Helen Ramada stretched her legs out in back of the limousine. Expensive shoes dangled on tiny feet while Helen slowly dragged her skirt up. She took her time, knowing that her chauffeur was watching every inch by the rear view mirror.
“Ms. Ramada,” Max said. “You are the heir to a billion dollar fortune. Your family has rubbed shoulders with politicians and royalty. You have done so little but enjoy so much of your family’s wealth and power. Please tell me that you are wearing underwear and that you will not be giving those paparazzi jackals yet another look at your spoiled rich girl cunt?”
“And what if I do give them a look?” Helen said. She looked at him through short cut blonde hair expertly designed to look wild and stylish at the same time.
“If you flash your cunt one more time,” Max said. “Then tonight when I drive you back to your apartment, I will whip your bottom with my belt personally.”
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Helen shuddered. Her chauffer wasn’t handsome or in fantastic shape. He was in his 40’s which made him almost incomprehensibly old to the young woman. His black hair was streaked with gray and he barely wore any cologne. Her friends said he was an absolute failure as a fashion accessory and they were right; he was a walking embarrassment wherever they went. But Helen kept him on the payroll for one reason and one reason only: He knew exactly how to treat her.
“The belt is too hard,” she whined. “I couldn’t wear a bikini for a week the last time you used it.” It was the same whine she used to convince her father to let her have her own apartment when she was sixteen.
“The belt is what you will get,” Max said. He had no pity for her whines. He cared nothing for her pleas. He listed her punishment with a certainty that made no sense for a man who depended on her for his wage. He would hurt her for shaming her family and that made Helen so very hot between her thighs.
The limousine pulled up to the club. Helen had forgotten the name of the place. It was famous for something or another that happened before she was born so what did it really matter? Right now it was the place to be for people like Helen to be seen. Helen didn’t know who decided what places were cool one week and lame the next but she didn’t care. She just knew she had to be where the hot people were or else you might as well be a nobody.
Helen waited for Max to come around to open her door. Before the door was even open, the lights were flashing. The photographers and their stupid cameras were chipping away at her, trying to dig out a nugget worth selling to the papers so they could pay their bills. Helen used to pity them, then she grew to hate them but now it is different. Now she saw them as sex toys to get Max worked up.
She had her routine down to a science. First she wore dark sunglasses so no one could see how alert and intelligent she was. She flailed her hand out in a perfect imitation of drunken clumsiness. As soon as Max grabbed her hand, Helen spun her leg around in a wide arc, flashing the entire crowd. A hundred light bulbs flashed and it took all of Helen’s focus to not smile in glee. She stood up and pretended to almost fall. Max grabbed her arm and supported her as she stumbled toward the club.
“You little whore,” Max swore.
Critics who saw her few television cameos said she couldn’t act but that was not true. Helen just needed the right kind of motivation.
“That’s Ms. Whore to you,” she said. Helen dropped the drunken act as soon as they stepped inside the club. There might be an agent or an advertising executive looking for talent. Max reluctantly released her arm and assumed his proper place a foot behind her.
“Helen!” a voice screamed inside the club. “Come sit with us!”
Helen squinted in the darkness to see if the calling voice belonged to someone worthy. She sighed when she saw a busty brunette and her boy toy of the night. It was Mackenzie Moen, a cokehead slut actress who Hollywood kept putting in movies because of her willingness to fuck any producer on the first date. Helen thought the girl was a waste of Gucci shoes, but the girl was famous.
“Mackenzie!” Helen yelled back. “You’re out of rehab!” She hugged the actress and winked at the blonde boy toy who was staring at her.
“Yeah, I got out this week,” Mackenzie said. “Those shit heads told everyone I had been cured. I love doctors; they are so easy to suck off. Oh, you still carry Max with you? Helen, you got to let me fix you up with some real bodyguards; the kind who watch your ass and then go down on you.”
Helen sat down at the table and laughed. “Max does watch my ass, don’t you?”
Max didn’t answer her. He stood to the side and folded his hands in front of him. He did amuse himself by glaring at the boy toy sitting beside Helen.
As for Helen, she amused herself by slipping her hand under the table and grabbing the crotch of the boy toy. The boy was smart for an underwear model, he just stayed perfectly still while Helen unzipped his pants and toyed with his cock.
“So Mackenzie, tell me about the latest actor you’ve blown,” Helen said.
The actress launched into a long drawn out lie about newest stud in Hollywood. Mackenzie did too many drugs to realize that she told the same three stories every time with just the names changed, but Helen didn’t mind. The important thing when you are a celebrity is that you have to be seen with the rich and famous so that you stay in style. Helen had spent the last year trying to get an endorsement deal with a lingerie company and her lawyers told her that they were very close to sealing the deal. In order to get that deal, Helen needed to keep appearing in gossip magazines and in magazine covers so that the lingerie company will get an erection at the thought of signing someone so important. As far as Helen was concerned, listening to a drunken actress make up shit was Helen’s job.
