But that
braid, my long hair, had been used as a handle to tug and twist on my head, to punish and
control me. I had wanted it cut, and wanted a new image, one that was less helpless, less
sexual. And men had always seemed to associate blonde with sex. That was why so many sluts
who wanted to get men dyed their hair blonde.
So I had done the opposite. A blonde dying her hair black. If that wasn't a
statement then what was? I had cut my hair, too. It was still thick and rich and silky,
but didn't even reach my shoulders now. It was about collar length in the back. Along the
sides, it reached just about to my chin and kind of curled inwards like a loose, thick
pageboy. No girlish bangs, either. I parted it in the middle of my forehead. It was still
nice, but gave me a more sophisticated look. And let me tell you, with sunglasses, I
looked hot, I mean really hot.
But I didn't look like the kind of a woman who would be tied up and beaten. I
looked like the kind of a woman who would be holding the whip. I looked menacing, sleek
and dangerous. And that was what I felt I needed.
Because I didn't feel dangerous. Not any more. Now I felt vulnerable on all fronts.
I had not only been forced to do things against my will, but my own body had betrayed me.
I'm an FBI agent. I joined the Bureau out of college. They had been eager to
recruit an athletic girl of six foot two who was going to finish very high in her class at
law school. They'd made a lot of promises they hadn't kept. They'd stuck me in a little
room with geeky young men who had just graduated from Ivy League colleges and given me
background checks to do. Do you have any idea how unexciting it is to do background checks
on potential civil service employees?
I had gotten out of it by volunteering, after a fashion, to go undercover, to be
the partner in a visit to a BDSM club. That had gone wrong in so many ways I could fill a
book with them. I had allowed myself to be gagged and restrained, and then the idiot who
was supposed to be my “master” had lost sight of me. The next thing I knew I'd been in a
bathroom being violated.
And I had let a woman lick me to the edge of climax, completely against my will,
tied back by my long braid, legs spread, I had been turned to jelly by her talented
tongue. And then, when the guy had stepped between my legs and pushed himself into me, the
girl had shoved her tongue into my ass and I had come like a whore.
After that they had put a hood on me, stripped me completely, and led me around the
club to be fucked repeatedly. What could I do? I was being violated by people who had no
idea I was there against my will. And to have made a scene, even if I'd have been able to,
would have exposed me. They would have taken off the hood and I would have had to face the
people who had been sticking their cocks into me.
I had counted more than two dozen cocks while I had been bent over a table. And I
had come again. It had been the weirdest situation. They were abusing me, but didn't
realize it. There was no anger in them, no contempt, and no attempt to hurt me. I had not
been frightened during the endless abuse, just angry and humiliated. And as that faded,
well, my body had begun to respond.
That had only been the warm-up. Later, I had been taken prisoner by a sadist, and
actually whipped. Can you believe it? I had been strung up naked and whipped. It was all
just a bizarre memory now. I had survived it all, and told nobody what had happened.
Kim-Le was serving a long term in prison on drug charges, and the man who had been my
partner was in England, hopefully never to return.
But being violated fifty or more times, being whipped, given heroin against my
will, being pierced and abused, well, it had left its marks in more ways than one. I
wasn't traumatized exactly. But my cockiness and confidence had been lowered. And I had
been helplessly and powerfully made aware of my sexuality, and the way men saw me.
It was because of the situations, I think. Just as those people who had violated me
hadn't meant me any harm, Kim-Le had meant me no ill will, at least at first. She had been
convinced I was a sexual submissive, and kind of a whore. Otherwise why on Earth would I
have been at the BDSM club dressed as I was? She had been determined to teach me to be a
better submissive.
So she had had my arms tied tightly back and had her people teach me how to deep
throat. It was bizarre. There I was, my arms bound tightly back in a blue silk arm sling,
wearing an exquisitely beautiful, but painfully tight silk corset, a vibrator thrust up
inside me, giving blow jobs on my knees as Kim-Le received a series of visitors and dealt
with the business of the triad.
None of them had meant me any harm then, and hadn't known I was an FBI agent. There
were all just perverts who had thought I was one of them. I had hated it, kind of, been
mortified by having my body exposed to them, by being sexually abused by them. But the
experience had not had the taint of terror or fury. It had almost been like I was just a
part of the group, being trained in something new.
And to be honest, a part of me had found it terribly arousing. Once the initial
humiliation had eased - and how long can one be humiliated at being seen naked and
performing a sex act? An hour? Two? Three? I mean, it fades. And then you're a naked girl
sucking guys' cocks while people watch. And what girl doesn't have an exhibitionistic
streak running through her?
