Theirs to Use: A Punishment Reverse Harem Romance(34)
“But what about the money you and the other men paid the CDF?” she asked.
He decided to try to finesse that question for her, just as he had finessed it for himself, refusing to contemplate how deeply his plan would cut into his portfolio. “Do you want to put the sweats on? I’ll turn my back and look out the window if you want.”
“What?” Karen asked. This idea seemed to disturb her—just as Singleton had supposed it might. “Sir, I don’t understand.”
But Singleton did as he had said, and rather theatrically looked out the window of the SUV at the dreary buildings of the suburb through which they drove. His Harrison Avenue apartments lay one town over from the one from which he had just fetched Karen. Her life there wouldn’t have much glamor: that fact represented part of the plan, or at least part of its ideal outcome. But who knew: Singleton might just have sacrificed his Tahoe house for a dreary castle-in-the-air moored to the dirty pavement of Harrison Avenue.
“You don’t need to call me sir,” he said, as he heard her ripping open the plastic packaging of the underwear. “As for your other investors, we’ll take a piece of your earnings for the next few years. I’ll send the modified contract over tomorrow. The super’s a notary, and he’ll be able to witness it.”
That ought to do it, Singleton thought. Karen, like practically every human being on the planet, had not real head for numbers: she wouldn’t be able to conceive in the slightest just how far short a piece of her earnings must fall of the money Singleton would be paying his co-investors for the privilege of committing this act of (admittedly self-interested) altruism.
Chapter Seventeen
No, Karen didn’t understand the arrangement, she reflected ten days later, but how could it be anything other than what Mr. Singleton had said it was? The sheer boringness of the apartment and of the job seemed to guarantee that they really had just parked her here in the suburbs in hope of amortizing some portion of a bad investment.
She didn’t like thinking of herself as a bad investment, but there it was. She didn’t like thinking of herself as a debtor, or as a convenience-store clerk, either, and both those titles undeniably applied to Karen Hunter. If she had to end up as a bad investment, when it came to sexual servitude, she could bear it.
Couldn’t she?
For the first week she hadn’t thought about sex at all. She had thought she would dream about Mr. Green and Mr. Singleton, and Pete and Joe, and the other investors. She hadn’t, though—not a single dream that first week, and barely a thought about any of it. That had confused her, but the little psychology she had picked up in a high school course made her suppose she was repressing it, or something. Fine with her.
Then, ten days in, after eating her microwave pizza, she turned on a cop show on the decent TV with which it seemed Mr. Singleton had furnished the apartment, as he had also with other decent articles of furniture. She climbed into bed in one of the t-shirts he had supplied and one of the pairs of sensible panties.
The woman cop said to her male partner, as they looked around the apartment where a young woman had died, “Seems like she was a party girl.”
Karen moved slightly in bed, arched her back just a little. Her bottom pressed against the mattress, and her thighs tightened, and suddenly she was back in Mr. Green’s penthouse, over the coffee table, and the strap was coming down over and over while she screamed in agony, writhing against the many hands that held her down for her punishment. She was on all fours on that table, cock after cock inside her while the butt plug filled her as she had never been filled. She was on the bed in her pink room, having her anus used for the first time, and then again, and then again, while she had to please the hard penis in her mouth, get it ready to go next inside her bottom.
Seems like she was a party girl.
A whimper came from Karen’s throat, and her hands balled into fists at her sides. She remembered the last time she had touched herself, when Mr. Green and Mr. Singleton had walked in on her, made her finish in the cage with the light on, told her that if she did it again they would whip her.
The voices of the cops on the TV seemed to fade into the background as other voices took over in her mind, of the men who had owned her—who must own her still though they had apparently lost interest in… in using her. In whipping her. In fucking her.
She’s a party girl.
She’s our party whore.
Whip that party whore. Show her what she needs. Get her ready for fucking.
Karen closed her eyes and her whole body seemed to catch fire. Her hands stayed at her sides, but it represented only the tiniest of victories because her bottom wouldn’t stop moving against the mattress, her hips bucking and her knees going wide as if inviting Mr. Singleton to come look, to come fuck, to come whip not just her bottom but her still nearly bare pussy itself.
What would Mr. Singleton do if he saw how the hair has grown back? Mr. Singleton: she saw his face as it had been when in the half-light when he had come to her room to take her anal virginity. She saw his serious smile in his car when he had told her that they were giving her more or less her freedom.
What would he say if he knew that I spent my whole first paycheck on an ice-cream maker I probably won’t even use?
She heard a little cry from her chest, as if it had emerged from some other girl. Wildly, hardly willing it at all, she turned onto her front, in bed, and she thrust her right hand under her tummy, inside her panties. She didn’t touch herself, really; she put her hand there and she let her wicked hips, her shameless bottom start to do the work.