Whore Squared

I earned the title fair and square, losing at W-H-O-R-E twice. That would be water H-O-R-S-E played with two submissive slut women and one Top male, so of course we had to alter the name of the game to suit the participants.  During that day and night I also skinny-dipped, got kicked around, slapped, tied up, spanked, fucked, called dirty names, made out with a girl, sucked two boy’s cocks, got stuffed & fucked with steel balls (and one golf ball) and just generally had a great time.  Oh, and I lost twice at W-H-O-R-E and so earned the title of Whore Squared. I made some good shots though, and gave both of the others a run for their money.
It started in this post. Or rather that was about, oh, half way though the day. About an hour later, I’d shed my swimsuit bottoms (the top was only on for about 20 minutes) and was skinny-dipping in our hosts’ beautiful pool. About ninety minutes after that W showed up and I greeted him at the pool fence with a naked, wet kiss.
“Nice suit,” he said, with only the merest of raised eyebrows.
“You like?” I replied, grinning and spinning around. He laughed, and I was happy: he was there.
Some time later I found myself in the house, naked, on my knees, in front of T.  He had one hand in my hair. W was on the couch with T’s wife, watching. T tightened his grip in my hair and pulled me close.  “Are you going to be good for me, little r?” he asked.  I always hear his name for me just like that: “little r,” no caps.
“Yes, Sir,” I whispered.
He kissed me softly; then, with no warning, shoved me backwards. “On your back, whore,” he said. I started to rise in surprise and felt his foot on my chest. “Stay that way til I tell you to move,” he said. I gulped air but lay still, knees bent under me, legs spread. He stood and towered over me for a moment. “You’re such a slut, laying there with your legs spread for everyone to see, aren’t you?”
I managed a nod.  He shoved me over onto my stomach.  I made to rise a bit and he grabbed me by the hair and shoved my face down into the carpet.  “Did I tell you to raise your head?” he snarled.
“No!” I said, ducking my face into the carpet again.
And he kicked me. Not terribly hard, and with the flat of his foot, but I reacted, scrambling sideways away from. He followed me, kicking my ass and my thighs, driving me across the floor. By the time he stopped I was trembling all over.  Not from pain–he hadn’t hurt me. But from some emotional trigger I wasn’t even aware of.  I felt…not fear…but some deeper emotion…something that made me want to curl up and hide with my arms over my head. When he moved away from me I raised my head to watch him and he came back and slapped me, pushing my head back down.
“Did I tell you to raise your head?!?”
“No! No, no…” I whimpered, hiding my face.
He made some preparations and came back, alternately dragging me by the hair and kicking me across the floor, until I wound up in a corner, panting and shaking. And it was in the corner that I realized what it was I was triggering on. My first ex had kicked me sometimes…he never struck me with hands or fists, that would have been too fucking honest, that would have meant he’d have to actually take responsibility for what he was doing.  Then he couldn’t have lied to himself about being an abuser. But sometimes, when he “accidentally” knocked me down, he’d walk by a couple of times and “push” me with his foot as he walked by.  Not enough to leave bruises…just enough to remind me that he was there, that he could do worse.  And that was what was causing my heart to race, my body to shake.  Those memories.
The thing was…when T did it…it made me excited. It made me scared and excited. Because I knew he would never be out of control the way my ex was. Because I knew he did it with a completely different intention–to excite me as much as it excited him. It’s a weird dichotomy, I know, and maybe some would say too close to that edge of “not an okay way to play”…  But.  There it is. I liked it.  I liked being afraid, I liked those memories being stirred up, I liked that feeling of helplessness, that he really was bigger and stronger and meaner than me, and he could goddamn well kick me around if he chose.
The rest of the night passed in a blur. He made me crawl across the floor to him. He slapped me. He put me against a wall and beat me for a bit. He pushed me onto my back on the floor and fucked me in front of W.  And afterward, he held me. He told me how beautiful and desired and loved I was.  And I looked over at W, and found his eyes on me, watching me, watching me, and I knew how beautiful and desired and loved I was.
It was all right there in his eyes.