You don't have what you need. I saw you, walking up the road and searching, hoping someone would see that you've stumbled. It's not fair; life's not fair. You worked so hard, did what you had to do to get out from under certain thumbs, but now... now... when everything should have been paid off and should have paid off, it didn't.
But for me, it did.
lives are a struggle, between freedom and wealth. We just can't seem to
find the break that gives us both; you and me. I'm in a lucky place
where I enjoy the work and get paid well for it, but time is not
something I have much of. You're at the other end. You just got free
from your obligations, still waiting for them to pay off, but until that
payday comes, you have too much time and not enough money.
Who could help but wish for more?
Do you feel lucky?
There are things I want to do, to anyone, and it could be you.
You'll meet me, not far from here, in a heavily forested park. I could show off my woodsman skills, but on you, the effort would be wasted. We'll go deep into the green lush darkness, deep enough to get lost if you hadn't been here before. You'll look at me, concerned, but I know this place.
I'll take the time to string up my tarps, building a shallow blind. Within it, I'll unpack the rest of my gear, mostly rope, and then grin at you lecherously. You don't like that look, but that's what the money is for.
You'll take off your clothes, most of them, stiffly. You don't have the practice of seduction, for which I'm grateful, because then you could bargain for a higher rate. If you followed the instructions I gave you, I'm looking at your skull-faced bikini set, which you seemed to be surprised I knew about when we discussed it earlier. You'll cross your arms, probably scowling, which will only serve to enhance what I'm staring at.
You can see that I'm hard, and it mildly disgusts you, but we're here for me, not you.
I'd tell you I have no plans on fucking you, but it won't reassure you as much as I'd mean it to. Still, you limply hold out your arms when I ask for them, and I tie the ends of different pieces of rope to them, and the rest of the rope will go around to different trees. Out of my pile of toys comes a ball gag, and your scowl deepens; it's not as big as your purple monster, and I'll insist it's only for effect.
You'll open your mouth, but only after I remind you that I'm paying you for it.
I'll repeat with your ankles what I did to your wrists, and then step back and admire my work. I'm tempted to caress you, tempted enough to step forward and run my hand along your body, around your curves, just barely not actually touching you. I want to, though, and it's hard for me to resist.
Instead, I pull out my camera.
At this, you start struggling, and I understand your muffled cries well enough to know you didn't agree to this. I'll remind you that nothing will get released, it's only for my personal, sick, viewing pleasure, yes, I know it's sick, but I can't afford to pay you to come out here all the time, and if any among us knows how publishing rights work for images of other people, it's me.
Yes, I said sick, but you should have figured that out when I extended the offer. It's not like it wasn't obvious.
And this is me being kind, I say. I could threaten to cut off your bikini, and take the pictures then, but I'm not going to. Not going to threaten and not going to cut them off. Suggested vulnerability and nudity does more for me than actual nudity, ad you don't have the skill to be nude and not look naked.
This last line goes completely over your head, but I'm mostly talking to myself at this point, I say, you being gagged.
You stare daggers at me and struggle, but it only completes the image all the more. My erection is starting to hurt, and I can't help but grab my crotch through my pants and shift it around, trying to find some position of relative comfort where there's none to be found.
I set the camera down, set the photos to start backing themselves up to my cloud account, and take out the ball gag.
You call me some terrible things, most of which I know I deserve.
I offer to let you go, at the cost of a smaller payday, but you hesitate. The money really means that much to you. It also doesn't help that you're not sure which way is the way back, and I'm not in the best shape for the hike, given my arousal.
I untie you.
You ask me what's next, and I shrug.
Act seductive, I suggest, but you try and fail. Your efforts do nothing for me, except reduce the swelling in my pants.
Enough, I say, and you stop. I dig into my pile of gear, and pull out a tail. It doesn't have a belt loop attachment, so you look at it confused. I unroll it, and show you the butt plug on the end.
You drop it and back away, shaking your head.
I remind you how small it is, and how much you're getting paid.
You ask me not to take pictures, and I tell you that's not part of the deal. But I do offer not to take pictures of your face. Even if the pictures did leak out, which they won't, nobody would know it's you.
That helps, but you try to put it on without taking your bikini bottoms off, and it's not working. I tell you so, tell you they need to go.
You refuse to take them off.
I shrug, and start packing away my gear.
You tell me to wait. Please. You'll do anything, just as long as you don't have to strip.
Yes, you mumble, though you're not happy about it. And you reassert that I'd better be paying me for the full amount, if you stay for the whole time and are willing to do more, as long as you don't have to take off any more clothes.
I hand you a different gag, this one more metal than rubber and leather, and you stare at it, turning it over in your hands. I reach over, turn it the right way up, and you scowl at it, but put it on dutifully. It holds your mouth open instead of stuffing it.
I pull out the ropes and tie you between the trees again, but this time, when I pull out my camera, I set it up on a little tripod and put it on video mode.
You start drooling, and that turns me on.
I step behind you, and lean close. You said anything, right, I ask?
You nod, your body shaking some, a little afraid.
I cup your breasts, not fractions of inches away from touching you, but actually touching you.
You grunt, annoyed.
I fondle them, and you close your eyes, trying not to watch what I do to your body, trying to ignore what looking at you does to mine.
I run one of my hands down your stomach, and you squirm at my touch, feeling both good and disgusted. I slide my hand lower, over the top of your bikini bottoms, and down between your legs.
You moan without trying to.
I finger you through the thin fabric until your body is shaking from more than fear and your breath is heaving from less than disgust.
You're actually turned on.
You try to fight it, but I don't let up until you're getting close to orgasm. When I stop, you protest.
When I start again, you lean your head back, eyes open but lifeless, not looking at anything, not me, not the green canopy overhead, not the scarce patches of sky. And when you get close I stop again.
This time you growl at me. Well, you try, given the way your mouth is propped open makes you struggle to growl, and it comes out as more of a cry. Please... please... Your body begs me, with what little leverage you have, to grind against me.
Instead I step back. My missing presence causes you to slump your posture in defeat and empty yearning.
Until I spank you.
You squawk disapproval, but I do it again. Your body jerks with each repetition, and on the fourth one, I stop, groping your cheek instead of pulling away for another blow, and then slide my fingers between your legs once more.
Still, I deny you release, and you resort to name calling once more. I can make out most of them, and most of them are perfectly accurate.
I tell you that it would be easier to get you off if your bikini bottoms came off.
You squirm in conflict.