Katrina's Taming

KATRINA'S TAMING (by Eve Adorer)

Chapter 1 - Introduction

“Stilt her.”

It was Jackie's voice but as I had never heard it before. It was not a shout. It was a firm assured command issued in a calm firm voice, a voice that said that she was going to enjoy watching what she had ordered her two pretty girl companions to do to me.

“Stilt the bitch.”

Jackie's repeat command brought me back from my dazed reverie. Jackie and I went back a long way, right back to childhood schooldays. We had remained close friends even in the final years when it was clear that I was the clever one and she seemingly destined for no great achievement.

We split for a time when I had gone up to C****** where I got my first in modern languages. We had kept in touch but were a little estranged. Envy played some part. Jackie was jealous of my education. Yet Jackie had no cause. It was she who was the 27-year-old millionaire and I, twenty-six now, the unemployed graduate who had never found her place in the world of work till the wonderful job I had just been dismissed from after only three months.

There were three pretty young girls videoing what was happening to me on that warm June Saturday afternoon in the lounge of my ground floor London apartment. Two operating individual cameras, and one on sound. This was Jackie's business. This was how she had made her millions. “Specialist erotica” she called it. “The customer wants to be sure it's the real thing happening on their screen,” she'd say, “And when they buy my stuff they know they get nothing that isn't 100% kosher.”

I'd known for a long time that she made films of girls being tortured sexually. Jackie never put it as basically. But that is what she did. I never really listened when she was in boasting mode, as often she was when she was tipsy. But I took in that there were also invited audiences who paid $2,000 a head to witness live, and participate in the fantasies that she made real, with absolutely no make believe for the poor girl victims. And the girls she had were always so incredibly beautiful. “They want triple-A meat, and I don't accept less”. She'd say. “I never did, not even in the beginning.”

And that was what was hurting momentarily as I heard that command. Was that how Jackie had always regarded me. Was I just “triple-A meat” to her?

I knew that at school she had had the “hots” for me. She had always been a girl for girls. Me, I wanted none of that and had gently but firmly declined her when, in our later teens, she'd grabbed me at the end of one of our drunken nights out. “I only want a kiss you goodnight,” she'd say, but I knew full well it was not a sisterly kiss she was after.

For me it had been a succession of boyfriends each worse than the one who went before. “Was Always Not Quite Entirely Right” Jackie would giggle about the latest John or Joe that had left me crying on her shoulder. “It spells ‘wanker' you know”. She'd then snort with laughter, and we'd both be cheered up. She could be so loving a friend.

We'd both been the belles of the school. Nobody was in our league for looks and figure. And we knew it. At eighteen I was (and still am) five feet seven, 115 pounds, with a 36D; 24, 37 figure, light brown hair, and very dark brown eyes. I can still turn any man's head at mile distance and more with my lovely face and my long strong and superbly shapely legs.

And we were bitches to the boys and girls who lusted after us. I worked hard on my body (and still do). Swimming, belly-dancing, sword fencing, skating, running, cycling, aerobics, step-dancing, horse riding, and sex, lots and lots of sex, when I can get it. I loved sex. If only I could have found a man who could even half deliver on his boastful promises. I never did. I did a better job for myself than any stupid selfish man ever did for me.

There was never a time when I was not on the move. I loved the open air and freedom. I could never, but never, sit still when I had the chance to avoid it.

That is how I lost the job and was about to lose my apartment. I'd opted for a weekend hiking in Scotland when I was supposed to be preparing for a meeting. We lost the contract and my employers soon found that they: “were going to have to let me go”.

Ordinarily I had never asked and never would ask Jackie for money. She'd let it be known I only had to mention it and she would willingly provide.

Before I started buying it, she'd offered to loan me the money for my apartment, interest free. She'd then said that if I was that proud about borrowing from her, I could pay her interest on the loan if it made me feel better. But I had insisted on a mortgage from a bank.

Job gone now and the housing market dead that was where my problems lay. I had a massive loan on a very expensive fashionable-London property worth less than the money outstanding. I had no job and a gigantic loan to repay.

I'd swallowed pride. I'd phoned Jackie and asked her point blank if she could loan me $250,000. Of course I reminded her of how she had always offered money and apologised that I had been so proud and independent before, adding that I was desperate, as she well knew, else I would never have swallowed pride to phone her

I left all this in a voicemail message. Jackie was not in her office.

An hour later, I'd had a phone call from Jackie's secretary. “Jackie says to see your email”, said the girl's voice.

And that was where it all began. Pleased that Jackie had seen fit not to discuss my predicament with her secretary, I turned on my computer and opened my mail, getting rid of the usual uninvited credit card offers and other junk to open Jackie's message to me in answer to my prayer to her. As I read her message, my mouth fell open, and I felt a weird sensation in the pit of my stomach.

My first subsequent reaction was anger. And yet I read and re-read the message. And, as time drifted past and I calmed down, there was another strange feeling it was giving me between my legs. The more I had read it the more strangely exciting I had found it. Exciting in a nerve tingling way. It turned my tummy over. It excited me in spite of myself. It simply read:

“The Longing Alms 8.00 tonight. Miniskirt and t-shirt. No bra. No panties. Bare legs. Minimum three-inch heels. No money unless you submit to being tamed in public and on film. You have no choice. Jax ”

I was never one to exhibit myself in the manner of dress prescribed, and it took all my courage to wear what Jackie had directed. Why did I do it? I do not know even now. That message and my subconscious knowledge of my dependence on Jackie had suddenly touched off something new in me.

