It’s been a week since Callie was taken by a hot, domineering mystery man in-game, a man she’s encountered before. Bored and itching for another chance to be at his mercy, she reaches out to him with an invite for another scorching session in a more modern setting.
She is not disappointed. The tawdry, run-of-the-mill setting of a porn shoot gone deliciously wrong only serves to highlight just how deeply her mystery man understands what she craves…
10,000 words of hot BDSM rape-play, featuring groping, embarrassment, sex drugs, kinky auditions and a heaping helping of degradation and filthy threesome action during a sexy photoshoot.
Interested? Buy right now at Smashwords. Or, for an excerpt, continue reading…
The next free weekend, I’m in the mood for something new. Not the same medieval scenario generator I’ve been so thoroughly enjoying these last few months, with brief breaks for different things. I just want something a little more modern. Something grounded enough in the familiar to really absorb me, but with its own nice bits of weird.
It’ll be rape again, of course. Some form of it, something nasty and degrading.
I take my time combing through the catalogs, browsing the “also played” and “also enjoyed” lists. I think, briefly, of some sort of religious setting, then just as quickly dismiss it; priest stuff gets tedious with repetition, especially when you’re cycling partners, and so the wicked Father Hamilton isn’t the same Father Hamilton that raped your tight virgin ass just last week.
Which gives me a thought. That orc I ended with last time—the guy that played him, rather—well, he’s in my friends list, and it looks like he’ll be out of the thing he’s playing in the next few minutes. I’ve never spoken to him outside of the context of a scene, but, well, it’d be stupid not to try it at least once. That’s how me and Freddie ended up initiating each other into the glories of lactation (Freddie’s thing) and tentacle play (my thing, if briefly); we happened to play together a bunch, got talking, friended each other, and the rest is history.
Not that we’re dating, or really anything to each other than a fairly occasional, on-and-off sexual connection. But it did work out, and it only ever got anywhere when Freddie pinged me out of the blue one fine Sunday, asking if I wanted to try out a new game with him.
So. I pick an old favorite game or three, copy the links, and cram them in while saying hi and tweaking my message so I’ll know immediately if it’s read, as well as giving the person I send it to the option to send it back with a form refusal. Simple. Not that it’ll make rejection easier to take, but at least it can be a nice, obvious, fewer-hurt-feelings kind.
I worry for a few moments, after getting the read receipt, about what could happen if Mr. Orc turns out to be the kind of asshole that derives the most pleasure from fucking around with people’s feelings in any number of unpleasant ways, but then his response comes in, and I don’t worry for too much longer.
He wants to play, and he has more suggestions.
“If it’s degrading you want,” he says, “there’s always ‘porn shoot gone wrong’. This game I know has really great scaffolding for it.”
I know the game he means; the priest stuff I was briefly into was run off of the same engine. The same super intense, really almost overwhelming engine, that included weird religious highs and ecstasies along with all the delicious noncon. So I wait a suitable pause—I hate myself a little but for it, but there’s no sense in looking too eager—and allow that I wouldn’t mind a trial.
It’s simple. Maybe too simple. I’m a poor, pretty girl—ripely built, brown-skinned in a smooth, luscious way. What I’m wearing is right on the edge of trashy, a thin, lacy top, a short skirt and knee-high, high heeled boots, and I get to see all of it because the grizzled porn director I’m privately auditioning with is turning me around in front of a floor-length mirror to the side of his desk. As I turn back to face him, he hums under his breath, making a low-voiced comment about how I’m just a little too thin, but could otherwise work for the shoot he’s got in mind.
“I can bulk up a little, beforehand,” I say, softly, off-script. “If that’d help.”
The director—it’s Mr. Orc playing him, obviously, and I really would just start calling him by his screenname, except for the fact that this game doesn’t do nameplates. Anyway, he smiles down at me, approving, though all he does is shrug in response, as if he likes the idea, but knows enough not to expect much of my attempt to ripen up in time for the shoot.
Really, he tells me, warmly, what’s most important is how believable I can be, during it. The script breaks in to remind me that it’s a deliberately soft-core shoot I’m auditioning for: I’m supposed to maybe get either half-naked or fully naked while my important bits are draped or shielded, and of course I’m supposed to look like I’m enjoying being photographed nearly naked on a fake beach. Or on a fake bench on the beach, the game’s translation engine isn’t the best.
“Pose for me,” the director says, giving me a gentle push towards his desk. “Make me see it.”
