The Dominant Male

further, savouring her fullness.
    Some of Becky’s sexual imaginings had enough background to make a passable thriller, but in the impatience of the moment she cut to the chase - well, almost: she was perhaps a gangster’s moll, and the two imposing, unforgiving hunks she pictured were his stooges, and she had wronged him, perhaps by an affair with a rival crook. Whatever; she was beneath contempt to him now, and he wouldn’t even deign to punish her himself, handing her over to his yes-men instead, along with instructions - a perk of their job, like that film with Catherine Deneuve - Belle de Jour , that was it - except far, far seemier. They had bundled her roughly into this filthy toilet cubicle, away from prying eyes, where they would take their time with her.
    Excited now, Becky couldn’t help but draw in the reek of stale urine with each sharp intake of breath and she was there, where she deserved to be, at the mercy of two calloused thugs who didn’t know the meaning of the word, in a filthy cesspit toilet, fully dressed but not for long. One man was black and hulking, the other tall, blond and cold. The black guy whipped his belt out through his belt loops and, folding it in two in front of her with fury and resolve, struck her across the breasts just once as encouragement not to resist.
    He spun her round, her hair flying, and pushed her into the cubicle wall face-first, her cheek pressed against the cold tile, while the taller guy looked on, smiling. Expertly, the thicker man slid an arm through both of hers, pulling them up behind her so that she thrashed pathetically at his sides with her wrists and hands, able to move them only from the elbows down. Laughing now, he pushed his knee between her legs, pulling her skirt taut at each calf so that she could only twist and thrash her legs rather than kick him effectively.
    He wrapped his-belt around her wrists and pulled it tight enough to make her squeal. Still smiling, the white man passed his own belt to his companion, who knelt, more leisuredly now she was clearly under their control, and threaded it in a figure of eight around her ankles. Then they threw her trussed form down like a sack so that she was sitting on the toilet facing them; silent now. Looking up, she noticed that the white man was leaning on the wall, his eyes shining, behind the black man who was advancing on her, grinning from ear to ear. He took her by the collar of her shirt She imagined the tearing, pinging sounds it would make as he ripped it down the front, almost pulling her off the pan with his force. The blond guy advanced too and put the palm of his hand to her chin, gripping her clenched jaw, raising her head sharply and forcing her to look him in the eyes. ‘The boss tells me you’re a filthy slut. What are you?’
    A filthy slut.’
    Again…’
    ‘A filthy slut.’ For a second, Becky thought she might really have said the words out loud. At least she coloured with an excited shame as if she had.
    In the fantasy she was braless beneath her blouse, and the teutonic man ran his other hand down her neck. She felt his fingers, cold like a blade, snake down between her helpless orbs, which jiggled with her efforts to ease the sharp pains in her wrists from the tourniquet-tight belt which lashed them behind her back.
    The black guy’s eyes fell hungrily upon them. ‘It’s not like us I know, but we’re going to perform a little public service…’
    ‘Wh… What do you mean?’
    ‘Sort of a Surgeon General’s warning…’ With that, he knelt in front of her, placing a knee to prevent her kicking out her bound legs as one, and cupped the underside of her left breast, giving her nipple a cursory twist, while his broader companion covered her mouth with a giant hand, placing the other on the back of her head and pushing it sharply down until she was forced to watch her own tits. ‘By the way, you’re trussed up for your own good, because if you thrash around then we’re just going to have to punish you for that, too.’ With the binding on her arms pulling them out behind her, her tits were pronounced, their fine tawny flesh stretched taut.
    The cubicle filled with the musk of Becky’s excitement. In her fantasy it was fear. The white guy produced a tube of lipstick - where did that come from? Becky hurriedly included her bag in the fantasy and the blond man twisted the base until the waxy red column rose a little, not enough to break off when he pushed it hard