As for jacking the cock of Mackenzie’s stud while Max gave her dirty looks? That was just hot. The boy toy was groaning now but that was alright. Mackenzie was too into her story and herself to even notice. Helen kept stroking the guy’s cock, taking extra care to run her fingernail right over the tip with every thrust. She was pumping it so hard, her breasts were jiggling. They were threatening to fall out of her custom made dress. Helen almost wished they would just to see if Mackenzie would notice.
The pretty boy reached his hand under the table and tried to grab Helen’s thigh. Despite the loudness of the bar, Helen imagined she could hear Max’s growl. Helen squeezed the boy’s cock as hard as she could and the boy whimpered in pain. He pulled his hand back like her thigh was on fire and very wisely kept his hand above the table. Helen rewarded him with a much gentler grip and resumed stroking him. The boy muttered an apology while Mackenzie continued on obliviously with her story. Helen knew the boy toy had no idea how close he came to having his head ripped off by Max.
The boy toy climaxed and Helen kept pumping. Semen flew underneath the table while Mackenzie’s story segued into a discussion about her last photo shoot for a soft core magazine. The underwear model cried out but Mackenzie just took his exclamation in reference to her story.
Helen wiped the semen off her hand on the boy’s trousers. “I need to use the restroom. I’ll be right back.”
“If you find any good drugs, bring me back some!” Mackenzie shouted.
Max followed Helen to the bathroom. “I saw that,” he growled.
Helen smiled. “And what shall you do to me?”
“I’m going to tie you up like the delinquent you are,” Max said. He said it with an almost sadness in his voice, as if the punishment wasn’t appealing to him personally as much as it was just something that had to be done.
Helen shuddered. Her pussy flushed with heat. “Please don’t. I’ll be good now, I promise.”
Max didn’t answer.
Helen walked into the ladies’ room leaving Max behind. There were three nobodies at the sinks, trying to fix up their makeup so they could look like a Wal-Mart version of Helen. The girls all looked at Helen when Helen started washing her hand. They wanted to say something cool and funny enough that would encourage Helen to invite them into her life. Sometimes the fame hungry girls were more annoying than the pussy hungry boys.
“I’m just washing jizz off my hand,” Helen said. “So no talking to me, okay?”
There, she just made their day. Now they had a story about what a whore Helen Ramada was. Helen got to wash her hands in peace and three wannabes had something to text their friends about.
Helen looked at herself in the mirror. A glamorous rich girl looked back at her. She saw a force of marketing nature. She saw a person who could end careers and lives with a carefully placed tantrum. She saw a woman who improved circulation and television ratings every time she did something bad. The woman in the mirror could literally do no wrong that couldn’t be turned into a positive for her career and lifestyle.
There were other things she saw too. She saw the nose job she had when she was 15. She saw the diamond earrings her mother gave her instead of being in the country for Helen’s birthday. She saw a very thin body that was the result of too many damn hours in the gym and a completely boring diet. She saw somebody who never had a boyfriend that wasn’t someone that could help her fame.
“Christ,” Helen said. The nobodies jumped in fear. “I need to stop thinking like Max.”
She dried her hands off and walked back onto the dance floor. Max followed behind her but she ignored him. The sound in the club was overwhelming. Everyone was dancing, drinking or getting high. This was her life, a bunch of fucked up somebodies trying to stay ahead of the nobodies.
“Are you all right?” Max asked her. His usual mean tone was gone. Helen realized she must look as upset as she felt. Fuck, you don’t get reality show deals for having a soul searching moment in a club.
‘I’m fine,” she snapped. Helen saw what she needed. There was a table filled with executives that were obviously here to gawk at people prettier than themselves. Helen strutted right over to their table, used a chair to boost herself up, and then climbed onto the table itself. She pulled her skirt up with her hands and gave them a good look at million dollar pussy.
“Mind if I dance here?” she yelled. The men cheered.
Helen danced on the table. She wasn’t very good. She knew half a dozen moves from watching strippers and she cycled through them. It didn’t matter to the club. They cheered and screamed her name. Cell phone cameras clicked away as she flashed her legs, her ass and her pussy. It wasn’t her body or her dancing that everyone wanted to see, it was her fame. Helen knew they were cheering for her glamour, and every single one of them would sell their mothers for a chance to be apart of it.
Except for Max. He waited till the song was over and then he got her down from the table. His manner was gentle and most people assumed he was helping a very drunk Helen. They walked right past Mackenzie’s table and the starlet flashed Helen a dirty look for being the center of attention. Max dragged Helen out of the club and back into her limousine. A hundred flashbulb salute was her send-off as the limousine drove off.