It’s in the script that I strip down to my bra and panties and clear a place on his wide wooden desk, lounging provocatively. The game engine does the rest of the staging: it’s cold in his office, cold enough that my nipples have been hard the whole time, even while I was dressed, and of course the silky, strapless bra I’m wearing up top does nothing to hide that. Gooseflesh breaks out all over my body, as if the clothes I shed had some sort of heating mechanism built in; I shiver a little, unable to help it, even as I arch my back and settle my hips and toss my hair and look over at the director, deliberately biting my bottom lip.
“Adequate,” he says, nodding slightly, but it almost sounds like he’s patronizing me, metaphorically patting me on the head while thinking to himself of the next girl, the next one that will come in after me, and steal away this job I desperately need. “Is it too cold in here, for you? You look a little cold.”
The script has this line as an obvious come-on, but Mr. Orc is playing it differently. He just sounds vaguely, pleasantly concerned, all while the expression in his eyes gets just a little contemptuous, as if he resents having to be the one to hint at our upcoming, customary transaction. As if I should have been the one to say something about being cold, about needing to be warmed up, so all he has to do is step forward and take advantage of me.
I’m supposed to hesitate now, feeling caught and guilty and worried all at once. Instead, all I feel is an enormous, nearly terrifying anticipation, because I realize that Mordred or Orc dude or whatever he calls himself means this whole thing to be a true, full test, and not just of the game mechanics, the sensations that this particular sim can elicit. The sensations, after all, are nothing without the ugly, filthy, coercive motivation behind them, the kind that we both crave.
“I’m,” I find myself saying, hesitantly, “I guess I am a little cold.” But I don’t arch the way the script wants. I just look up at him as he steps closer, only not managing to cringe because I’m holding so very still. “I can take a little cold, though.”
“I’m sure you can,” the director says, his cool, measuring gaze lingering on my breasts, and then moving slowly to the place where I’ve crossed my legs. “However, for our shoots, we usually require a little more than that.”
“Like…?” I say, trying to sound encouraging, but still having to suppress a shiver when his warm, dry hand lands on top of my left knee. “I’m not—I haven’t been cleared for, um, physical work. I’m not in that guild just yet.”
“We wouldn’t film you fucking,” he says, matter-of-factly. “But we do need you to look a little more ready for it.”
His hand is heavy, and doesn’t move, while he reaches with his other hand into a trouser pocket, fishing out a small, standard pillbox. “If you wish to get anywhere in this industry,” he says, popping the top and shaking loose a couple pills into his cupped fingers, all of it one smooth, practiced motion, “guild or no guild, you’d better become very familiar with all the various fuck drugs.” He offers me a pill; hesitantly, I sit up a bit so I can accept it. “Ideally, you’ll want a formulation that reliably leaves you wet and pliant, but doesn’t take you too far away from yourself. This is A71, what we call the beginner strain. Nice and mild, for most everyone. So mild that some people don’t feel much of anything, while they’re on it.”
I hesitate again before I take it. The pill melts in my mouth, fizzing a little; it’s not an unpleasant taste, just a mildly sharp one, like some vaguely unripe strawberry-esque thing. I shiver a little as the director tosses back his own pill and pockets the pillbox, then moves his hand from my knee to my lower thigh, and gently forces me to spread my thighs wide apart for him.
The drug is working. I feel entirely too calm about the fact that he’s staring down at my panty-covered crotch, though I suppose the fact that he isn’t doing anything but staring is perhaps in his favor.
My heartbeat seems to slow a bit. I feel, intensely, each breath of too-cool air that I take in, and the fact that it’s slightly warmer when I let it out. I’m frightened, deep down, that he’s going to do more than stare at me, that he’s going to take a hand off one of my spread thighs and reach out and curl his fingers around the crotch of my panties and pull them down and away from me.
I keep seeing it. Imagining it. I know it’s just the game, but I like it, I like the idea of such a thought getting stuck in my brain and making me acutely self-conscious, so much so that my pussy begins to ache and moisten inside, as if preparing for it, for the worst to happen. It’s a few more breaths, a few more silent, terror-filled moments, before I realize that I’m now thoroughly wet, that my panties are visibly getting damp.
“Not bad,” the director says, and his low, grudgingly approving tone feels almost too loud, in contrast to the former silence. “Nice fast response.” And then he does it, he just reaches out and sticks his fingers into me, not even bothering to push the damp cloth of my panties aside.