I dressed like a whore on a warm summer's night and found every man's head turning as I glided into the Longing Alms public house, a place where Jackie and I had often driven. Jackie and two young female companions were already there. Jackie knew she had won as soon as she saw how I was, or perhaps one should say was not, dressed.

We sat at a table next a wall in an alcove. Jackie motioned for me to sit between the two girls (they were no more than eighteen I'd swear). The girls and I sat with our backs to the wall. Jackie sat opposite us.

I tried to smile at Jackie. But that was not the way that things were now. There was no answering smile. The public house was busy. Many more were drinking outside. The sun was still shining. It was hot and humid.

My incredible nervousness at my vulnerable nakedness beneath my skimpy garments was causing contractions in my bowels. But I feared to move from my seat. My fear at what was going to happen only increased as my peripheral vision told me the girls either side of me were drinking in the beauty of my bare thighs.

Jackie looked around to ensure she was not overheard, before quietly looking me straight in the face and saying in a low whisper: “You will not cross your legs”. I blushed and averted my gaze. Jackie nodded to her companions, whom I later found were wired for video recording and sound: “Stroke her”, she whispered.

I sat bolt upright as I felt the warm pretty soft hands of the sexy pretty girls on my knees. I put my arms by my side to stop them touching me. They lifted my arms back by the elbows and insisted firmly by their actions that I keep them on the table.

I blushed crimson as they worked, hidden by the table, to pull the hem of my skirt even further up than it had naturally ridden when I sat. I would never before have let girls touch me as these girls were now. But what choice did I have?

Again I tried to put my arms by my side and thereby stop them from touching me, but they each pushed my arms back onto the table even more insistently. The girl on my right leaned over to whisper in my ear. “Our orders are to stroke you, you bitch, and you are going to be stroked. So put your hands on the table and part your lovely legs”.

I moved my thighs nervously a little wider. “Wider bitch”, the same girl hissed. I obeyed. The two girls set up an insistent rhythm and pattern running their eager hands up and down one each of my thighs. Up and down the inside of each of my thighs in coordinated unison they stroked me back and forth and back and forth and back and forth, from my knees to my groin.

On and on and on and on they went their gentle but firm slow rhythmic stroking, every stoke reminding me how naked and publicly exposed I was.

Jackie went to buy all of us a drink and left me being ravished, hidden by the table and the alcove location.

On and on and on and on and on and on and on it went stroke after gentle insistent stroke up and down my soft girl's thigh flesh. I was becoming mesmerised losing my mind to all sensations other than that of my gorgeous bare thighs being stoked over and over and over and over again.

Jackie had long since returned with drinks. Mine was only bottled water. Obviously I must experience my ravishing in full with all my senses alert. And they were alert: my nerve ends were zinging.

After twenty whole minutes of this continuous rhythmic slow firm gentle stroking of my nude thighs, my legs were like jelly, and my eyes closing with sensational rapture. My cunt juices began to seep from my girl-lips. I let out a stifled sexual cry.

It was now the girl on my left who leant over and hissed in my ear: “You dirty bitch”. The stroking went on and on and on and on, ten, twenty, thirty minutes more: seemingly endlessly. And again I cried out, this time a little louder. Jackie covered for it with a laugh and made out it was the punch line to a joke.

Then she nodded. “How wet is she?” she asked.

The stroking stopped and I braced myself as the girl on my right eased me forward and ran an enquiring finger along my oozing girl-lips. She held the finger up. Jackie nodded in acknowledgement.

I wanted so much more from that finger. I wanted the thigh stroking to continue. I found myself now squeezing by thighs together, though not daring to cross my legs. I was on the verge of an orgasm and must obediently suffer my terrible frustration. I lightly bit my lower lip and my eyes darted from side to side. I was begging the girls with my eyes. I was begging them to finish me.

“What score?” said Jackie to the first of the two girls.

“100 out of 100” for me”, came the answer. “Me too, and some!” said her companion.

I hung my head in deep blushing shame. Then I noticed that a pen and paper were in front of me. I struggled to hold the pen so adrift from the world was my mind, but somehow I signed. I had signed Jackie's contract. I was to star in one of her infamous films. A film through the sales of which the money Jackie would loan me would be recovered many times over.

Jackie ordered me home and said to be ready at 2.00 the next afternoon: a Saturday. I was to be delivered up that evening, she said. “We've promised the best entertainment yet. And I just know you're going to be just that!”

How I managed to stand and walk alone out of the Longing Alms that night I will never know. My legs felt as if I had even yet, at twenty-six, not learned to walk for the first time. Jackie purposely caught my arm and pulled me to her to hear her final order. “Don't you dare play with yourself”.

I would not. I somehow knew that my frustration was part of my taming. I steadied myself by holding chair backs as I staggered toward the entrance door.

“Why do lovely young girls like you need to get so stupidly drunk? We don't want drunks in here!” said an old lady near the door, as I walked rubber-legged flush-faced stunned-eyed out to my car.