[Whispering Dom]

Advisory - This story contains coerced sex and non-consensual sex.


Forced


Part 1

Natalie opens her eyes and a wave of nausea washes over her. She closes them again quickly and breathes deeply. Her heart is pounding.

Slowly, she tries to open them again, succeeding this time, though her vision is blurry. She’s lying down, looking at the ceiling. Slowly and carefully she turns her head, sees the TV on far away across the room, no sound.

She turns her head back again, keeping her eyes open and looking again at the ceiling. Her head is pounding and her mouth is dry. She lays for a long time, breathing slowly.

She’s lying on the sofa. She looks down her body, she’s wearing a simple t shirt, and she’s pretty sure nothing else, her legs and feet are bare. Slowly she swings her legs sideways and very carefully tries to sit up. She closes her eyes as another wave of nausea washes over her and she takes deep breaths.

How the fuck did she get here?

She remembers the bar last night. Yeah, she was drunk, but what’s new. And that shit Tim the bartender had tried to cut her off. She’d been mad, about to make a scene when some guy came over and bought her another drink. She doesn’t remember much about him, except she’d been grateful and she vaguely remembers talking with him for a while. Did she bring him home? Did she fuck him?

She shakes her head and winces. No, she doesn’t remember that, and she’s alone now, on the sofa, not in the bed…

Then she remembers, her landlord had been waiting for her when she got back, already inside the bastard, sitting on her sofa. And just like last month and the months before she’d let him have his way with her. Well, it was either that or she’d be homeless. She shakes her head, how had it come to this?


She’d had a decent job working for an ad agency, a longtime boyfriend, things had been good. They’d had a nice apartment together, a good life. Then she had started drinking. Well, she’d always liked a drink, but it had never been a problem, until it was…

Eventually the boyfriend had enough, not just her drinking, but also the messing around with other guys - which was in any case just the drink. So he’d kicked her out, and she’d had to move into this shitty place. But losing him had made her drink more, and then she couldn’t get to work, so the job went. To be fair, her boss had tried, given her more than a few chances, but in the end he’d called her into his office, told her that it just wasn’t working any more. She’d known that was true, couldn’t really argue it. It was entirely her fault, and her boss even seemed genuinely upset, had told her to get herself sorted out and that if she did he’d do everything he could to get her a job back. Now she tried to make ends meet waiting tables, but it wasn’t working out, and she drank everything she earned.

She hated the landlord, but what could she do? At least he only seemed to use her when the rent was due, but still it was awful. He was a total pervert, wasn’t like he’d just fuck her and be done with it. Seemed to have all sorts of creepy fetishes and enjoyed acting them out on her. She just tried to turn her mind off and endure it, certainly didn’t get any pleasure out of it. The first time he’d had her he had got mad because she couldn’t cum and beaten her, so she quickly learnt to pretend she was enjoying it.

She shudders as recollections of her ‘rent payments’ come back to her. At first she’d been horrified at the thought of sex in lieu of cash. But she really had little choice, she had no money. The first time, after he’d suggested it and she’d acquiesced he’d made her strip, he’d pawed at her, fingering her, touching her everywhere. She’d been as unaroused as she could remember being, that’s when he’d beaten her, then made her blow him.

After that he always made her wear a t shirt. Told her that her tits were an embarrassment, made him feel like he was fucking a boy. But while her tits might have been covered, nothing else was. First time she’d taken it in the ass, she remembers the pain, and then he’d made her suck him, tasting herself on his cock. He’d made her rim him, she gags at the recollection, made her masturbate standing over him, that’s when she learnt to pretend, to fake orgasms.

She can’t remember the last time she’d had a real orgasm. She’d had lots of sex with her boyfriend, and she’d masturbated a lot when her boyfriend had first kicked her out, because she had loved sex but as things got steadily worse with her drinking she’d lost the desire to masturbate. She’d also had plenty of sex with random guys for a while, she had been pretty, got lots of offers. But the random guys dried up too as she had let herself go. It was why she had perhaps hoped that the guy from the bar had come back home with her, and the awful sinking feeling when she realized what the reality was.

She sighs and looks at the wooden coffee table in front of her. An empty bourbon bottle, a packet of cigarettes, an overflowing ashtray and her purse. She picks up the cigarette packet. Just one left, she pulls it out and lights it, inhales deeply. She looks at the warning on the packet that smoking will kill her and shrugs. Not like she has a lot to live for, no friends, no future… She’d cry, but she’s not a cryer. It is what it is, she should just get on with it. And right now that means getting dressed and going out to get some more cigarettes and booze.

She stubs the cigarette out and gets unsteadily to her feet. The t shirt, now she looks at it is stained. Spilled bourbon and the landlords cum. She pulls it off and throws it on the floor, walks naked to the bedroom… Perhaps she should shower, but she can’t be bothered, she’ll just put something on and go to the 24 hour store down the block.

She glances over at her reflection in the mirror. Shit, what a mess, and only 25 years old. Skinny, too skinny really, because she hardly ever eats, pale skin, small breasts and small pink nipples. Shoulder length, straight, mousy blond hair. She’d probably be pretty again if she looked after herself, her ex had always told her she was gorgeous, but that had been then. And obviously the guy from the bar last night hadn’t thought she was pretty enough to want to come home with her, even though she remembers chatting with him, probably drunkenly flirting, for quite a while. And the landlord… Well, he’s probably got no choice, he’s hardly a film star himself.

Well, it is what it is, she’s not going to feel sorry for herself, she doesn’t do that. She gets a pair of panties and a bra, puts them on. Jeans, a sweatshirt socks and trainers. She goes back out to her purse, picks it up and opens it. Fuck!! The fucking landlord took the $20 she had in there. The bastard. But she’s known for a while he’s a thieving, conniving bastard, and now she hides most of what little cash she has. She goes back to her bedroom and fishes out a $20 bill from her dwindling stash, puts it into her purse and heads out the door.