In the limousine, Helen masturbated furiously all the way home to her apartment.
Helen groaned when Max helped out of the car, the iron grip of his hand locked around her arm.
Helen could feel her heart pounding in her chest. She had danced before a crowd of strangers without a second thought but now she knew fear. Something bad was going to happen there was nothing she could do to stop it.
“Please,” she begged Max. “I’ll buy you any car you want. Just pick one.”
Max ignored her as he dragged her to her apartment. He unlocked the door and shoved her in.
“Please, she begged again. “Just forget everything that happened tonight and I’ll buy you your own apartment anywhere you like.”
Max said nothing as he pulled his belt loose and snapped it in his hand.
“Don’t you dare come near me, mother fucker!” she yelled.
Max leaped at her. He grabbed her and pushed right over the arm of her imported French sofa. Helen screamed as Max grabbed flipped her skirt over and exposed her bare ass.
“Just think,” Max said. “If you were wearing panties, this might hurt less.”
The belt landed on her ass and Helen knew that no flimsy underwear could have protected her. It wasn’t the playful sting she might get from a fetish model during a photo shoot, or the gentle half hearted slap she got from an underwear model. This was a whipping. It was the kind of whipping you give a bad child, or a dog or a bitch.
Max whipped Helen. He pinned her down to the arm of the couch and he didn’t care if he was smashing her face into the textured cushions. All he cared about was blistering her bottom with his belt. She kicked and screamed but nothing would stop his whipping.
Helen’s petite ass turned bright red instantly and cruel welts formed seconds later. Helen screamed till she was hoarse. The whipping was relentless. Her ass hurt so much, that she forgot all about the club, she forgot about Mackenzie and she forgot all about what people thought or cared about her. To Helen, nothing in the world existed except her whipped ass.
The whipping stopped. Max let go of Helen and the heiress sobbed in relief. She slid down the arm of the chair onto the floor. That was too much. It wasn’t enough. Her ass was on fire with pain but her pussy had left an ugly wet spot on the arm of the sofa. Helen was aroused. Helen was sore. Most importantly, Helen felt real.
“You danced on a table like a damn ten dollar stripper,” Max said. Helen shuddered as he made his accusation. The punishment was coming.
“Lay a finger on me and I’ll have my father’s lawyers sue you for everything you’ll never own,” she said. Helen had to threaten him. It was what rich bitches like her did.
Max pushed her facedown onto the carpet. He planted his foot on her back like he was stepping on a pest. Helen struggled to get up but he pulled her arms behind her back. He used his belt to cinch her arms and then tied it off. He tore a strip of her dress off Helen screamed at the outrage. He treated her designer clothes with the same lack of respect he treated her. The strip of cloth was used to bind her ankles together. He tore off more strips so he could do the same to her thighs and to her wrists.
“If you’re going to act like trash, you might as well get treated like trash,” Max said.
He took his foot off of her and Helen flailed about in rage. She hated being restricted. To a girl who had never been told ‘no’, the loss of freedom was inconceivable. It was also very exhilarating. Helen flounced around on the floor, trying to get up without much success. The belt and the cloth bit into her skin, rubbing her raw while she struggled. The pain was just one more thing she couldn’t whine away.
“Please let me go!” Helen said. “I’ll be good! I will do everything you say, I promise. Just let me go, please, pretty please.” All she had left was the begging and empty promises that always worked on her family.
She heard Max unzip his pants. “No,” she moaned.
He picked her up by the hair and got her to her knees. She blinked back tears just in time to see his cock right in front of her. Helen opened her mouth, expecting him to fuck her face.
Max pressed her face against his balls. His cock pressed against her cheek. He wasn’t even giving her the pleasure of tasting his cock. With one hand he stroked his cock. He looked down at her with a mixture of disgust and regret. Despite the hardness of his cock, there was no arousal on his face. It was like she wasn’t even attractive to him. This was just a punishment.
Helen wished she could stroke herself. She wished she could plunge her fingers into her pussy and get herself off. It would only take five strokes, no only three, no just one damn stroke, she was sure of it. That is all she needed and she knew Max would never give it to her.
“Lick,” Max growled. He pumped his cock fast and hard, just like Helen wished he would pump into her.
Helen licked. His balls were hairy and tasted of sweat but she licked. Max was not the kind of guy to do any sort of trimming down there, so Helen was licking mostly hair. None of the actors, models and agents she usually sucked had an inch of hair on their genitals. It was ridiculous. It was degrading. Helen Ramada was licking some old guy’s hairy balls and she didn’t dare complain about it.