I still remember the tubby man who had been one of Kim-Le's visitors. He had
watched me, as they all had, and then asked for me. And just as if she were offering him a
drink, or a bit of caviar, Kim-Le had offered him my use. And so I had been pushed onto my
back, half a dozen people watching, and the tubby man had thrust himself into me and used
me.
I still masturbate to that memory. I don't know why. It wasn't especially pleasant.
I had not climaxed. I think it was the casualness of it. They were all so casual about me
being naked and having sex, as if there was no question at all about asking my consent,
and nothing unusual about my services being offered. And at that time I think I had come
to a full and strangely fascinated understanding of what it meant to be a sexual
belonging, a sexual toy, a sexual slave, if you will.
And the feeling had not been as unpleasant as I would have expected. In fact,
though I would not admit it to anyone, the feeling had been very appealing.
I was not, prior to that, a woman who had had much sexual experience. I was always
conscious of my sense of dignity. For so many years I had guarded my dignity jealously,
letting no one take me for granted or treat me with anything less than respect. Since
joining the Bureau I had been desperate to be one of the guys, tough, competent, capable,
and almost emotionless.
The experience of being a... a thing, to be used, was strangely liberating. And it
had really done a lot to melt my inhibitions. And it had also blown my own image of myself
as a tough chick all to hell.
And I had had fantasies since then, lewd, terrible fantasies. Too many of them had
me bound as Kim-Le had bound me, pleasuring men who treated me as a thing, as a fuck toy.
I had even investigated the bondage clubs in New York, not personally, but through the
Bureau's files, wanting to explore these inner desires, but still too caught up in my
tough girl image to do so.
But I had done nothing. The bravest thing I had done was to order, anonymously,
through the internet, a couple of sex toys. I had a vibrator, a large dildo, and a pair of
leather restraints. Together they helped ease my sexual frustrations a little.
But not entirely.
I often found myself impatient, irritated. And had a growing tendency to act in
ways which an FBI agent steeped in rules, regulations and formality, ought to never
contemplate.
For example, the street gang on the subway.
They were four black guys, probably about eighteen to twenty, full of themselves,
faces locked in sneers as they had boarded the subway car late at night. It was late, and
there were a dozen of us there. I was tired after a long day of reading through files. The
Kim-Le incident had been very successful as far as the Bureau was concerned, resulting in
long sentences for Triad members, and the recovery of a big haul of heroin. They had known
nothing about the real details and so, to reward me for my good work, had finally kicked
me out of the background checking job and into, of all places, Organized Crime,
specifically, Asian Organized crime, and transferred me to New York.
Since I had known almost nothing about Organized Crime, especially the Asian part
of it, I had been spending fourteen hour days studying up. I was irritated, tired, and not
in the mood for these punks when they had begun to saunter around the car, taunting the
women and trying to encourage the men to make “donations” to them.
Once, I would have gleefully pulled out my badge and gun and shouted at them to
surrender to the forces of law and order. Now I just stared at them in irritation, hoping
they didn't do anything which would force me to get off my cozy corner seat, and, worse,
fill out a whole bunch of forms after arresting someone.
But one of them had started picking on a pretty young secretary type with big
boobs, and she was clearly out of her league, wide eyed and terrified.
I was wearing a long leather coat. I reached inside and flipped back the safety on
my gun inside the hip holster.
“Hey, asshole,” I called out.
That drew everyone's attention. The people who had been sitting stiffly in their
seats hoping they could go on pretending nothing was happening, and the punks out to have
some fun.
“Yes, you. Sit the fuck down and shut the fuck up,” I said.
Of course he didn't. He sauntered over to me instead, his buddies snickering and
watching.
“You talkin' to me, bitch?” he demanded, coming to stand menacingly over me.
“I said asshole. Is that your name?”
One of his buddies snickered, and he glared at me.
“You better watch your mouth, bitch!” he growled.
He was big, and a bit drunk, and stupid looking.
“Or what? You going to drool on me?”
“I give you some of this, bitch!”
He squeezed his groin at me and I smirked.
“You got anything in there besides the underwear your mommy wrote your name on?”
“I show you what I got, bitch, an' you won't like it!” he shouted.
“Yeah, show her, Leroy!” one of his buddies called.
“I got enough to make your pussy hot, baby!”
“It takes a lot to make my pussy hot,” I said.
“I got a whole lot!”
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