Max pumped his cock. Helen kept licking. She switched from one ball to the other. It never occurred to her to bite, or do anything bad to Max’s balls. Helen knew the punishment would be far worse than what was happening now. There was another reason Helen kept licking. Even at the depth of her degradation, she found a comfort in doing what she was supposed to. Licking his balls was something she choose to do. No amount of money, family connections or fitness trainers could do it for her.
His groan was her only warning. She closed her eyes as she felt the first splash of hot semen on her fast. Max kept pumping his cock and Helen kept licking his balls. A splash landed in her hair and Helen knew it was going to be a bitch to wash out. Another splash landed on the other side of her face and Helen shut her eyes tight. Some of his seed dripped down to his balls and Helen licked it off dutifully.
Max walked away, leaving Helen alone on the apartment floor. She felt all her pent up energy just leave her. If she wasn’t still bound by the belt and cloth, Helen was sure she would have collapsed and fallen right asleep. Helen was exhausted. She also felt redeemed. In this brief moment, she didn’t feel like a spoiled bitch. Helen felt like a real woman who had paid her due for her fucked up life. She felt alive.
She felt a towel touch her face. Max was wiping his seed off of her. Helen almost protested. With each wipe, she felt a little bit more like the pampered child that she was. She wanted to hold onto the punished slut that she wanted to be. She wanted to be the woman that understood consequences and what it felt to be real.
“Thank you,” Helen said, and she meant it.
“You’re going to have get the jizz out your hair yourself,” Max sad.
“I’m not thanking you for the towel,” Helen said.
“I know,” Max said.
Helen’s cell phone rang. It was the ring tone she designated for her agent. She pushed Max’s hand away and got to her. All of the exhaustion was gone as Helen found new inspiration from the news her agent might have. Did she get the lingerie deal? Was it a new magazine cover? She had to know.
She answered the phone and plunged back into the fake world she knew best.
16 Responses to “Fiction: What It Takes”
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Oh wow. I love Helen’s realization that she’s the most real whipped, tied up, and licking Max’s balls and that the rest of her life is what is fake.
Jaenelle- Thanks. It was a sentiment I really wanted to get across.
Minx- You make me proud and giggly at the same time.
That was hot, babe!
Poetic and perfect, absolutely lovely. I do love the constrast of her two lives.
t’sade- Thanks :) I’m glad it worked for you.
” Helen felt like a real woman who had paid her due for her fucked up life. She felt alive.”
Wow – a really difficult character sympathetic. That’s impressive!
Musns- Lucky her :)
Penny- Thanks. I had my doubts it could be done :)
Ah, Shon, you’re too clever by half, naming her Helen…
Oatmeal girl- About two years ago I was running a role-playing game when the superhero players decided they wanted to cash in on their fame and hit the trendy clubs. It was out of the blue and I sat there scribbling down names for the people who would be at the hot club. I wrote down Paris and and the thought occurred to me what a stupid name for a girl that was. I thought it should have been Helen instead of the idiot pretty boy Paris, and the proverbial light bulb went off. The players didn’t catch the name change, sigh.
Yes, intellectual snob that I am, I did rather wonder how many readers would catch the reference.
I do love how your writing is blossoming now that you are happy. Folk musician Michael Cooney would say that people don’t usually write requited love songs; it’s when you are moping in misery that you have the time and need to pour out your anguish. But if you can stop fucking and spanking long enough, happiness can free creativity, no?
It’s been interesting. My biggest problem writing before the divorce was that in a lot of ways I was writing about stuff I knew I would never get. I wrote my fantasies out as a substitute for living them. With the divorce, I find myself alternating between grieving sadness and excitement for the future. When I am excited, I write to share that feeling. When I am sad, I write to distract and amuse myself. I wrote this story during a sad frame of mind and it was a big relief to wallow in someone else’s unhappiness. Helen is a spoiled girl but she has problems I never will. That was a nice vacation.
As far as fucking and spanking; I find that my biggest flaw as a lover is this desire to NOT fuck and spank because I want to write down whatever knew joy has entered my head. I need someone to take down notes while I’m fucking, which is not as sexy as it sounds.
Yuck! I see noting sexy about someone taking notes of one’s fucking.
Hmm… though in Dr. Von Madd’s laboratory, I should think there might be some stimulating effects…
The grieving can go on for a long time, popping up when you least expect it. But that’s as it should be. A long time ago, after my first divorce, I read that ending any relationship after 2 years or more is akin to an amputation. But it certainly helps to be bathing in a sea of joy while going through it.
another good story as always
Red- Thanks :) I really appreciate that “as always”
Oatmeal Girl- Ha, I beleive in the two year = amputation rule. I’m going to keep that in mind.